Curious about the Man

I kick off my biting heels and collapse onto my bed.

“Go to sleep, you’ll feel better in the morning. I promise,” she whispers as she closes the door. And I fall asleep to the sound of faint footsteps climbing up and up, into the space above me.

The morning light wakes me before any alarm or clashing plates against marble. I wince at the brightness of my room. Then I wince even more fiercely at the throbbing pain in my temples. With a long and slow inhalation of breath, I lift my face from the pillow. Pushing up on my arms, I roll over and scan the apparently bare side-table beside me – no water, fuck.

I lift a heavy left wrist, realising I’m still wearing my watch. The time is 6:47am. I want nothing more than to fall back into intoxicated sleep but the moment for comfort has passed. I smack my tongue around the inside of my mouth. It’s as I feared, self-inflicted Sahara from teeth to tonsils. Why the fuck did I not get a glass on water when I got in last night?

My lips are so tight, I feel like a retired A-class celebrity. One major difference, however, being they would probably have someone to bring them water on command. Fuck it.

“Ashlee!” I scream to the ceiling, “Need water, please!”

After a long moment of silence, I hear the familiar, low creak of her metal-framed bed. I let out a relieved sigh, success.

To my surprise, I’m woken again. This time to roaring laughter. More than two voices, echoing down the corridor from the kitchen. Confused; I sit up, a bit too fast. An unsafe habit of mine which always sends me to space for a beat or two. The moment my vison regains clarity, I’m on my feet. Steady chatter and the clinking of glasses makes me wonder why Ash let me sleep.

I slip on a pair of flats and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I gasp at what I see. Zombies have awoken looking less of a state. Dry mascara-trails stain my cheeks and I’m only half-surprised to see twigs in the nest atop my head. With an eyeroll that sends a pang of pain through my head, I strip out of my little red dress. I attempt to freshen up, without leaving the confines of my room. Some length of time later, I crack open my door. I listen for any signs of danger before silently scurrying into the bathroom ten-or-so feet away, across the hallway.

I smile a pleasant smile as I walk towards the mingling strangers’ voices in my kitchen. I step into the warm light, Ashlee catches my gaze with a sheepish look on her face.

“So Ash, are you going to introduce me to these two mysterious gentlemen or shall I come back later?” I chirp, still trying to maintain an air of sweetness.

“Stephan, Etienne, this is Kiara.” They both turn from Ashlee to me. Neither man says anything. The air is thick with judgement. The man who is meant to be Stephan looks me up and down in a brisk fashion, before giving a small nod and lifting his nose to the sky. He is thin but tall with seemingly good posture. You can tell by the angle he holds his glass that he brought the wine they are drinking. There is an air of prejudice surrounding him. I waste no time studying him further than to note his sour facial expression appears frozen to his head. He may as well be painted stone as far as I’m concerned.

The silence is finally broken by the shrill bleating of the oven timer on the far side of the room. I watch The Statue and Ash as they follow the noise together. I’m snapped back into myself when I feel a cool sensation brush my pinkie finger. I look down at the marble top and to my amazement, see a freshly poured glass – no, goblet – of cherry-coloured wine.

“I thought you might fancy a glass. You looked like a deer in headlights for a moment there,” Etienne murmurs, his voice low. We are looking at each other now, a small smile grows on his lips. I smile back. All words are lost on me; as I myself, am lost in the beauty of him. His warm, brown eyes both stir and steady me. He has captured me in no less than a single instant of eye-contact. As if urging my thoughts out of hiding, taunting them to jump the minimal space between us, he cocks his head ever so slightly to one side. His eyes, playful now, remain fixated on my face. In an attempt to distract myself, I take hold of the glass as daintily as I can. An inner majesty is unleashed from within me when I drink fine wine. I take a sip, careful not to let my eyes wander to his. Unexplored flavour combinations dance along my tongue. I recognise fruit and wood; citrus, oak. My eyes drift upwards and I catch him studying me. I blink away the amazement I feel. He laughs. It’s an honest sound, it reminds me of a baby’s giggle.

“Why are you laughing?” I ask, puzzled.

“I like the way your face portrays exactly how you think,” he answers, “I can almost see the cogs turning behind your eyes.” That’s when I recognise the first hint of an accent. He’s not English. I need not even ask, “France, that’s where I’m from.” It’s then I do something so unexpected I confuse even myself.

I thank him for the wine and conversation, and still gripping my glass, I step back and walk past him. I continue on, through the sliding patio doors and out into the garden. I feel his eyes follow me, probably a look of astonishment on his face. I decide I like the way it feels to have his eyes on me. The stars are bright against the velvet of night above and around me. I breath slowly and enjoy the pleasant notion of enjoying my own company under a sky-full of stars.

A soft breeze dances through my hair, loosening a chestnut curl out from it’s tuck behind my right ear. I close my eyes to the sensation of goose bumps rippling across my face and forearms. I startle suddenly. My shoulders now baring a quilted coat. I turn my head slowly to see him standing beside me. His face is lifted, eyes on the sky. I bite my lip and follow his gaze.

We bask in our now shared moment of bliss for a beat or two more before we are disturbed by the another pair of approaching, muffled footsteps. I unwillingly turn back toward the house. She is already upon us. Ash gives me a quizzical look. Her eyes dart from me to him and back again. I blush but soon compose myself. She loses interest quickly.

“Dinner is ready, Stephan is waiting at the table,” she says, already making her way across the patio. I watch her disappear into the warm glow beyond the door. A trail of exotic spices wafts out the open door. My feet move without instruction, towards the promise of food.