String the Player

3.

I step closer and notice he's stopped talking. I don't continue. Not yet. I'm still busy. His eyes are on mine. What colour are they? Brown. Light brown maybe. Green? And while I'm clearly busy, seems like I'm not the only one. His brown-light-brown-green eyes run up and down me too. I can't really say if he's returning the favour or if he's genuinely interested.

And we've established that I'm an asshole on most days, but my Pa has raised a polite, kind man, so I drag my shameless gaze away first. I'm already standing on top of a ledge, at least the rest of me needs to convince him I'm fairly normal.

After a moment, I say, "So, now's the time to justify your presence."

"I'm here to give you a countdown."

A what now?

I let out a weak mumble. "What?"

He plucks out his bowtie, and as he fidgets with the top buttons of his shirt, he says, "You see, I have a niece. She's two years old and hates picking up after herself. But the second I start counting down, she's off like Flash and makes sure every last one of her toys is put away."

My mouth turns dry. He just compared me to his two-year-old niece.

I'm sure he senses my apprehension, but the bastard continues anyway. "Countdowns work. The lower the number, the better. Get ready. On three."

I move to the edge, and I can feel him come right behind me. This psycho better not push me.

Again, as though reading my mind, he says, "I'm not about to push you, by the way. I feel learning through self-practice is the best way for retention."

I smile. This dude.

I nod. Let's do this.

"Three." I think I hear a slight tremble, but it could just be the huskiness of his voice.

"Two." I peer down at the tiny speck-like cars moving on the roads.

"One."

My feet slip from underneath me, and I land on my ass, my legs dangling over the edge. I am sure I heard a gasp, but when I face him, all I see is impassiveness. Whatever. I know deep down he's worried about my safety. He wouldn't be up here on a dusty, slippery ledge if he weren't.

I lean back on my palms and watch him as he saunters over to sit beside me. Expensive tux be damned. He, too, leans back, and I can feel the heat of his fingers right beside mine. And then his index finger touches mine. Purposefully. I look down, then up at him. He's not facing me, but he's all relaxed and smiles to the rest of the world. Friendly. The dim light catches the dip in his cheek, and I find another break in his sharpness. The countdown enthusiast has dimples.

My pulse rises, which is unexpected, so I look away.

I try to search for the right words. Pa always says not to blurt the first sentence that pops in my head. I have a bad habit of doing exactly that, but right now, I'm glad he's drilled it into me to think before speaking. Because all that's swimming in my head is what kind of impression I've made.

Jumping off a roof aside, what does he think of me? I know how I think of myself. I'm not a bad guy to look at. My face and frame are easy on the eyes. If the term aggressively average had a picture to accompany it, it would be mine. Average brown hair. Average brown eyes. Average brown skin tone. Although, it's gotten darker after coming to Australia. I look mostly unassuming. Aloof pretty much all the time. Most white people say all brown guys look the same. I'm exactly the brown guy they refer to when they say that. What I've got going is my height. I'm taller than average in my country, but if I head to someplace else, maybe in Europe, you're not about to find anyone sprinting to get to me.