I try to keep my expression straight as she describes this kind of person. It’s not lost on me that this is essentially what I have been doing for the past two months, following her around, watching her. The only difference is that I would never hurt her. Ever. And I don’t think I am in love with her. She is everything to me. Even as I think it though, I imagine telling her this would indeed sound “stalker-ish.”
“I only meant, I like it better when I am not offending you,” I clarify. “Even if I do not know you well. However, if you would allow me to, I would like to introduce myself.”
“You’re kind of weirdly respectful,” she says, peering intently at me again and tilting her head in that way she does when trying to figure something out.
“Are people here not respectful?”
I ask, but I know they are not. I have seen the way people behave toward one another. I have felt their constant animosity. I have seen the way the men treat the women.
She makes a sound like she’s sucking in and blowing out air at the same time.
“Uh, no, not really. Most people are kind of fucked up.”
“I would never be fucked up to you, and I don’t intend that in a stalker-ish way,” I add when she looks at me warily again.
She laughs and rolls her eyes before sticking her hand out between us.
“Amina.”
Amina.
Her name settles over me, beautiful and delicate. It suits her. I want to respond, but I can’t. I can only stare. Not because I don’t know the human gesture for greeting, but because the moment she names herself, I feel something that I knew would happen eventually but could never actually imagine. My heart begins to beat.
The feeling is exhilarating. My body is assailed with an intense flow of oxygen. Everything becomes clearer. My already sharp senses feel sharper. In the moment my heart begins to pound in my chest, I hear her’s pause for the barest second. Her other hand goes to her breast just then, her brows draw down.
“You have a beautiful name, Amina.”
She smiles but begins to rub her hand in slow circles over her breastbone. I settle my features and finally take her hand. It’s small but strong. She grips my much larger one as best she can, giving it two firm pumps.
“I am Kwarq.”
Chapter 4
Amina
“Kwarq, that’s different. I like it. Kwarq, like quirky?”
He frowns like he doesn’t know what that word means.
“Quirky means interesting in a strange way. Maybe a bit weird, but good weird.”
He smiles.
“Ah, I see. Perhaps my parents knew this when they named me. I am sure many who know me would consider me a little strange in a good way. So, yes, Kwarq like quirky.”
I smile back. In the few minutes I’ve spent with him, the man formally known as Movie Bae has shown himself to be really quite sweet. A little weird, but still, I’ve let my fuck-off face lapse more with him in the past twenty minutes than I have in my entire life.
I roll the sound of his name around in my head. Kwarq. It’s cute. The way he says it comes with all of these little breathy sounds. The short ‘a’ is surrounded by air. The q at the end is more of click from somewhere in his throat. As someone with an “ethnic” name, I don’t want to mispronounce his and do my best to repeat the sounds when I say it again.
“Nice to meet you, Kwarq.”
His face lights up, and his smile widens.
“Your pronunciation is beautiful, Amina. I can tell you have a way with language and a very good ear. Not many people would have guessed Amharic.”
“I thought it wasn’t Amharic.”
“It is not, but the sounds are similar.”
“Oh.” I want to ask him more, but he seems reluctant to give too many details about himself. I mean, I get it. Every time I tell someone my name, I have to go through the whole rundown of how I’m really from Chicago just like my mother and just like her mother. He probably just doesn’t want to be bothered with explaining. But I can’t help wanting to know more. Anything.
“So tell me something.”
He isn’t as caught off guard by my request as I expect him to be. He just continues to smile that easy smile of his.
“What would you like to know?”
I want to say, Everything!, but I settle for something less awkward.
“What did you think of the movie?”
“It was terrible.”
He makes a sound of loathing in the back of his throat and shakes his head. I laugh. I don’t know that I was expecting him to go into a glowing, Ebert-worthy commentary on how great the film was, but I wasn’t expecting him to straight up shit on it either.
“Then why did you see it? You don’t seem like the teenage love drama type.”
“What type do I seem like?” He’s doing that thing again where he peers closely at me as if my response is the answer to the existence of the universe. I shrug my shoulders to shake off the tingling caused by his stare.
“I don’t know. Maybe a shoot em up kind of guy. Or a war movie type. You seem like a blow shit up kind of movie guy, but then I think most men are blow shit up kind of movie guys.”
I laugh but break mid chuckle when he immediately frowns. A kind of seriousness falls over him that is more intense than before.
“I do not understand or love war,” he says. His voice is low and rough. “I am not this shoot em up kind of guy. I am not like most men, and I would not have you think I am. I value love in all of its manifestations. I will always celebrate it. This war thing you humans are so fond of is…“ he pauses but makes a face that shows clearly just how disgusting he finds the idea.
This dude really goes to one hundred like it’s nothing. He’s got this intense passionate thing going on that’s kind of refreshing but also completely suspect.
“Wow, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just meant the movie seemed a little silly. Even you admitted it was a bit ridiculous.”
“It was, but it is important that you understand this about me. That you know I am not this kind of man.”
“I get it, trust me,” I say with mock chastisement, and he nods like he’s satisfied with my acceptance. “You’re a little odd, you know that?”
“Why?” Again, he’s completely sincere in his desire to hear my answer, and I am finding that this kind of rapt attention isn’t completely unwelcome.
“I don’t know. Most guys don’t go on about loving love. That’s actually something I would say.”
“As I said, I am not most guys, but I am glad that we share this feeling about affection.”
He flashes that grin, and my heart flutters a little. It’s been doing that on and off for the past few minutes. For a moment before, I thought it had stopped for a second. It kind of scared me, but it passed almost as quickly as it happened. It was probably just gas. I ate a lot of popcorn at that movie.
The conversation lulls again, so I turn to look at him. He’s looking ahead now, but it feels like he’s relaxed a bit. His arm rests slightly heavier against my side.
“You never answered my question. Why do you go to the movies if you don’t like them.”
His eyes shift over to me, and they are so bright yellow that it’s distracting. I’ve been staring into his face for the past few minutes, and I’m just realizing again how yellow his eyes are. The little bits of brown that creep at the corners of his irises are like waves crashing against a setting sun. It’s beautiful and arresting.
“I don’t go to the movies because I like them,” he says and shifts his eyes back to the front.
“Oh, what are you like a reviewer or something?” It makes sense. Whether he’s the kind of guy who enjoys a good rom com or not, nobody goes to that many movies just because.
“Of sorts.”
“Okay, what does that mean? Do you have a blog?”
“No. I go to the movies because I am waiting for something.”
I narrow my eyes. This dude is being real mysteriou
s for no reason. He doesn’t seem to be doing it on purpose, but come on. I go to the movies because I am waiting on something? I nudge my arm lightly into his.
“Are you a spy?”
He examines my face like he’s trying to determine if I’m serious. I wink, exaggerating the gesture, and his mouth tweaks up at the corner.
“Spies waiting for things to be delivered to them in movie theaters, I think, is something that only happens in the movies.”
“Oh wow, sarcasm. We’re making progress.”
The little tweak turns into a big smile, and I’m forced to the conclusion that the sarcasm train doesn’t go both ways. I mentally roll my eyes. The last thing I need is some hot stranger dude getting funny ideas. I think I like him so far, but I’ve known less attractive men to try to jump into my pants at even the slightest hint of what could be misconstrued as flirtation.
“I was only kidding. Don’t get any ideas.”
“I already have too many ideas. If you knew how many, I think you would be surprised.”
“Well, don’t get any ideas about me.”
“Why not?”
Just that quickly, he’s back to being serious.
“Because you don’t know me, and I don’t know you.”
He frowns. “Are you opposed to the idea that we could get to know one another? That I could know you, and you could know me?”
I hesitate, a little caught off guard by the question, and also a little unsure of my answer. Do I want to know him? I do. That was my whole reason for speaking to him in the theater in the first place. That draw I felt. I still feel it, even more so now. We seem to be very much in tune with each other. But you can never know from first impressions. He might really be a stalker serial killer. They say Ted Bundy was charming as hell.
His sunset eyes stare back at me, waiting. I want to lean into him. The pull is almost like a physical rope between us.
“I mean, I guess, you seem nice enough, but you never know. I could get to know you, and you try and take it the wrong way.”
“How is there a wrong way to get to know someone?”
“You know, I just don’t want you to think that just because I talk to you that means I’m trying to do anything with you.”
“Do anything?”
Goodness, is this dude from another planet?
“Yes, do anything. Like, fuck. Have sex. I’m not. I just think you’re cool.”
The recording of my stop sounds out just as the bus jerks to a halt, and just like that our ride together has come to an end all too soon. Even with the last few moments of borderline creepsterness, I would have liked to talk more. I don’t want to seem desperate though, so I stamp down my disappointment.
“This is me,” I say and stand, waiting for him to move his knees so I can pass into the isle. Instead, he stands, too, moving to the side so I can step down to the back exit across from us. I push the touch sensor and the doors swing open. I hop down onto the wet, leaf covered ground. The urge overcomes me to turn and step back on, ride for a few more blocks, see if maybe we can exchange numbers. I know I can’t though. It’s dangerous enough walking the half block to my house. I’m not stupid enough to increase my chances of getting kidnapped.
Still, walking away from the bus feels so wrong, and my spirits slump as I start off down the sidewalk. I haven’t taken two steps when I hear the sound of someone step off the bus behind me. I don’t have to turn to know who it is. My heart thumps.
I take it back. Please don’t let this man follow me home.
Kwarq
She’s startled by my presence behind her. She probably thinks I mean to follow her home and attempt to “do anything.”
“Do not worry, I am not being stalker-ish. I merely passed my stop and must walk back.”
She’s preparing to rush away but turns back when I speak. I catch up to her, and she takes a few cautious steps away from me, keeping space between us. Her face is wary as she watches me step in stride behind her.
“Why didn’t you get off?”
I shrug. She’s more at ease when don’t appear too interested. “I enjoyed talking to you. I did not mind getting off later and walking back the few blocks.”
“But how did you know I wasn’t getting off at the end of the line?”
“I would not have minded even walking from the end of the line. I usually walk home from the movies, anyway.”
Her eye’s widen and her mouth falls open. Her full lips look soft. The desire to kiss her is almost overwhelming.
“You walk all that way? That’s like 60 blocks!”
I can only assume this is not a normal distance to walk for a human, but then I have observed that humans are not nearly as active as many other species I have met. They are active for sport, it seems, but not as a daily way of life. Even on my planet where technology is thousands of years ahead of Earth’s, we still enjoy using our physical bodies as much as possible.
“It is good exercise,” I respond when she continues to look astonished.
“How long does it take you? I’ve seen you at midnight showings. It must take you hours to get home. I wouldn’t get home until dawn if I had to walk all that way.”
It doesn’t take me hours. It actually takes me longer than it should since I often jog behind the bus to keep an eye on her. If not, it would take me, perhaps, fifteen minutes. Perhaps.
“It does not take me long,” I answer vaguely. “Also, it gives me time to think.”
“That’s a lot of thinking. I guess I could walk that, if I had to, but I’d be too scared to do it this late at night. I’d probably get snatched.”
The idea of someone trying to harm my lehti makes skin twitch. I can almost feel the instinct to protect crowd my brain and drive out any rational thought.
“You can walk when and wherever you like. There is no person on this planet that would do you harm, do you understand? You do not have to be worried about being snatched or any other form of harassment.” My voice is rougher than I have ever heard it. My English is so heavily accented by my sudden emotion that I am surprised she can understand me.
She makes that in-out air noise again and rolls her eyes, turning her head back to the front. “You are clearly not from Chicago.”
“I am not,” I confirm, honestly.
“Obviously. If I walked home in the middle of the night from downtown, I would definitely get snatched. Hell, I’m surprised I haven’t been snatched walking the half block from the bus stop to my house. Now that I think about it, you could be about to snatch me,” she waves her hand dramatically in my direction. “That’s how much I will totally get snatched if I walk around in the middle of the night like you do.”
I know she’s joking with me, but I don’t like that she is so sure of her vulnerability. I don’t like that she doesn’t realize that I’m protecting her. I don’t like that I can’t tell her this because she will certainly see it as “stalker-ish.”
“Amina,” I say her name so she turns her head to me. When she does, I step close. Close enough for her to see my face clearly. To see that I’m serious. “Believe me when I say that there is no place on this Earth where you are not safe. No place. Now go home.” We’ve reached the corner where she must turn to reach her apartment. I nod in that direction. She looks down the street and then away.
“I, uh, actually don’t turn until the next block. You can go ahead. I’ll be fine.”
She’s lying. She must still believe that I’m a threat to her. I find that this bothers me more than it normally would.
“I am not trying to follow you home, lehti. I just want to assure myself that you make it there safely. I will watch you until you reach your home, and then I will leave. I promise.”
“How do you know where I live?” Her voice tremors with fear. A part of me wishes she wasn’t so nervous all of the time, but I know it’s probably a good way to be when one lives on Earth. I may be here to prevent her from being snatched, but I’m sure most other women are not so f
ortunate.
“I do not mean you any harm. I am not a stalker. I live in this area. I have seen you go that way before.”
“Before when?”
“Before before.” I say, only the slightest frustration entering my voice. It is not with her, but the circumstances that dictate her wariness of me. I soften my voice and step a little closer. Our connection is like a living thing between us. I can hear our synchronized hearts—mine heavier and louder—thudding in perfect rhythm. I feel out to her, letting my protection settle around her. After a moment, the wariness fades from her eyes, and she turns back to look down the dark, deserted street that leads to her house.
“You’ll wait and watch me until I get all the way to my house?”
There’s anxiety in her voice. She’s scared. It isn’t merely the idea that I may do her harm, but the certainty that she is always at risk on her own. Now that she’s convinced that I won't hurt her, she is eager for the security my presence offers. This pleases me. I want her to lean on me. She should know that she can look to me for protection.
“I will wait until you are safe in your home.”
“It’s at the end of the block. You don’t mind waiting that long?”
“I will wait as long as it takes for you to get there. I don’t mind.”
She seems to think about this. She looks down the dark street again. The cover from the trees lining the sidewalk block out most of the light from the streetlamps above.
“Do you mind, maybe, walking me down there? You can say no if you want to.” She rushes this last part out, but I am too happy at her request to care that she would think she could ever trouble me.
“I will walk you if it will make you feel safer.”
She gives the street one more nervous look.
“It really would.”
I nod, and we turn and set off toward her house. I walk a little ahead of her, so she can see that I make no threatening movements. I keep a few feet between us, so she feels comfortable.
Kwarq (Lyqa Planet Lovers Book 1) Page 4
