First Impressions (3 page)

He came first, the sight of his seed spurting hot over my hand and the sound of my name on his lips sending me tumbling after him. We shuddered our way back to stillness, and I thought ‘this is the bit where he makes his excuses and leaves.’ But then he laughed, breathlessly, kissing me softly and telling me how fucking gorgeous I was, and I just didn’t know whether I should believe him or not.

***

“
These are beautiful,” Steve said with a reverent expression, picking up a charcoal sketch of Kathy. “She must be someone you really care about.”

I looked at him sharply. “What makes you say that?”

“
Just the way you’ve captured her expression. There’s so much tenderness, like you’re showing us something about her hopes and dreams.” His gray eyes seemed to be focused somewhere far into the distance, and I wondered if I’d ever be able to capture that on paper.

How could an office grunt possibly understand all of this? And why was he still here? He was back in his jeans with a cup of tea in his hands, and seemed intent on making himself at home, walking around and asking me about all my stuff, particularly my paintings, which seemed to impress him hugely. I would have suspected it was all a ploy to get into my pants, but he’d already done that so I couldn’t tell what he was up to.

“
What about your hopes and dreams, then?” I asked, thinking that I may as well know the worst before I found myself falling for him and his bloody soulful eyes.

“
Depends whether you’re talking about careers or personal, doesn’t it?” He gave a lopsided smile. “Careers-wise, I’m only just starting out in publishing, but I want to work my way up to senior editor, and one day start a small press of my own. That’s why I’m always working on the slush pile manuscripts on the train.” He told me about the mountain of unsolicited manuscripts he’d been given to practice his editing skills on. “They need a lot of work, but they’re people’s dreams and I have to respect the effort they’ve put into them.”

Shame heated my face as I recalled how I’d judged him as some kind of facts-and-figures obsessed automaton. He might dress like a businessman, but that was only a shell. As he spoke of those wannabe novelists his eyes took on that faraway look again, and I found myself wanting to kiss him slowly, to be the focus of his attention.

“
And your personal dreams?” I held my breath for his reply, feeling like his answer would seal our fate together. He looked at me, really looked at me, a small smile on his lips.

“
I just want to find someone special.” He took a step closer, his hand brushing mine. “You know, I’ve been watching you ever since I first saw you. I’ve been wanting to see you smile. You don’t do it often enough.” He stroked my cheek, and I felt myself start to grin. “That’s it. That’s beautiful.”

“
Why didn’t you say anything?”

“
I thought you hated me. You kept glaring. You know you’re bloody scary when you glare.” I laughed at his expression of mock-fright. “Love that sound,” he said, leaning in to claim my lips.

This time we made it to the bedroom, and I christened those new sheets as Steve pounded into me from behind, his hands around my cock. I found myself chanting his name over and over, and I didn’t ever want to stop.

***

He stayed the night and we sat up until the early hours watching some of my favorite zombie films. It turned out he loved them, too. Steve sprawled on the sofa in his underpants and socks, with his feet in my lap. I realized that I hadn’t seen his feet yet, so I peeled those lurid socks away and studied them, wanting to learn every inch of him. I traced over the tendons with my fingertips; I licked the arches. He whimpered a little, trying to pull his foot away, but then I sucked on his toes and he groaned.

We soon forgot all about
Dawn of the Dead
.

***

The train pulls into the station. I climb on, looking to see if my seat is free. Steve hasn’t managed to find his usual one, so I take one opposite where he’s now sitting. Because we get on at my old stop -- our stop now -- he’s not always able to get that seat, but it doesn’t stop us trying.

I watch him crossing his legs. I study the way the turquoise and yellow zig-zag socks cling to his ankles. I remember picking them out for him, thinking that they were like a Bridget Riley painting, and the grin on his face when I gave them to him that evening. I’ve realized that he can make the most tacky, clashing colors look good just by being in them. I’ve realized that I don’t need to be angry anymore.

I’ve realized that I’m worth loving.

I watch him and remember how wrong I was. Every now and then he looks up at me, smiling, but mostly we just pretend to be strangers. It keeps me from taking him for granted.

It’s always crowded on our return journey, and the seats are all taken. We stand next to each other, clinging onto the same handhold, our bodies nudging together with the rattling motion of the train. We murmur into each other’s ears about our days. We walk home from the station, side by side.

At night, when we tumble into bed, I always remember to look up at the triptych of framed sketches over our headboard. On the left, the stranger on the train, naked apart from his shoes and bright pink socks. In the middle, a portrait of a dreadlocked man with forlorn, lovesick eyes. And on the right, a man called Steve, posing in his stripy underwear on the day he demolished the last of my first impressions.

First Impressions

Copyright © 2010 by Josephine Myles

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Torquere Press, Inc.: Sips electronic edition / January 2011

Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680