Cinema Glass

Felix asked me where I wanted to go on Friday, and I discovered I didn’t know how to have supper with him without giving him a job first.

I suggested the little place behind the library. We had eaten there after long days in our separate shops, our knees under the same table and our coats thrown over one chair. He suggested somewhere neither of us had ever been.

“You don’t have to make it ceremonial,” I said.

“I don’t want to order for you because I know what you had last time.”

“You have never ordered for me.”

“I have come close.”

He was right. I found a restaurant a bus ride away and sent him the address. Then I put the phone aside and unpicked the collar I had sewn badly that afternoon. When I lifted it free, I could see exactly where I had hurried.

Rafi had come on Thursday, looked at the damaged plaster and at every machine in the shop, and asked more questions about the rent than about the customers. She would give me an answer on Monday. Felix had fixed the rail that evening. He charged me for the labour, and I paid him at the kitchen table while he was still wearing his work boots. We spoke about the wall and the work, and let Friday wait.

On Friday I wore a dark dress I had altered for myself twice. I had bought it when I was thirty-two and kept expecting to need a different woman to wear it. The second alteration had been to let out the waist. The first had been to make it fit a body I had been trying to make smaller. I preferred the second version.

Felix was outside the restaurant when I arrived. He had changed his shirt. I could tell because the cuff was stiff where it met his wrist. He looked at me, not at the dress, and then seemed to remember he ought to say something.

“You look—“

“Don’t be polite. It would frighten me.”

“You look as though you left work when you meant to.”

“I did.” I took a breath. “So do you.”

“I tried.”

There were tables in the window, close enough together for the next couple to overhear if we tried to explain everything in a single sitting. We didn’t. We ordered what we wanted without asking the other to decide first. Felix chose fish. I chose something with a sauce I would normally have refused for fear of spilling it on my clothes.

We spoke about ordinary things until the food came. His father had bought a secondhand radio and wanted it put on a shelf that would not shake when the train passed. I told Felix about Rafi’s list of requirements: use of the old steam press, her own keys, no pretending my clients were hers while I was gone. I liked her more each time I repeated the list.

“You ought to take her,” Felix said.

“If she says yes.”

“She knows which part of your work she can do and which part belongs to you.”

“I’m not being generous. I need the rent.”

“You can need it and still choose well.”

I dipped bread into the sauce and watched him notice that I had eaten all of my supper for once. On any other Friday I would have told him to stop looking pleased. Tonight the attention had a different weight. I wanted it. I was also frightened by how much of him I had accepted without ever agreeing to the cost.

“Your father thinks we’re on a date,” I said.

“I didn’t tell him.”

“You told somebody?”

“I told him I couldn’t come by tonight. He told me to wear the blue shirt.”

I looked at the shirt. “He was right.”

Felix set his fork down. “You said that as though you wanted me to know.”

“I did.”

The couple beside us began talking loudly about a missed train. I could hear them and could not tell what they said. Felix’s hand rested beside his plate. I knew the small rough place at the base of his thumb from holding it in the rain, and I was aware of the space between my chair and his as if someone had measured it.

“When did this become a date?” I asked.

“When you said yes.”

“I mean for you.”

He thought before answering. “I wanted it to be one when I asked. Earlier than that, I wanted to be asked myself. That’s not quite the same thing.”

“You could have said so.”

“You were building a life you could pay for. I didn’t want my wanting to be another bill on your table.”

I knew what he meant and disliked that he had been right to be careful. When my first workshop failed, I had borrowed money from three people and returned it before buying a bed that didn’t fold into the wall. Felix had let me use his tools, which seemed different then because I could give them back. Later he began giving me time. I had never once asked him how much of it he had to spare.

“There was a winter,” I said, “when I kept working until my hands went numb. You came in every Thursday with your father’s supper. I thought if I told you to stop, the room would be empty.”

“I remember.”

“I also thought if I asked you to stay, I would have to say why. So I made jokes about the food.”

“My father would be pleased to hear the food was the problem.”

“It was terrible.”

“It was generous.”

“It was both.”

We laughed, and the room loosened around us. I had not realised how carefully I had been trying to make this evening significant. Felix took another bite of fish as though we had time to learn a different way.

When the plates were cleared, he asked if I wanted to go for a walk. I did. Outside, the rain had stopped. We passed a shop of closed-up lamps and a cinema with its last showing already under way. I took his hand without the elaborate thought that had preceded it on Monday. He held on.

At the corner, a woman ran across the street with a child asleep against her shoulder. Felix moved us back from the kerb to let her through. His hand came to the middle of my back for an instant. It was the sort of touch he had given me a hundred times. I had always filed it under Felix being careful. Tonight I felt every finger through the cloth of my dress.

“Nina?”

“I felt that.”

He took his hand away at once. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I wanted you to know.”

The woman had gone. A bus turned at the lights and left us in the reflection of the cinema glass. Felix faced me, close enough that I could see the tiredness he never bothered to hide from me. I wanted to kiss him. I could also see him choosing not to treat a look as an answer.

“May I?” he asked.

I could have said yes. Instead I put two fingers against the stiff cuff of his shirt.

“I want to,” I said. “I’m frightened of doing it because I don’t know what happens afterward.”

“We can find out another night.”

“Are you disappointed?”

“Yes.” He glanced at my hand on his sleeve. “I’m still here.”

It was a better answer than reassurance. Desire stayed in the space between us without becoming a debt I owed him.

“I don’t want you to hold your breath until I’m ready,” I said.

“Then tell me when you want to see me. And let me tell you if I can.”

“I can do that.”

We walked back to the bus stop. The next bus would take me home; Felix would go the other way to his workshop. I leaned my head against his shoulder while we waited, and he did not make anything of it. He had been my safest person for years. Safety had made it possible to hide. Tonight it let me tell the truth and stand beside him after it.

As the bus drew up, he stepped away so I could board. I caught his hand once more.

“When do you want to see me?” I asked.

“Tomorrow. If you do.”

“I do. I’ll close the shop at six.”

“Then I’ll be there at six.”

I climbed onto the bus. Through the window I saw him still at the stop, watching until I found a seat. I had nearly kissed him under the cinema sign. The thought followed me all the way home, vivid enough that I kept my lips pressed together to avoid smiling at a stranger.