by Julie Olivia
“You should go clean up,” I say, trying to ignore my internal irritation.
How dare he trick me. How dare he make me want to care after two or three weeks of being his acquaintance? And care I do. I want to take his fingers and wipe them down with a fresh rag, take tweezers to pick out the shards, and…kiss his lacerations?
Oh my god, who am I?!
Owen is staring at me, head turned slightly away as if cautiously looking at a snake reared back to strike.
“You’re bleeding,” I spit out, as if that will win the nonexistent argument.
“I’m what?” His eyes grow wide and he looks down at his hand, which is already wrapped in a secondary rag. He smiles after, the exaggerated joke not lost on me.
“Your sarcasm is brilliant.”
“Well I didn’t plan to spend my lunch break with shrapnel in my fingers, but at least they aren’t vital to my job anyway,” Owen says, his grin growing. With his other hand, he takes the pan back from me. “I’ll be right back.” He turns away to walk to the loo, stopping by the counter to mutter something to the barista and dump the pan in the trash.
I, on the other hand, sit back at our table in front of the window, looking out at the sidewalk, arms crossed, face screwed up. I can feel it in my hardened cheeks, my tightened lips, even in the pinch between my brows. I know it’s crazy-looking for sure when a child glances in the window and her parent gently touch the tops of her shoulders, muttering something that reads like, “Don’t look at the crazy woman.” In her defense, it’s been a while since I’ve practiced lip reading.
This has been my default position for the past twelve hours. I got home, and after settling down from the fun night, I brooded. Hard. Looking out from the window in my flat, I scoured over the city below, blanket pulled over my head and wrapped around my front like an old crone, as sinister-looking as a witch staring into the abyss, mulling over a plan for how to lure children to her gingerbread house.
I felt tricked by both Owen and myself. Owen for not being a total wanker, and myself for letting yet another man come into my life and seduce me. And this time he didn’t even have to take his shirt off. Normally that worked for men like Rory or David. Their stunning personalities sure weren’t luring me in at first glance, but they also didn’t say the things Owen did or sing the way he could. Owen without a shirt might just put me in an early grave.
“What did those hot dogs do to you?” Owen’s voice sounds. I twist abruptly to find him sitting down in the free chair, his hand wrapped in a makeshift paper towel bandage while his other hand clutches it so as not to let the folded towel come apart.
“What?” I snap.
He points, and I look back out to the street where I was in fact staring at a hot dog stand. I was too zoned out to recognize my death glares out to the lone food cart. Thankfully, the man serving was too busy to notice, but the second girl in line had her phone pointed at me and her features scrunched into a state of both worry and disgust. I wouldn’t be surprised if I ended up in one of those compilations of creepy unexplained videos—just the blurred, horribly zoomed in version of me and my very intense, straight-lined pout peering out the window, eyes blazoned with the pain of deception and revenge.
“They looked at me funny,” I mutter. I squint and the girl fumbles her phone, letting it semi-gracefully fall back into her bag as she steps forward to place her order.
“So you decided to return the favor?”
“I have to claim my territory,” I say, squinting at the girl one more time before she takes her hot dog and rushes off down the sidewalk.
“I think that mug was claim enough,” Owen mumbles through a chuckle. I look over, and he’s still fiddling with the makeshift bandages on his hand.
“How’s the injury?” I ask.
“I’ll live to fight another day.” Owen’s smile beams back at me, those tiny lines fanning out from the edge of his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say before I can stop myself. It’s the eyes—the deepness of them, the soothing color of swirling browns and greys.
“Oh, no, don’t apologize,” he says with a crooked smile as he waves his mummy hand toward me. “It’s the mug’s fault. I think it has a bone to pick with these fingers.” He wiggles them slightly.
“They’re pretty gross fingers,” I say.
He laughs. “Honestly, I think you did the right thing. It was tea begging to be dropped, if you ask me.”
I smile. He smiles back. There’s a tea-bagging joke in there somewhere, but I’m too distracted to care.
After a moment of us just smiling at each other, because that’s just our modus operandi today and I’m a cruel, self-loathing woman who can’t stand an ounce of happiness, I look away.
“How’s your day?” he asks.
“Well I’m not slowly becoming a Halloween movie villain like yourself.”
Owen laughs. “What would I even be called? Shardhands?”
“Pricklefingers?”
“The Tea Man?” he suggests. “I come and break all the tea glasses if you say my name three times in the mirror?”
“Ooh, so creepy,” I coo.
“It’s a gift.”
“And how has your day been?” I ask in return. I like how the words sound coming out of my mouth, like that I don’t hesitate and feel nervous after they’re out, and I like that his smile only grows when I ask. But, I dislike how every bit of conversation passed between us churns my stomach, like coffee beans being ground to delicious dust. I want more words on his tongue—more other things on his tongue, really—and more of his thoughts. Is there a way to make him sing again, perhaps? Croon sweet Sinatra nothings into my ear?
“Consistent. Coffee-fueled,” he says. His eyes drift out the window back to the hot dog stand operator, who is now perusing his mobile, leaning against one of the cart’s sides. “Have you eaten?”
“No. Are you hungry?” I ask, which instantly feels stupid because, of course, it’s noon and the guy is two times my size, bulky in all the right places.
“Yeah, forgot to eat breakfast,” he says. He clears his throat, reaching to move his hair with his dominant hand, seeing the bandage, then lowers it back to the table with a sigh. “Been a bit tied up at work.”
“Oh, what a stereotype. Such a typical start-up owner,” I say. “Working and forgetting to eat.”
“I also wear the same shirt every day,” he comments.
“No you don’t.”
“How do you know? Are you tracking my outfits?” he asks with a chuckle.
I flush red because, well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice. Notice, commit to memory…tomato tomah-to. I know every single bit of clothing he’s worn in every social setting we’ve had thus far. I know he can pull off that forest green long-sleeved shirt of his with its sleeves rolled up to his forearms, chest filling it as if it was perfectly sized to accentuate his torso. I know he has that jumper that’s loose around his tapered waist but full in his shoulders and arms—the top that pulls taut over his back muscles when he leans over his laptop to type. But, mostly, I know he’s at his absolute best in just a simple black t-shirt, so well-fitted and tugged against his biceps that it may as well pass for lingerie.
“Okay then, Steve Jobs,” I say, “What do you want to eat?”
Owen hums to himself in thought, his watch hand rapping knuckles against the table. I glare at it—the taunting of the protruding bone on his wrist, the corded veins running from them to his elbow, the thickness of his forearms… He turns back to me. and I quickly avert my eyes to the street.
“Up for an adventure again?” he asks.
Does it end in a kiss again?
“We’re leaving?” I ask, ignoring my thoughts.
Owen turns to glance around the café, resting his palm on the back of his chair before looking back to me with a cocked head. “Are you bound to the café, Rapunzel?”
I purse my lips. “We’re just gonna break a cup then leave?”
“Some
events have no qualms against breaking dishes and leaving.”
“This isn’t a wedding.”
“Good thing, because it’d be a pretty shitty wedding. Some clumsy guest broke some dishware and my hand is bleeding.”
I narrow my eyes. He smiles once more, all eyes and crooked grin.
“I honestly just want those hot dogs,” he says, standing and shimmying into his backpack, swung over one shoulder and slipped over the other arm without messing up his paper towel bandages. “I smelled them on the way in, and it’s really hard for me to resist a good New York hot dog.”
I scrunch my nose. “They can’t possibly be good.”
“Oh-ho, you are so mistaken,” Owen says.
I follow his lead, picking up my purse and swinging it over my head to rest by my hip. He pushes open the door to the café with a ding and holds it open for me to walk through.
“It’s just the remaining mishmash of meat they couldn’t decide what to do with,” I say.
“How dare you insult the hot dog,” he says. I’d expect him to gasp if he weren’t so distracted by veering through the people toward the crosswalk. “I’ll make you eat those words.”
“Or the dog?” I ask.
Owen chuckles. “Maybe don’t say that too loud.”
We walk to the end of the block, waiting with the other people also anticipating a crosswalk change, staring at the red light in the street as cars whoosh in front of our faces. It’s so tight a fit that I try to stay more toward the outskirts of the crowd, teetering on the sidewalk’s edge with one boot on the cement and another resting on the sloped curve down to the street. There are various men with briefcases or backpacks, a woman carrying a large tote, a boy with a skateboard in his hand, and the occasional tourist wearing a white shirt with the typical I HEART NY slogan plastered across the chest.
I don’t like the claustrophobic feeling of being on the streets during peak times, but the nice weather excuses it. It’s already chilly in September. I’ve always been told there is no autumn season in New York, only the few months of blasting heat followed by a roughly two-week transitionary period where the brown and red leaves fall only to be upset by the brisk, bitter cold of winter. I must have arrived right in the midst of the fleeting autumn, just in time to justify a dress with tights and a light jacket.
The crosswalk indicator doesn’t change, still an orange hand, but people pre-emptively walk forward anyway, including Owen, no doubt prompted by the stopping of cars and the yellow light in the intersection. It’s a New Yorker instinct I have yet to fully pick up on—London and New York are similar in some ways, but so different in others. London is chaotic, but chaotic in a polite way, whereas New York embodies the wild individualism of American chaos. I’m going to walk here, and it’s my right, just as it’s my right to get hit by a delivery truck or run over by the takeout delivery bike.
By the time my stomach actually starts to rumble, we’re at the stand.
I stare at the hot dogs on display, rolling on the tracks through the window of the cart. I scrunch up my nose. I’ve never been one for rotating meats.
“One,” Owen says to the attendee. “No ketchup.” He shows his hand with a goofy grin. I laugh. The hot dog stand guy finds it less than funny.
“Lady, what’ll you have?” the attendee grunts.
“Here, let me—” Owen starts, but I already know where he’s going, so I shake my hands in front of my face.
“Oh, no thanks.”
He groans audibly, his head lolling back against his neck. “If I had a polite way of stealing your wallet, I would.”
The hot dog stand guy doesn’t even flinch. Not even gonna help a pickpocketed woman, eh?
“I don’t want one, thanks,” I say toward the man. I expect to have to explain myself, but he shoves Owen’s meal across the counter before peering behind us for the next person and shouting, “What’ll you have?”
I follow Owen’s lead to walk a few feet down the sidewalk. His hot dog is poised in one hand while his other invalid hand hovers below it as a potential catch-all.
“You aren’t hungry?” he asks with a lifted eyebrow. He leans in for a bite, and there’s something very carnal about the way he eats it. He’s not messy, but it’s the whites of his canines ripping through the bun, the tiniest bit of juice sluicing around the edges of his mouth, glistening against the slight stubble dappling his hardened jawline.
I didn’t want a hot dog before, but I definitely want to see much more of this. Owen makes it seem appetizing. Though, is it the rumble in my stomach pushing me to try it or the twinge between my legs pouncing forward and hoping to see his animalistic bite once more, mentally begging for him to bite elsewhere?
“No, no, no,” he says after a second, lowering the hot dog. “You assume so much of me, Fran.”
“What am I assuming?” I ask in a far-off voice. I can barely hear myself I’m so distracted by the edge of his lips now curling in a smile. He dabs his mouth with the napkin. I shake my head and meet his gaze. Does he know I’m imagining him eating more questionable and erotic things?
“I’m not gonna share,” he says. “Stop giving my dog the once-over.”
Good lord, which dog? I have to stop myself from peering down at his jeans and, oh my god, what have I turned into—some insatiable woman who can’t focus when a man eats? Goodness gracious, hot dogs are not aphrodisiacs.
“It doesn’t look like the worst thing,” I say.
Owen tilts it out to me. “Fine. Do you want a bite?”
I think about it for only a split second, but at the thought of me leaning in, opening my lips, and having the bunned wiener slip into my mouth from the hands of the man I have spent the better half of the day fantasizing about, I consider otherwise.
“No,” I say, practically tripping over the word. “I’ll get my own.” I turn on my heel to give some type of a defiant air that won’t reveal just how scattered my brain really is regarding this whole matter and walk back to the line.
The stand’s owner grunts at my return, as if not surprised to see me back.
“One,” I say, mirroring how Owen ordered, before swiping my card on the man’s tablet and grabbing the hot dog with enough force to put it back in its place as just a silly piece of food. I storm back, not even bothering to get any condiments. I’m not even sure I want the thing, but I couldn’t explain that watching Owen eat his hot dog was more enjoyable than how the thing might actually taste.
“Wow, look at you,” Owen says from the ground. He sat down on the edge of the sidewalk when I left, elbows resting on his spread thighs. He looks so casual, like he could be modeling the clothes he’s in for some high-end magazine where the models drape themselves on light posts and perch on the hoods of cars.
I bend at the knees and settle myself on the curb as well, feet tucked close to my bottom.
“Did you already finish yours?” I ask. There’s nothing in Owen’s hands anymore, including the paper towel bundle from the tiny bout of first-aid he performed on himself earlier.
“It’s a hot dog,” Owen says matter-of-factly. “It’s a quick kind of thing.”
I nod slowly, taking in his city teachings while he looks between me and my hot dog, chuckling.
“What?” I ask.
His elbow nudges my knee. “Go ahead and try it.”
Riddle me this: Which is worse, taking a bite from another man’s hot dog or having him watch me take a bite of mine? As I look down at it, I have to consider…is it performative, or is it food?
I draw the thick, foot-long piece of meat close to my mouth, every sense heightened as I take in the moment as best I can: the smoky scent of it that’s more alluring than I thought it would be, the bead of sweat rolling down my neck as I tilt my head forward, my mouth widening as I slowly deepen it between my lips, the soft bun brushing against the interior of my mouth, the quick spurt of juice as my teeth bury themselves in the meat.
Aside from how nauseating the entire process i
s as I try to both eat and pretend I’m not completely putting on display a preview of my dick-sucking capabilities are, I lean back, looking at the misshapen food in my hand, and let out a quick peep of approval that even I didn’t anticipate.
“Wow,” I say, holding up my free hand to cover my mouth while chewing. “That’s actually quite good.”
Owen stares at me, jaw slack and eyes giving a thousand-yard stare like maybe all the secrets of the world are being projected onto my forehead. He’s still poised over his knees, but both of his hands are balled into tight fists.
I dip my chin down and raise my eyebrows. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, but, no, no, Mr. Owen, I see it. I see that this wasn’t just a hot dog. I restrain a smile.
“So, you liked it?” Owen asks. His words are strained, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel the slightest bit of pride. It spurs on another bite of the hot dog, but I don’t have the energy to make it as slow, to make it as clearly sexy as the first time because I’ve now perfected the art of looking sexy with a hot dog—no, this is just a simple bite. Enough to make the man sweat.
Owen chuckles and arches an eyebrow, which causes my stomach to sink. Yes, he definitely knows what I’m doing. Admittedly, I like the way he looks at me, but when he does, it’s all too real—too intentional, like a hunter staking out its prey. I turn my head and finish the hot dog in peace, wiping my hands on the napkin and folding it as I chew up the rest of my meal.
Owen heaves a sigh beside me and I turn, still chewing like a cow working its way through cud and tilting my head to the side in question, trying with lots of effort to continue this conversation forward as if I didn’t just make a giant fool of myself by being sexy with a hot dog.
“You okay?” I prompt.
He holds up a hand. “Yeah, I just need a midday nap, possibly a cold shower or something.”
I finally swallow a large bite, the hunks of meat barely making it down my throat. I panic for a split second, but the feeling passes, and I let out an exhalation of my own. Owen’s eyebrows are raised, and a playful smirk dances on his features.
“Are you okay?” he asks with a low laugh under his breath.
