The Other Side(20)
I glance down at our hands, fingers interlaced, and watch her thumb sweep across the back of my hand so softly that it feels imagined instead of real. The pattern varies from brushing back and forth, to tracing circles. Easing my constant worry, solidifying friendship by seeing me in ways others don’t, and confirming that Alice makes me feel more than anyone I’ve ever met—all with the pad of her thumb. I know this is completely platonic on her part—it’s just Alice being Alice—but for a loner like me, there’s intimacy in weaving my fingers with someone else’s. It’s a union that feels naked and vulnerable, intrepidly sexy. Which is why I always choose the emotionally boundary based, I’m-not-letting-you-in palm to palm, non-finger-weaving grip.
I decide there are other ways to set boundaries with Alice, because her hand was only made to be held with the full commitment of my fingers between hers. Even if her heart belongs to someone else who deserves it more than I ever could.
She makes the rules.
She defines friendship.
I follow it to the letter.
When we get to our destination, I almost walk past it and add another trip around the block to spend five more minutes touching her, but I don’t because Alice pays attention and will know I’ve done a loop. Opening the door, I guide her in behind me and say, “Welcome.”
A smile blooms when Joy Division stuns her ears, and leading her down the first narrow aisle of vinyl, it only grows.
“Where are we?” she asks loudly to compete with the music pulsing through the overhead speakers.
Releasing her grip, I grasp her wrist and place her hand palm down on top of dozens of records. Once there I let go and watch her stroke her fingers across the top edge of the stack several times like she’s petting a cat. The motion is inquisitive but also reverent like she knows how much this place means to me. She leans her white cane up against the display and picks up the album closest to her, holds it to her nose, and inhales deeply.
“You brought me to a record shop? You have no idea how much I love music.”
“I do,” I whisper too quietly for her to hear. I’m an expert when it comes to eavesdropping.
“Which album is this?” She’s loud again, which normally would make me shy away because I don’t like attention of any kind focused on me, but in this moment I don’t care. She reacted exactly like I hoped she would. She’s in her element and it’s stunning to watch.
I lean in close to answer and her wavy hair tickles my nose and lips. “Iggy Pop’s ‘Lust for Life.’”
“Oh!” There’s immediate recognition and it’s cute. “My dad had this album. I love ‘The Passenger.’”
She puts it back in place and does a one-eighty, reaching out for what she assumes will be more records behind her. There are. I watch her repeat the ritual, adoring strokes on the covers until she begins flipping through them, stops, and pulls one out.
“Which album is this?” Her excitement is like a can of RC Cola that’s been shaken up and opened, fizzing out. I’m sticky in it and I don’t want to wash it off.
“Duran Duran’s ‘Seven and the Ragged Tiger,’” I tell her.
She sighs and the sound scatters goose bumps up my arms and down my legs. “I had such a crush on Simon Le Bon in ninth grade. I used to run home after school every day to watch the Top Twenty Video Countdown on MTV so I didn’t miss ‘The Reflex.’ God, I loved that song. And blonds. I definitely had a thing for blonds.”
Even the grouchy looking goth dude dressed in head to toe black in the next row is smiling listening to her.
Caught up in her excitement, I ask without thinking, “And now?”
Unoffended, she answers, “Now I have a thing for deep voices that reverberate behind my ribs long after I’ve heard them; innate kindness; and people who see me, not the fact that I can’t.” She walks, dragging her fingers along the front of the display case. From what I can tell, she’s just described Taber. When she reaches the end of the row, she asks, “What about you, Toby?”
I have a thing for you, Alice, is the first thought that comes to mind. The second thought is, I bet she’s as intentional, detailed, descriptive, and thorough with her kisses as she is with her words. Followed quickly by the answer I give when I catch up to her: “I didn’t have a crush on Simon Le Bon in ninth grade.”
She laughs. “You aren’t truly doing life justice if you haven’t experienced a Simon Le Bon lusting phase.” Entering the next aisle, I think she’s going to let me off the hook, but she doesn’t. “What makes your pulse race, Toby?”
Not, What’s attractive? or, What’s your type? but, What makes your pulse race?
She hasn’t touched the albums, she’s waiting. When she listens, she listens with her entire body.
“I don’t know.” It sounds lame when I say it, but it’s true, I’ve never really thought about it.
“Nope. We’re not moving on until you answer the question.” She crosses her arms disapprovingly, but she’s smirking. “Friends answer friend’s questions. They have conversations. They get to know each other. Start talking.”
“Give me a minute,” I say to pause the moment. When I’m ready, I step to her, tuck my nose into her hair, and lower my voice so no one else can hear. “A genuine smile, especially if I know I put it there; someone who listens when I have nothing to say; sharing the same taste in music; and blondes. I have a thing for blondes.” Nothing I said meant anything to me before I met Alice. It’s a very short list of the things about her that make my pulse race. The rest I’ll keep to myself because this could get incredibly inappropriate in no time and then Taber will use the steak knife on me instead of threatening me with it.