Neanderthal seeks Human (Knitting in the City) Page 6

  I swallowed again, my hand on my stomach, as I turned to face the door.

  When he emerged I thought I was hallucinating or, at the very least, still passed out from my night of drunken disorderliness. I had to blink several times to understand, and several more times to accept, that McHotpants was standing in the doorway, clothed only in a white towel nonchalantly wrapped low around his waist. Even through the lingering pounding pain of my hangover I couldn’t help gape at the perfection of him, of his bare chest, arms, and stomach. Every part of him looked photoshoped.

  Finally, after what felt like an hour but what actually might have been four seconds, I realized I’d been starting at not his face and moved my gaze to his eyes. He wasn’t smiling. In fact, his expression wasn’t cool or warm or disgusted or pleased; it was completely unreadable. We stood, watching each other; me with a burning unfamiliar mixture of lust, mortification, and complete astonishment; him with a marbled mask of calm. This stalemate protracted for an indeterminable amount of time.

  He was the first break the stare, his eyes moving over my now clothed form and shoes. I shivered involuntarily.

  Finally, he removed his attention from me and he walked further into the room, crossing to the bookshelf, “I believe you are looking for this.”

  I watched him, how the muscles in his back moved, still struck dumb by his sudden appearance; he easily reached to the top of the bookshelf and retrieved my bag. His bare feet made hardly any noise as he moved to where I stood and handed it to me. I automatically took the offered purse and tucked it under my arm.

  “Thank you.” My voice was surprisingly calm given the fact that my brain and heart and lungs and stomach and lady bits were all rioting. I was determined to stay off the see-saw of crazy; I was going to be unaffected by him.

  “You’re welcome.” He replied; his eyes skimming over my face. Without warning he brazenly reached out, pulled a thick puffy tendril from my mass of bedraggled hair and looped it around his forefinger. “You have a lot of hair.”

  Suppressing a flock of butterflies in my stomach, I nodded and cleared my throat, “Yes. I do.” Before I could stop myself I continued, “Hair is one of the defining characteristics of mammals.” I quickly bit my lip to keep from telling him that there were only four species of mammal still alive that laid eggs, among them were the platypus and the under publicized spiny anteater; everyone always forgets about the spiny anteater.

  He released the lock of hair and crossed his arms over his chest; “What are the other characteristics of mammals?”

  I watched him intently for a minute, about to tell him about sweat glands and ear bones, but then a flash of memory from the previous night penetrated my conciseness. I felt suddenly sure he was making fun of me. I remembered the absurdity of my innate response to him, I remembered the way my brain and body were at complete discord, I remembered his words to me just before the first time I left the club- that someone like me didn’t belong there. I was determined to remain in control, detached, invulnerable to his glittering physical perfection and soul x-raying blue eyes.

  I focused on his teasing. I didn’t especially enjoy being teased when I couldn’t be certain of the person’s intentions so I shrugged, “I don’t know.”

  His eyes narrowed for the briefest of moments as he openly studied me, his mouth curving into a frown; he looked displeased. Then he said, “What do you remember about last night?”

  I lifted my chin, gritting my teeth. “I remember you making me leave the club.”

  “Can you remember anything after that?” his tone was guarded.

  My attention drifted to the left and I blinked, trying to figure out precisely what I did remember from the previous night. I had been so preoccupied with my hangover and my escape that I didn’t stop to think about how I ended up in his apartment, in my underwear. I was talking as I was thinking and before I realized it said, “Not much. You were there and I remember leaving the club-”

  “Which time?” He interjected.

  “With Elizabeth. I left with Elizabeth and she put me in a taxi. I asked the driver to take me back. When I got back sunglassman waved me in then I-” my eyes lost focus, I tried to pull the memories forward, “When I walked in I bumped into a man, he said he was looking for me. He-” I cleared my throat and squinted. I felt for sure I bumped into someone I knew, a man I recognized, but I couldn’t be sure. “I think someone took me up some stairs- it actually looked like a tree at first with a tree house but it was a room.”

  “The Canopy room.” Quinn’s voice was matter-of-fact but something about it brought my attention back to him. He moved his hands to his hips, his blue eyes dark with some unreadable thought. “What else do you remember?”

  I studied him for a moment, and my own thoughts, before I continued. “Not much.” I licked my lips. It was the truth, I didn’t remember much. I remembered being offered and drinking a shot of something that burned but I couldn’t really make out the size or shape of the room or any tangible, physical characteristics. I knew there had been several people present because I remember them laughing but I didn’t remember what they looked like. It was like I walked into the tree house room and was swallowed up by a black fog.

  A sudden thought occurred to me and I quickly wrapped my arms around my center, “Does that happen a lot? After drinking?”

  “What? Losing your memory?” he asked.

  “Yes.” I nodded.

  “No, not after drinking. When I found you upstairs in the Canopy room, not long after I thought you’d already left, you were still awake but... you weren’t making any sense so I carried you out.”

  “Wait, you carried me?” My body responded strangely to that information.

  He nodded. “Yeah, one of our-” he seemed to struggle for the right words, “one of the club patrons was dancing with you but you weren’t exactly cooperating so much as critiquing his dance moves. I think someone must have slipped you something.” He surveyed me, as though carefully studying my reaction or bracing for a freak-out.

  “You mean someone gave me Bendothi- Bethnzodiath- Benzodiazepid-” I huffed, gritted my teeth, then sounded out the word: “Ben-zo-dia-ze-pines?”

  “Yes, I think someone slipped you Benzodiazepines in whatever you drank up in the Canopy.”

  “Oh.” I twisted my mouth to the side and thought about someone giving me a date rape drug. It seemed far-fetched but not out of the realm of possibility, especially considering my lack of memory. I felt it would be best to find out for certain. “Do you have any pharmacies nearby?”

  Quinn nodded his head, “I imagine you could use some aspirin. There is some in the bathroom.”

  “Oh, thanks, but I was thinking I’d pick up a test- did you know pharmacies will sell you over the counter tests to detect Benzodiazepines?” He lifted his eyebrows in what I interpreted was confusion so I felt the need to clarify, “It’s a urine test, not a venipuncture-”

  He frowned deeply, his tone incredulous, “How do you know this? Has this happened to you before?”

  “No- no. I’ve never lost my memory before and I’m not much of a party-club-bar person. One time my sister spiked my OJ before the SATs but that was just vodka; the other time I got drunk was also an accident.”

  “The other time? You’ve been drunk two times?” His frown eased and he blinked at me. I noted again that his eyes were very blue and his chest was very naked.

  I didn’t respond immediately, not really sure what to say, feeling mounting discomfort under his bared chest scrutiny. At last I shrugged, using a tactic introduced to me by Sandra, the psychiatry intern in my knitting group, and answered his question with a question; “How many times have you been drunk?”

  He smiled faintly, “More than two.” his gaze was inscrutable. I wondered how he could be so comfortable in nothing but a towel in front of a complete stranger. “Do you remember how you got here?” Quinn tilted his head to the side; the movement reminded me of our bar conversation and the way he’
d titled his head last night.

  I searched my memory, my head starting to hurt with the effort, before I slowly shook my head, “No. I don’t remember coming here or-” I swallowed, “or anything else.”

  He shifted closer to me, his voice low, “Nothing happened.” My eyes widened, not immediately understanding his meaning. He continued, “Nothing happened last night.”

  I blinked at him again, opened my mouth to speak, then closed it again.

  Nothing happened.

  My eyes moved to his chin then lowered to his chest.

  Nothing happened.

  Of course nothing happened.

  I licked my lips involuntarily and nodded, “I know.” My voice sounded like a croak.

  “Really?” He asked.

  I nodded again, my heart twisted painfully in my chest and I shifted on my feet. I couldn’t meet his eyes. I couldn’t understand my reaction to his statement. Nothing happened. Why did I feel suddenly disappointed when I should have felt nothing but relief? I didn’t understand myself. I should have known, as soon as I saw him coming out of that door, that nothing happened. Why did I feel surprised?

  Of course nothing happened. Of course he wouldn’t be interested in me. Of course he is ten thousand leagues out of my league…

  “How do you know?” He countered, he sounded defensive.

  I took a step back and tried to run a hand through my hair but my fingers encountered stubborn tangles again, “I get it, ok? I, uh, I need to get out of here. What time is it?” I turned from him and started walking toward the couch, looking for the exit.

  “You don’t look like you believe me. This is my sister’s apartment. I promise, nothing happened.” I heard his voice close behind me, knew he was following me.

  I turned to face him, not quite meeting his gaze, “No, no- I really believe you. I know- with certainty- that nothing happened.” I added under my breath, “Of course nothing happened.”

  He didn’t seem to hear the last part. Quinn came to a stop in front of me again, standing at least several feet away this time, “Good.” he nodded, his hands gripping the towel at his waist, “Let’s go get some breakfast.”

  “You want to go get breakfast?” I couldn’t keep the surprise from my tone as I finally met his eyes. He nodded again and I stammered, “Like- like this?”

  He gave me a small sardonic smile as he turned, “No, obviously I’ll get some clothes on.”

  “But-” I blinked again in confusion, I needed to stop blinking so much, “But why?”

  He shrugged, turning to me as he walked backward to the bathroom, “I’m hungry. You need eggs and bacon for that hangover. And, I’m hoping you’ll tell me more about the defining characteristics of mammals. I’m pretty sure you know more then you’ve let on.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Giavani's Pancake House was an extremely small, open air eatery with no tables. An L shaped, waist high, speckled grey counter top ran the entire length of the establishment and short circular stools upholstered with red vinyl were bolted in place on the wooden floor along the counter’s edge.

  The place was packed.

  A line, which rivaled the line outside Outrageous, curved along the block, around the corner, and out of my sight. People stood patiently, sipping Dunkin Doughnuts coffee and reading papers as they waited for a spot to eat breakfast. Rather than find the back of the line, Quinn walked up to two conspicuously empty stools at the furthest end of the counter, pulled a piece of paper reading RESERVED from the top of each seat, and motioned for me to sit in the stool adjacent to the wall.

  Before I complied I asked, “Did you call and make reservations?”

  He shook his head ‘no’; “Come. Sit.” he said as he placed his hand on my arm above the elbow and pulled me to the red vinyl seat. “I want to know more about mammals.” His mouth hooked to one side in a poorly hidden smile.

  I complied, frowning at him and his teasing.

  Before we left the apartment but after Quinn finished dressing, he offered his sister’s clothes if I wanted something else to wear. All her personal things were located in a room, really, an oversized walk-in closet, adjacent to the bathroom. You had to walk through the bathroom to get to the closet. I didn’t feel especially comfortable digging through someone else’s things so I grabbed the first casual outfit I saw: a blue cotton knee length skirt and a v-neck black t-shirt.

  Her feet were a full size smaller than mine so I wore my zebra print stilettos out to breakfast. Thankfully, the skirt fit perfectly. The shirt, however, was snug over my chest. The strapless bra I wore was a surprisingly supportive brazier but it was also a push-up.

  Therefore, paired with the snug fit of the v-neck, my usually well-concealed cleavage was brazenly, visibly ample. I thought about removing the strapless bra but I was never one of those girls who could go comfortably bra-less; there was too much jiggle in my wiggle.

  I washed my face and used my finger to brush my teeth then paused to look in the mirror. I had your typical Northern European mutt-heritage coloring: pale skin that burned instead of tanned, a light smattering of freckles, red-brown hair, eyebrows, and lashes.

  I felt marginally better after the brief ministrations; my hair, however, was a complete disaster. I thought about asking Quinn if his sister owned any hair ties or barrettes or rope or anything I might be able to use to tame the wild beast. In the end I just wore the fuzzy mess of knots loose down my back, over my shoulders, and- at times- in my face. I figured, worst case scenario, I could try to use it to clandestinely cover my ample bosom.

  While we walked to the breakfast cafe, however, Quinn would brush it back from my cheeks when it became too unruly which invariably caused my skin to burn scarlet and I would lose all semblance of thought or focus. Directly following these interactions I prattled on about the concept of leap seconds, nano technology, and the inevitable space elevator which would allow the moon to rival Disney World as a tourist destination.

  Quinn didn’t talk much but seemed to listen with interest to each of the various and sundry topics; he asked questions periodically; the moon space elevator in particular drew an avalanche of questions. When I didn’t have all the answers I promised I would email him a link to the NASA update page for the project.

  Presently, we sat quietly at the counter. I was trapped between him and the wall and stared without seeing at my menu. Maybe it was the fact that I was silent for the first time since leaving the apartment but I found myself attempting to ignore the sudden uncomfortable yet omnipresent self-awareness which was alternately giving me goosebumps and making my neck hot.

  His thigh brushed against mine, his elbow grazed mine lightly; I leaned against the wall to gain as much distance as possible but couldn’t avoid the small touches in the tight space. I glanced at him from the corner of my eyes; he appeared completely at ease, studying his menu, oblivious to the gentle torture his careless closeness was causing. So absorbed in my discomfort, I was somewhat startled at the sound of the waitress’ voice.

  “Heya Quinn. Wheres Shelly? Whoz yer friend?” a short, dark haired woman in her late fifties or early sixties gave me a brief friendly smile as she placed two mugs of coffee in front of us. She had the unmistakable rasp of a smoker and, paired with the thick mid-west accent, she sounded like Mike Ditka.

  “Shelly left early this morning and couldn’t come. This is Janie. Janie, this is Viki.”

  I dumbly reached my hand over the counter and tried to look and sound more composed than I felt, “It’s nice to meet you, Viki.”

  She held her hands up, “Oh, baby, my hands are covered in grease. You don’t wanna shake deeze unless you wanna wash yer hands with turpentine.” A deep, gravelly laugh escaped her lips as she pulled out an order pad and pen, “But it sures nice to meetcha. Are you a friend of Shelly’s?”

  Before I could answer that I didn’t know Shelly, Quinn interrupted me, “She’s here with me.”

  Viki lifted her brow, for it truly was a single brow, in what
I guessed was surprise and her mouth formed a small ‘O’. I felt her eyes move over me with renewed interest. I started to blush. I gripped the menu a little harder and tried to swallow but found the simple action difficult.

  “That’s-” Viki blinked, her big brown eyes still continuing their open assessment, her mouth moved but she seemed to struggle for words, “-well, that’s a surprise.”

  My cheeks burned; I could hear my heart drum and the blood rush between my ears. I knew that this Viki person didn’t mean to be rude; she looked honestly perplexed and, if I was reading her awkward soundlessness correctly, she was obviously stunned at the possibility that Quinn and I could be there as a couple. I felt the need to distance myself from the notion, make certain she believed I was aware that the very idea was beyond ludicrous.

  I need to make certain that she knows that I know that he knows he isn’t interested... I was starting to confuse myself.

  Before I realized that I was speaking the verbal diarrhea spilled forth: “Oh we’re not together. I mean, we’re sitting together and we came here together but obviously we’re not together-together. How could we be together? I’m probably never going to see him again after today. We’re not even friends. I don’t even know him. I mean, you know, really-” I inclined my head toward her and a small laugh burst from my lips, “can you even imagine? It’d be like Planet of the Apes- and he’s Charlton Heston with all the muscles and such and I’m that girl ape. They can’t be together because it’d be like a Neanderthal with a human, cross species breeding…and that’s just not right. Although Neanderthals are closely related to humans and are in fact part of the same species- if you want to be precise- they are a sub-species or alternate species of human...”

  I glanced at him and gave him a closed mouth smile. I categorically hoped it dually conveyed confidence and cheerful ambivalence to the very obvious disparity in our compatibility. His eyes, however, narrowed as they watched me. I wondered if he found my analogy to be imperfect; maybe he didn’t like Charlton Heston… maybe it was due to NRA involvement; conversely, he did seem like the sort to like guns.