Into the Velvet

Twenty-Seven Days Until - Part 1

"No social media accounts?"

"Never. Can't stand that junk. Don't use it."

"So you're old-fashioned. Good to know."

"Any other questions? Keep them coming."

"Favourite colour. Go."

"Blue. The most common favourite colour in the world."

"Interesting. Mine's red."

"Red like your shirt?"

I looked down at myself. My shirt was very red.

"Maybe not this bright. I prefer dark red tones."

"I think red suits you."

"That's cause you're a flatterer."

"I'd prefer charmer to flatterer."

The plate of fries we'd been sharing had grown cold. It was midnight. Henry yawned and stretched out his arms, the lines of his body taut. He was wearing a grey knitted jumper that fit him too nicely. I had to look away.

He gave me a curious look. "You up for another drink? A coffee, maybe?"

"Another one?" I asked, shocked. "You can't keep substituting proper sleep with caffeine."

"Why not?"

"It doesn't work that way! How do you even function?"

He shrugged off my concern and waved his hand vaguely. The hazel in his eyes were deep and startling without his glasses. He was Clark Kent with the double identities, but without the Superman powers.

"Call me self-destructive," was his answer.

I shook my head ruefully. "When I walked in here, I'd been expecting to see you passed out on the booth or something."

"What did you find instead?" he asked, intent and good-humoured. Those dimples winked with every smile, which happened frequently. Like he couldn't help himself.

My breath stuttered. "I found a man sitting alone. Mysterious. With a—" beautiful face, dizzying smile, wonderful hands "—scruffy beard."

He laughed. "Hey! None of that." He brought his fingers through the bristly growth on his face. Dark hair flecked with bits of orange. "I know I'm overdue for a shave."

Boys my age couldn't grow full scruff like that. I wanted to reach out and touch that stubble so badly my hands were shaking. I pressed them together tightly on top of the table.

"Are you growing it out for the festive season?" I asked.

He scratched his beard playfully. "Oh, no, but you should see it in the festive season. I could give Gandalf a run for his money."

I held that mental image in my head: Henry's wizened beard down to his knees, tucked beneath his belt. I snorted. "Gandalf. I've found your Byronic hero equivalent. Finally."

Henry feigned insult, his eyes widening in shock. "Gandalf's not—You take that back young lady!"

"Never."

I'd never seen him this relaxed before. Laughing freely, shaking his head at me. His arm was thrown casually over the empty headrest beside him, entertaining an invisible date cuddled to his side. The face of his watch reflected the soft diner lighting.

My ears picked up the scratch of a record ending. The music had finished up.

"Shall I pick the tune this time?" I offered, rising.