Upside Down(12)

For the rest of the day, I tried not to think about it. I tried not to think about Jordan, and I tried not to think about how he’d looked at me on the bus when I stood up and we were standing almost nose-to-nose, or how he’d blushed, and how he’d smelt. And I told myself I wasn’t ready for another failed attempt at a relationship, and I had to keep reminding myself that it was stupid and foolish to be thinking anything about a guy I’d only just met.

But later that day on the bus, I smiled when I saw him waiting to get on. His friend Merry was waiting with him and I saw her look into the bus and she smiled when she saw me, so I could only assume they’d been talking about me, and that made me happier than it should have. But the bus was kind of full and he got bustled up toward the back. He was flustered and he almost tripped, and he mumbled, “Motherfu—” before he caught himself and didn’t actually swear, but it made me smile.

I resisted turning around to see if he’d found a seat or to see if he was looking at me, but when it was my stop, I looked up toward the back of the bus without really meaning to. He was sitting second from the back with his nose in a book, and he glanced up just as I was stepping off.

I smiled at him; he smiled right back. I waved and he grinned and blushed and held the book up to hide his face. I stepped off the bus, sorry I didn’t get to speak to him, but our wordless exchange was perhaps even better. It was shy and almost sweet, which said more than maybe what a full conversation might have, and that was ridiculous.

I was still smiling when I opened the door to my townhouse. I threw my coat onto my couch and tried not to overthink anything. I said hi to my two Siamese fighting fish, Ali and Bruce, and asked Spike how his day was. Spike was a cactus I’d had for years, but I still spoke to him. He sat on the windowsill, ever silent. When Rob and I split, he remarked on the irony of me having two fish who lived in separate tanks, never allowed to touch, and a prickly—very untouchable—cactus. I didn’t care what it said about me. It made me love Ali, Bruce, and Spike a little bit more. I sprayed Spike with the water bottle. “Cheer up. It’ll be summer soon enough,” I told him.

I threw dinner in the oven, pulled on my running gear, and hit the pavement for half an hour while my roast for one cooked, but I couldn’t get something out of my head. The book he was reading… It had an unusual cover: red and some vine-looking thing. It was distinctive, and for some strange reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So later on, as I sat at the table and ate my dinner, I opened up my laptop and began a search. It took a while, but I was almost certain I’d found it. Well, I found the cover, but the book made no sense.

It was an old book, mid-eighteenth century to be exact, by French Revolutionist author George Sand. It was called Mauprat, had won literary acclaim for its time, and was considered a great from anyone who knew anything about French literature.

Was that really what he was reading?

I stared at the cover, and I pictured him smiling and blushing, hiding behind his book, bookmark in hand. This book. This book by some old French author almost two hundred years ago.

It was definitely the same. Obviously the book had had dozens of different covers over the years, but this one was distinct and unusual.

And I was distinctly, unusually, very much intrigued.

Most guys I knew didn’t read much. Well, they read about keto diets and shredding, or the financial review or sports pages of the paper, but never literature. Let alone literature in a different language from a different century.

Yes, I was intrigued.

The next day, the bus was full again. The weather was drizzly and the wind was cold, and someone had already taken the seat next to me. When Jordan got on the bus, he appeared hopeful and he smiled as soon as he saw me, but when he realised the bus was full, he let out a visible sigh and trudged up the back.

When it was my stop, I stood up, edged out of my seat, and when I was standing at my full height in the aisle, I pulled my headphones off. I turned to say something, but he had his book open, though he was frowning out the window. Only when he seemed to realise where we were, he glanced up, and finding me looking right at him, his smile was instantaneous and he clutched his book to his chest and watched me as I got off the bus.

It made me so happy, I didn’t even try to hide my smile as the bus pulled away.

I went for my usual jog, ate my usual dinner for one, and the next day I went to work with my smile still in place.

Michael took one look at me. “You spoke to him again,” he said, not a question at all. “To that book guy.”

I chuckled. “No.” My grin widened. “But I’m going to.”

Michael had nodded slowly and frowned. It was a look I knew well. He had something to bring up but he wasn’t quite sure how. “Just ask,” I said, pushing away from my desk and giving him my full attention.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said dismissively, but from the look on his face, it was clearly something. “It’s stupid and I’m probably speaking out of turn, but can I ask you something?”

I’d always been very honest with Michael, and I had no problem in answering any questions he might have about what asexuality meant for me. But this felt different, and I tried not to be defensive. “Yeah?”

“It’s just.” He laughed and shook his head at himself, then stared out at the Sydney city view from my window. For a moment I didn’t think he was going to say anything else, but then, still without looking at me, he frowned again. “Do you think it’s possible to love two people?”