penance. a love story (The Böhme Series) (15 page)

“Well, you are quiet and that isn’t because you lack words or don’t want to speak, but because you are distinct and you value every single one of them. I couldn't see you enjoy making small talk with people forty hours a week, let alone having to rely on your interactions with them for half your income
.” I leaned my arm across the back of the booth as I watched him tilt his head to think on what I said.

He laughed again and I enjoyed the sound of his deep rumble. He had a presence that dominated our little table. Without many words he was talking right to me.

Though, I took part in quick hookups, I hated the minced words most men tried to use. I hated small talk and false impressions. I hated false compliments and when people used words they didn’t fully mean. I hadn’t sat and spoke on topics that mattered with someone other than Maggie and Petra. I hadn't shared my stories of strangers with anyone, even them. I found myself watching Wynn and thinking of how he had begun to pull back my layers without even a touch.

“You’re right. I don’t talk much
,” he stated as he looked out the window.

“So what do you photograph?” I asked as I watched him taking in the scene at the playground across the street. Though he didn't choose to speak often, I wanted to hear his words.
 

He furrowed his brow as he toyed with his spoon on the table, “Well for my art I photograph old buildings and the occasional person. But for paying the rent I freelance and photograph crime scenes.”

“You’re shitting me,” I said as I dropped my arm and leaned closer. I curled my legs onto the bench next to me and let the shock show on my face.

“No, I rarely shit people
,” he said with a smile. “It isn’t all I do, but it pays the bills. I was lucky. It’s a paid internship though I’m not technically a student. I do freelance work—headshots, merchandise, food. But that’s not my passion. My passion is photographing the truth in people and forgotten places. Humanity is lost in this world, so when I meet someone that still has it, I photograph them. The abandoned places I shoot are the remnants of humanity that we have forgotten. The places remind me that life is fleeting.” He danced his hand through the air and held my eyes. Was I one of those people? Did I display humanity?

“Do you plan on becoming a cop?” I asked.

He laughed, “Nope. Not likely. I want to do something more artistic. What do you want to do someday?”

I met his eyes and we kept each other’s gaze for several seconds. I watched his lips as he put the cup back to take a sip. When he finished his tongue peeked out to taste the coffee that was still resting there and he leaned back in the seat, putting his arm up behind him. I thought of memories of somedays shared with Lily and guilt for being here with Wynn filled me. So I decided to keep it short without any depth to it. “I don’t have a someday. I want to live. I want to read books. That’s what I want to do.”

“Read books?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes, why not? I could read for days and days and love every minute. I got a job at a book store and I am eternally thankful for it. I can just
 be with the books.”

He turned his face away with a shy smile, “Ugh, yeah Petra’s right? I was in there the other day and saw you.”

I looked at him with wide eyes, “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

He pulled his lips in for a moment as he twirled his coffee cup and pondered his response. Every movement he did was captivating, then he spoke, “Well, I didn’t want to bother you, because your book had you occupied. Your friend stopped in and I ran into Petra, so I lost my opportunity to approach you.”

“I couldn’t help it, it was a good book—I love finding self published gems. They are your own little personal treasure and you can’t help wondering how the world didn’t discover it before you. The universe intended for you to read it because of the impact it had on you. That's why I want to read books. I want that experience over and again. So it’s obvious you didn’t buy any books, since I didn’t check you out.”

I cringed inside as the words came out. Why did I say it that way? I do not blush, but just telling myself that was futile as my cheeks grew warm. “I mean, you didn’t come to the counter
,” I lifted my eyebrow at him. “Come to think of it, we did see you there yesterday. You kept to the dystopian section didn’t you? I didn’t see you myself, but Gabe did.” I laughed at remembering the impression Wynn made on Gabe.

“Yeah, I did. It’s my favorite spot
,” he said as he looked at the tattoos on his inner forearms. They were quotes from
Fahrenheit 451
and
Catcher in the Rye
.

“Those quotes are two of my favorites
,” I said as I continued looking at his arms. “Bradbury and Salinger—two of the greatest writers.” I gave him a smile and he appeared surprised by my assessment.

“Yes, they are two of the greats. What does your tattoo say? I saw it on your wrist the other day, but I couldn’t read it
,” he said as he pointed to my left wrist.

I turned my arm toward him. The word faced me and away from him
, a simple word with a period, the ending of everything, my
penance
. It was the one word that described my life as a statement of fact.

He read the tattoo without touching my hand or pulling it toward him. Most guys use it as an opportunity to touch me. He didn’t even make a comment on it. His eyes and expression didn’t change, although being a person covered with literary tattoos he knew the word’s meaning.

He kept his eyes on the tattoo as he began, “I saw you at the bookstore a couple days ago too. My friend Sid owns the tattoo shop near Petra’s. I watched you through the window when I was walking to my bike. You had your head lifted as if you were breathing in the atmosphere,” he said.

The quick way he changed the topic, but kept his focus on my tattoo was unnerving and perfect at the same time.

He lifted his eyes from my tattoo and looked at me with understanding. I was thankful for the shift in conversation. “I told you I love books,” I said with a forced smile, trying to make light of the emotions that consumed me every time I looked at my tattoo.

“So it seems.” H
e gave a simple smile.

Sonya’s return with my oatmeal and our coffee refills interrupted us. He looked at my bowl and smiled, “Oatmeal?”

“Yeah, oatmeal, I love oatmeal,” I said with a shrug.

“It isn't something one sees ordered in a restaurant often
,” he said as he added more honey to his coffee.

“Says the man adding honey to his coffee. Who can say what’s normal? Your normal is not normal for others. Plus oatmeal is a strong hardy breakfast
.” I raised my eyebrow at him and continued mixing in my brown sugar and cinnamon.

He watched me eat my oatmeal as he drank his coffee. Several minutes passed and he waited until I finished before he spoke again. Other times, it makes me uncomfortable to be watched as I ate. I used to not be comfortable with silences and it wasn’t because I couldn’t handle the quiet. The discomfort came from the other person expecting me to speak. Wynn had no expectations.

He waited while I ate and wasn’t uncomfortable in the silence either. He examined his cup as his mind wandered. It wasn’t out of boredom; he was comfortable in his own thoughts. This was another normal we shared. Neither of us had the need to fill the silence with mindless chatter.

I watched his hands as he turned his coffee mug. Dark hair covered the strong bones of his wrists. He wore small leather bands on one wrist and on the other was a thick leather cuff with images cut into it. His tattoos decorated his forearms and accentuated the slender muscles that clenched as he stirred more honey in his coffee. I realized I was staring and looked up to his face. He was smiling at me. He caught me. His eyes changed as if he had discovered something astonishing. I don't think he realized the impact he could have on the female of the species.

I took a deep breath and setting my spoon in my bowl I pushed it to the edge of the table. I needed to slow my thoughts of him. He was something—someone I did not deserve.

“So you mentioned a sister earlier. Is she your only sibling?”
he asked as if we hadn’t shared a silent conversation for several minutes.

The question he chose to ask was one that brought too much emotion with it. I held back as I answered, “Yes. And you?”

“It’s just me, no siblings, no mother, a father somewhere… maybe.” He looked far off as if he could find his father on the other side of the restaurant. “But otherwise it’s just Sid, Blake and me and of course Petra,” he said with a smile.

“Petra is an awesome woman isn’t she?”

“Yes she is. So why figure modeling?” he asked as he looked away with the same shy expression I saw earlier. He jumped from topic to topic as if our time was short and he didn’t want to miss any insight into me. I wondered if he was remembering me sitting naked in front of him. When a blush crept underneath the light beard across his chin and the tattoo on his neck, I got my answer.

“Well, why not? I’m comfortable with my body. I guess it’s an act of rebellion for me. I grew up in a strict religious home. You must hide the body for it’s immoral to show any skin
,” I said in a mockery of my father’s tone. “I felt dirty and embarrassed of myself. I hated it. It was as though there was this other me trapped inside, screaming to get out. We come into this world naked. The bible itself says naked you come in, naked you go out. I’m paraphrasing.” I couldn’t tell him my real reason for doing it. What I said was true, but it wasn’t the driving force for doing it now. I needed the humiliation I felt from it.

He nodded his head, “Good point.” I watched the Bradbury tattoo on his left arm as he lifted it up to take a drink.

“
Fahrenheit 451
is fantastic,” I said as I pointed at his arm, trying to draw the conversation off of me and back onto him.

He looked at the tattoo as he lifted his other hand up to his chin and rested his fingers on the side of his face. He looked as if he were trying to decipher what the quote meant. “I do too. It’s one I’m still trying to figure out though.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, watching the tattoo with him.

“Well, I know I’m alive in the physical sense. I am sitting here, breathing, thinking, and talking. But how do I know I’m living? Sometimes I have this numbness that runs deep and shuts off any u
nderstanding of what life is,” he said as he looked away from the tattoo and toward the window next to us.

“I know what you mean
,” I said. He met my eyes as I pushed his coffee cup to the side. I put my hand toward him palm raised. With a confused expression, he looked at it. “Go ahead; give me your left hand.” He put his hand in mine, palm toward mine and I turned it to face the ceiling. “Close your eyes. I want to show you something. This is how we can know we’re alive.”

With hesitation, he obliged as I continued. “Don't move and just breathe.” He hadn’t moved an inch, but I wanted to make sure he continued to stay still. I remembered this was the hand he drew with and I traced my fingers along his palm and each of his fingers. “Do you feel this?”
I asked as he nodded in response. “Focus on every touch and claim what they create inside you. It can be a storm or a flame, it doesn't matter. What matters is that you focus on what it creates.”

I continued to trace his palm as I watched the flutter of his eyelashes. My chest ached the longer I traced my finger and I tried to push away the emotions this moment was creating in me. I wanted to hold his hand and allow the tug in my abdomen to grow stronger. I willed my emotions into my touch as I wanted to live as much as he needed. But I couldn’t accept it. This couldn't be for me.

His eyelids started to calm as I continued. “Say to yourself ‘I’m fucking alive. I’m breathing. I’m connecting with another human being and I am fucking alive.’ Claim it in time and space, as ours. That’s what living consists of—innumerable breaths and thoughts. If we don’t stop to claim them, they drift by us and life right along with them. We have to give meaning to moments and write that to memory. It isn't the touch so much as acknowledging the thoughts and emotions attached to the touch.’’
I cannot give meaning to this moment
. The words I spoke were empty, I tried to believe that. I needed to believe that. I had to convince myself that this was as empty and forgettable as the moments I gave to my numbers.

I stopped moving my hand and squeezed his before pulling away. He opened his eyes and looked right through me. His stare
expressed shock, but intrigue as well. I didn’t do it as a ploy and I wasn’t flirting.

I continued to put my focus on him and not me
. “You understand life at a deeper level than most, Wynn. Your tattoos display the depth of that understanding.” I ran my finger over my own tattoo. “Tattoos with quotes or words have always interested me. Seeing words tattooed brings so much more meaning to them. You know when you see it, that person felt those particular words to their core. It hit a depth so raw it clawed its way out of their skin to leave a permanent mark. They embraced the pain of the gun to hold those words for the rest of their lives.”

The tattoo on his neck read,
give sorrow words.
I thought of the meaning of those words for him. He was a quiet person, but he had so much to share, sorrow or not. Words waiting to be spoken filled him. My mind wandered as an insane jealousy toward every woman he dated and for whom he was going to date in the future filled me.