The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Nineteen

"You trimmed your beard?" Is what she says first. The look on her face makes me run my hand over it self-consciously.

"Thought I should make an effort. Do I look weird? I always feel weird when I shave it. Which is why I never shave it," I explain, smiling nervously.

I hadn't shaved it, I'd used a pair of vanity scissors I'd found in the drawer of the main bathroom to trim it back slightly. It had crossed the line from basic beard to year-in-the-wilderness about Wednesday.

She steps forward and lifts her hand to run her fingertips over it, skimming the contours of my face. "You don't look weird. It looks... good. I can see your mouth and jaw properly," she smiles, awed.

"And how do they look?"

"Kissable," she smiles.

"Thank fuck."

She looks like she might reach across and kiss me but she doesn't. Instead, she casts a look down my body. "And you're dressed." She sounds and looks impressed.

"I do have clothes on." I glance down at my white shirt, brown jeans and scuffed brown boots. Should probably have given them a quick clean. I cut a gaze down her body. "You don't," I say.

"Not yet. It takes me a little longer than you to get ready. Which is unfair because I won't look as good as you when I'm done."

"You trying to get me into bed on the first date?" I smirk.

She smiles and looks down my body again, a look that tells me I did ok. Her eyes look hot and pleased and I wonder suddenly why I thought going out tonight was such a brilliant idea. We could have stayed here. Naked.

I'd gone into town this afternoon to get some food and leave her to write when I'd passed the quaint-looking restaurant. So I'd impulsively gone in and reserved a table for us for dinner. Taking her out on a date was something I'd fantasised about for years, and at least here we could do it without her being paranoid about getting caught. I would happily have taken her out back in New York but something told me she wouldn't be so keen. So, while I had the chance before she had to choose, we were going on a fucking date.

"I actually think you look great right now," I remark, giving her my most perverted look as I run my hand over my mouth.

She giggles softly. "I'll be 10 minutes max, promise. I know I look hours away but I'm really not."

Did she fuck look hours away? She looked perfect. In fact, I'd happily go to dinner with her wearing just that red towel, but the idea of other men seeing an inch of her skin made me feel violent. Best do this the normal way. With her dressed.

"I'll wait downstairs then."

She nods and closes the door, and I trudge back downstairs to the kitchen, deciding to have a beer as I wait for her. I'm not sure if she's longer than ten minutes or not because I sort of lose track of time as I draw and sip at my ice-cold beer. When I hear the door open above I glance up and see her emerge from along the corridor above.

She's wearing a short (too short) sleeveless black dress and carrying a cardigan and a small rectangular bag as she comes down the stairs. Yep, it's definitely too short. Cut way above her knee to the top of her thigh, her pale flawless legs seeming to stretch for miles. Even though I hate that she's showing that much skin she looks incredible. But then, she always does. The fact that she'll be with me tonight in public looking like that makes something inside me settle into place. I rip the sheet out of my sketchpad and fold it over once as she comes toward me.

"Sorry, I took so long," she says, smiling.

I shake my head. "You didn't. You look amazing." She looks more than that but I can't think of the right words. Her smile deepens and she looks down almost shyly, tucking her hair behind her ear. A strange nervous silence settles over us and I hand her the piece of paper to fill it. "It was supposed to be ironic. Post-modern," I say by way of explanation.