Sonia walked into the shop with the air of one browsing in their free time. It was only by the quick movements of her feet, encased in ankle boots, that one could tell that she was in a rush and wanted something specific. She glanced slowly at one corner and then seemed to forget what she wanted, her thin lips slightly parted as though she were working out something difficult. She stayed, poised like a supporting column, by the doorway, as though hesitant to break the dusky peace of the room.
Adam appeared almost as casually, from the interior darkness of the shop. Something about the deferential hunch of his shoulders made the glass in his hand seem to proceed him, as though he were Macbeth.
They stood, poised like actors at the wings of a stage, until the woman’s heel, resting against the wall, squealed, and the man started, lime cordial spilling from the glass, which he apologetically offered to her. The distance between them made the action seem hypothetical, as though he expected the glass to leap the intervening space.
Sonia moved, her heals making sharp scuffing sounds. In her outstretched hand, the light made the glass seem to glow, and she tilted it slowly to her mouth, as though gently tasting a flower’s nectar. Her pale lips at the glass’s edge showed a darker colour within her mouth, and, having sipped it, they gathered together again:
‘Thank you,’ and it was as if a curtain had been raised from the rest of her face. Suddenly her long nose seemed to remember its length, and her eyes seemed to deepen, liquid and blue, embedded in slightly smudged kohl.
From nowhere, Adam’s long fingers had produced a string of amber beads. He held them next to her hair, the slight wrinkles which ringed his eyes deepening into something like kindness.
‘They’re your colour.’
Sonia stared at him, the paleness of her eyes protesting such a judgement. Her dark hair made the amber appear almost aggravated, gleaming ferociously. Adam stood, awkwardly upset by his own misjudgement. She raised her hand and pushed the beads firmly away, the gesture half familiar, half that of a customer impatient with the salesperson.
Adam cleared his throat, and smiled apologetically down at her. She felt the smile was addressed at her but was not meant for her. She realised when she’d pushed away the beads his fingers had slid around hers and that they were now holding hands, formal as though surprised by new love. She shrugged and slipped her hand from his, and he looked down regretfully.
‘Why did you come?’
She looked away, knowing that he wanted to ask what she wanted, but aware that that was her role.
‘I promised I’d come if you asked.’
He paused, waiting for accusation, his eyes on hers. Her foot twitched not so much with impatience as with the inability to stay still. He stared at the black shoe, and wondered what her feet looked like.
Absent-mindedly, she picked up a golden coloured thing. He said:
‘I asked because there’s a new Calibetti grandfather clock.’
It came out all in a rush, as though he’d been waiting to say it for a while. She stared at him, blinked, and allowed her face to round into a smile, the lips compressed and amused.
‘Where?’
He took a few steps in retreat, and she watched the way his shoes seemed to follow him, as if accompanying him contrary to the wisdom of experience. He turned and saw her, arms slightly raised from her sides as though her sleeves were weighing them down, and he wondered if without them her arms would rise like wings.
She saw that he wanted her to follow him and she moved quickly forward, until she was beside him, and she allowed him to show her eyes where to alight.
The clock was taller even than him. He did not move to point out the blue iridescence, as if borrowed from butterflies, which to him seemed an echo of her eyes. He knew she’d see the grained swirls of gold in the wood, that she’d understand the way the thickness of the clock-face’s numbers indicated its date. Elegantly lounging between a darkly red writing desk and the wall, the clock gently encompassed them with it soft ticking. They stayed quiet, neither smiling, but both captivated.
When his lips touched hers, she did not move as he drew away to gauge her reaction. Her eyes stayed on the clock, but then her compact body twisted away and, with a fretfully hopeless glance at the clock her little feet in their protective shells moved swiftly over the dark floor, and she left.
He stayed beside the clock, watching the flick of her heel as she turned around the door, leaving him in the dimmed lights.
... well that was kind of strange, but the house we were staying in had all sorts of rooms with wierd things like grandfather clocks and egg collections so there's my inspiration.
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