Fruitbat

13. 13

13

Si

3:13 am

”The streets are so quiet, aren’t they?” I double-knot the sleeves around my belly.

“It’s late—or early . . .” Danny’s eyes are focused on the ground ahead of our steps.

“I guess.” My shoulder bumps his but doesn’t interrupt his stride. I’m So tempted to catch his hand, as it swings past mine, and hold on but I refrain, deeply inhaling sweet cinnamon wafting off his body.

There’s something about this man, I just can’t explain, his comfortable familiarity is baffling me. Where do I know him from ?

My pinky brushes his but his arm lifts away before I can snatch it up, clamping his fingers around the satchel strapped across his body. I ogle his soft chest and belly from the side of my face.

“You really liked my writing?“

My eyes jump up to his. Hopefully, he didn’t catch me staring. I smile, then nod, and say. “I’d like to read more.”

“I need to write more, ‘’ he scoffs.

“Have you not been writing lately?” I ask, turning toward him. His brow is furrowed and his eyes are downcast.

“Honestly . . . it’s been years.”

“How come?” I tuck my thumbs behind the knot at my waist.

He lifts his shoulders, looking at something across the street. “I think I shut down for a bit.”

“Years . . . is longer than a bit.” I comment, staring at his thick bicep, peppered with goosebumps, challenging the taut sleeve of his thin t-shirt. “Do you want your sweatshirt back?”

“No, I run hot.”

Yes you do. “Okay.” I snicker.

Red and blue lights flash from around the bend, painting the side of brick buildings with violet hues up ahead. The surface of the river is lit up, reflecting the scene across the bridge, under a dark sky, illuminated by the pulsing strobes from three police cruisers and an ambulance.

We pause on the corner. The tiptoes of my sneakers hang off the edge of the sidewalk and a shiver snakes up my back, wraps my shoulders and sprouts a rash of goosebumps down the backs of my arms. I cross them over my chest and stroke my skin for warmth, before remembering the sweatshirt and slipping it on.

Danny’s dimple rouses me as he gnaws his lip.

“That intersection is so dangerous!” I zip up the hoodie. It softly slouches on my body and reeks of heavenly spice. I’d bury my face and inhale, if he weren’t looking at me. “I nearly got run over, when I crossed the street there earlier.”

I shake my head and gaze back over the bridge.

The cruisers and rescue wagon are crowded around the scene. Half a dozen uniformed officers are talking with a slender man in running shorts, while a trio of EMTs are loading a stretcher into the back of their rig.

“That doesn’t look good.” Danny’s eyes hollow as he notes the dark glossy body-length plastic bag on the cart. “Accidents happen there, too often,” he says, glancing at me, “Let’s head this way.”

With a static poke at my arm, he brushes past me and leads onto a different direction.

I skip two steps forward to match his stride and peer back at the emergency crew for a brief moment.

“The mayor needs to do something about that.” I’ll get my mother on the case.

Our new path follows parallel with the river.

I recognize a tattoo studio, as we stroll by, where Mallory got her dainty daisy shoulder piece while I watched. It looks abandoned, but I can’t tell if it’s just closed for the night, or for good .

“Why are you blocked? Isn’t that what it’s called? Writer’s block ? I shove my hands in the hoodie pockets, pinching and rolling a piece of lint my fingertips find.

“I shut down after my mother died. She used to keep me going, even though publishers kept turning me down.” He stares at the ground as we walk.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know it was a decade ago now. I still jot down new ideas, I just haven’t drafted anything since before her funeral.”

“What happened to her?” I ask, then quickly add. “You don’t have to talk about it, of course.” I backstep my overreach.

“Cancer,” he answers

“Oh. Yeah . . . Nanny Grace too. I never got to see her, after she started to get sick, and couldn’t work for my parents anymore.”

“Oh, man. I’m really sorry.”

Danny’s arm drops to his side and sparks against my elbow.

I shoot my shot, pulling my hand from the pocket and grabbing hold of his wrist, slipping my palm around his thumb.

His eyes widen and drop, staring at my fingers weaving with his.

He squeezes my hand and the side of his mouth curves. There’s that dimple again.

I dreamily exhale the air from my chest and grin.

“You said you left a party tonight?” Danny asks.

I can feel him relaxing, his hand settling into mine as we walk together. Our shoulders brush and I get a whiff of his scent. Mmm . . . cinnamon .

“My friends never miss a chance to host a gathering.”

“And they forgot it’s your birthday?” he grimaces.

”Grace would have remembered. She always reminded everyone.”

”I think you may need better friends?”

“I think I’ve found one.” The words just fall out of my mouth.

Danny’s middle finger strokes my palm. His tongue slips a glistening trail across his lip and scoops away the dab of dried tomato sauce in the crease of his mouth’s edge.

My eyes are fixed on the sight and I hope I didn’t just whimper aloud.

He smiles and my eyes flick back up to his.

I think I did just whimper out loud.

His finger tickles my palm again, tripping the furnace on, in my belly. Heat rises through my neck and into my cheeks in seconds.