Scenes From the City: A Knitting in the City Wintertime Surprise

by Penny Reid

  “Well…” I considered her statement and realized she was right. “I guess I’m not great at initiating friendships.”

  “Why is that?”

  I stared at her for a beat, thought about why I was this way. Probably my upbringing…first because of gymnastics and the hopes for my Olympic future; later it was because of the cancer.

  More likely my reticence was because I typically enjoyed watching people more than I enjoyed actually speaking to them.

  I didn’t particularly want to share either of these theories with anyone. I liked my anonymity, and I liked being normal. I liked blending in.

  I opened my mouth to respond with something generic, but Fern cut me off. “You are so lovely once you actually speak, not boring at all. You should be more outgoing. You are too wonderful to live so quietly. You need to get loud every once in a while.”

  “Okay. I’ll try to do that,” I promised, making a mental note to dedicate time to observing how people get loud.

  As though reading my mind, Fern grabbed my textbook and tossed it to the floor then reached for my hand, pulling me out of my chair.

  “Excellent, let’s start right now. I’ll introduce you to everyone on the floor.”

  “I…what?” My steps faltered a little as I glanced down at myself. I was in my ninja star pajama bottoms and an old green wool sweater. My feet were ensconced in chunky, hand-knit wool socks. I wore no makeup, and my short brown hair was a mess.

  “We’ll start with the girls,” she said, then glanced over her shoulder at me and wagged her eyebrows, “then I’ll introduce you to the boys.”

  I brought us both to a stop just as she opened the suite door. “Should I go change?”

  She wrinkled her nose at me and snorted. “No. You’re gorgeous. You’re an Audrey Hepburn.” She tugged on me again, successfully pulling me out of the suite.

  “An Audrey Hepburn?”

  “Yes, a Grace Kelly, Coco Chanel. You make everything look purposeful, like high fashion. You’re…” she waved her free hand through the air theatrically, “beautiful, gorgeous, you’ve got panache, infectious…joie de vivre! Sagesse, attrait! There is just something about you, something wonderfully magical and other worldly.”

  I wrinkled my nose at her French flair and descriptions, found it discordant with reality, and decided Fern enjoyed making life dramatic and meaningful when it was really mundane and dressed in ninja star pajama bottoms.

  We started with several of the girls’ rooms. Fern, it seemed, felt free to walk into each suite without knocking. After the first encounter, each presentation followed a predictable script.

  Fern would announce herself like she was a fairy godmother, clapping her hands together to assemble all who were present—which was everyone since it was beyond freezing outside. She then made introductions with flourish, putting me on the spot as the center of attention for a very short time, maybe three minutes. People would typically mention that they’d seen me or that I looked familiar; they’d ask me benign yet friendly questions about my major and where I was from. Fern would cut in, tell a scandalous joke or flirt with someone’s boyfriend; then we’d be off to the next suite.

  It seemed Fern knew everyone, and everyone was really nice; but I was feeling somewhat overwhelmed by all the socialization, new faces, and new names. Regardless, even with the brief introductions, I got the feeling that this exercise was an initiation of sorts.

  People would talk to me now.

  I felt certain that now, after even such a hasty introduction, people would wave, stop me in the hall, ask me to join them on social outings or runs to the store. Although it seemed like such a simple thing, for the first time in my life I realized the importance of an introduction. An introduction by a mutual friend buys instant credibility, especially when the mutual friend was universally liked—as was the case with Fern.

  We were leaving the fifth suite area when I collided into a solid wall. When I glanced up I realized the solid structure wasn’t a wall at all. It was a boy. And this boy was glancing down at me with unveiled interest.

  “Hey, cutie.” His green eyes flickered over me, quick and assessing, and a lazy, blatantly flirtatious smile curved over his lips. I stepped back, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. He had long, thick blonde hair that fell to his jaw, a dazzlingly handsome face, a stocky and muscled torso—the shape of which was visible through his black T-shirt—and was inexplicably tan. As well he had an abundance of blonde chest hair that was poking out through the neck of his shirt.

  “Uh, hello.” I gave him a polite smile and stuck my hand out. “I’m Fiona.”

  “Hi, Fionaaaaah.” He grinned widely, inadvertently drawing attention to the fact that his neck was approximately the same width as his head; his voice was maple syrup, dark and rich and too sweet to be taken seriously. “I’m Sasquatch.”

  “Sasquatch?”

  He nodded, “That’s right.”

  I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing because I could tell he found the nickname both sexy and flattering.

  “Oh,” I said and nodded. “Nice to meet you, Sasquatch.”

  Still holding my hand in one of his, he braced the other on the door frame above my head and loomed over me, his gaze moving up then down my body several times in a leisurely perusal.

  “So…” he licked his lips, “are you new here?”

  “Ugh! It’s you!” Fern’s exclamation came from behind me, and her hands closed over my shoulders, pulling me away from…He Who Calls Himself Sasquatch.

  “Oh, hey, sexy. I didn’t see you there.” Not missing a beat, Sasquatch leaned forward as though to give Fern a kiss.

  She placed her hand over his face—her palm on his mouth—and pushed him away.

  “Go away, beast.” She flicked her wrist then grasped my hand, maneuvering me around Sasquatch.

  “That’s not what you said this morning,” he called after us.

  Fern spun toward him, releasing my hand and flinging me away, and—again—I collided into a solid wall. And, again, it was not a wall but the chest of a boy.

  “Oph, excuse me-” I reached my hands out to steady myself and his came to my upper arms, likely with the same goal.

  “You have lice in your chest hair!” I heard Fern bellow at Sasquatch some distance behind me.

  I glanced up distractedly at this second boy I’d run into, wondering if he’d also be employing an aptly-titled fictional subspecies as a nickname—maybe the Yeti—then did a double-take when our eyes met.

  His face was completely calm, serene, though damp and reddish on his high cheek bones and the bridge of his undeniably masculine nose. This was likely from the perspiration associated with cardiovascular exercise in cold weather. His thick, dark brown hair was standing up and in spiky disarray, like he’d just taken off a hat. His jaw was angular—his bone structure more a sharp reverse trapezoid than a square—and he was tall, at least a full foot taller than me.

  But his eyes…his dark, dark brown eyes were almond shaped, and they met mine directly; they struck me at once as expressive and cautious, curious and cynical.

  Then, for no reason at all, my gaze dropped to his mouth. It held no hint of a smile, yet the first word that popped into my mind as I stared at his mouth was generous. He had generous lips, the bottom larger than the top, giving him the appearance of a small frown or pout; and they were slightly chapped, made red from his exercise.

  He smelled like snow and soap and sweat—and not rank, pungent sweat. It was a sweet, masculine smell and made my internal organs try to rearrange themselves; likely the powers of male pheromones were at work.

  “Hello,” he said, his tone dry, flat.

  My eyes darted back to his, and I could feel myself blush—just a little, as I was not prone to embarrassment—at being caught staring at his mouth.

  He was squinting at me, like a full-on Dirty Harry squint. I had the distinct impression I was being examined.

  “Hi,” I said, remembering my
self and stepping backwards. But, rather than let me go, he took a step forwards—his hands still gripping my upper arms—like we were dancing and he was matching my movements.

  I blinked up at him, knowing surprise and confusion were obvious on my face.

  “What are-”

  “Wait for it,” he said, dipping his chin, and shifted to the side just as Sasquatch barreled down the hall past us, a spiked heel flying through the air in his wake. I became aware of a second shoe pummeling toward us, the aim very bad.

  “Watch out!” I tried to move this tall, dark stranger, but he stood rigid, only flinching slightly when the shoe hit him in the head.

  “Oh! Sorry, Greg.” Fern jogged past, chasing the Sasquatch and calling back to us, “That wasn’t meant for you.”

  “It’s alright; a shoe to the head is better than a shoe to the bollocks,” he said, and all at once I recognized that he had an upper-crust British accent; it was diluted, but it was definitely there. His tone dry, flat, almost robotic in a way that only the English can achieve, yet a complete contradiction to the deep cadence of his voice.

  He was watching their retreating forms, his face devoid of expression, and I took the opportunity to study him further.

  His form was sleek, his shoulders and arms muscled, but not overly so. His torso was slim and v-shaped. He had long legs, thick thighs, built for speed, encased in all-weather spandex. He was a runner.

  I grasped that he was older than me. He had the beginnings of laugh lines or worry lines or frown lines around his eyes and mouth—I couldn’t tell which. But more than that, there was an air of wisdom and experience that radiated from him, like he’d already lived a great deal.

  I often find that, as a cancer survivor, I tend to know when another person has lived through tragedy, prolonged physical or mental suffering. Like recognizes like, and I recognized it in this man. Usually it repelled me. I did not wish to dwell on my past. These people typically wished to swap stories. I had no desire for commiseration.

  But nothing about this man repelled me, nothing at all. I felt strangely and suddenly involved.

  He glanced down, met my gaze squarely, and didn’t seem at all surprised that I was ogling him.

  “I’m Greg,” he said matter-of-factly, releasing my arm suddenly, stepping away and directly in front of me. He lifted his gloved hand to his mouth and tugged it off with the aid of his teeth. My stare flickered to his mouth again, finding the flash of his white teeth biting his black leather glove distracting.

  Before I knew it, he was holding his hand between us, offering it in a handshake.

  I stared at it, not quite sure what to do.

  “Shake it,” he said.

  Startled by the command and flustered by my inaction, I lifted my hand and fit it in his. “Yes, sorry. Hi, I’m Fiona.”

  He nodded once in acknowledgement, his eyes skating over my face. “Tell me, Fiona, what do you call a female astronaut?”

  I frowned at him and his question, acutely disappointed that I’d misread him. I was surprised by how upset I was, more than I should have been given the full minute we’d spent in each other’s company.

  College boys and their adolescent jokes, it made him less alluring and so much more…typical.

  Pressing my lips together to keep from frowning, I withdrew my hand from his and shrugged, knowing my face demonstrated my lack interest in the sudden turn of the conversation.

  “I don’t know, what do you call a female astronaut?” My voice mimicked the robotic quality of his.

  “An astronaut, of course,” he said, his tone sounding suddenly offended—again, in that way only the British can affect—then he shook his head like he was disillusioned with me. “For shame, Fiona. Your misogyny is showing.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him, and this time I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling. “I like that joke.”

  “Now female astronauts are a joke? Tsk.” He sighed, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes moving up and down the length of me.

  “You live here,” he said suddenly. “I recognize you.”

  I nodded, leaning against the wall and clasping my hands behind me. “Yes. I do.”

  “But you’re a hermit.”

  I began to suspect that he said virtually everything in that dry tone of voice, one employed by the innately and perpetually sarcastic, those who are too witty for their own good. It was very rapid fire, Sherlock-Holmes-esque. Usually my older sister used that voice on my mother as a coping strategy.

  One never knew if the speaker were serious or joking, and it ran the risk of making the speaker come across as superior, arrogant, and patronizing.

  But in Greg I found it to be completely charming—so far—and that (paired with his impressively lithe build, the coiled and potential power of his body, angular features, and guarded expression) made him dangerously magnetic.

  “That’s right,” I nodded, studying him, feeling a strange electric current pass between us, “I’m a hermit.”

  The side of his mouth hinted at the barest of whisper of a smile, but his brown eyes betrayed only undemonstrative curiosity. “Working on any manifestos that I should know about?”

  I shook my head. “None that concern you.”

  “But you’ll keep me apprised of any that may interest me?”

  “Why would you be interested in my manifestos, seeing as how I’m misogynistic?”

  He glanced down the hall, obviously fighting a wry smile. The evidence of it made me feel triumphant for some reason, like I’d achieved something of note.

  When his dark eyes turned back to me, they captured mine and dared me to look away. “I like to keep current on the latest trends, what rhetoric you people are spouting as truth.”

  “You people…?”

  “Bigamists and xenophobes.”

  “I’m amazed by how well you know me after such a short acquaintance. Tell me, why would you want to know about my xenophobic manifestos?”

  “Because sexists always have such interesting ideas.”

  “Sexists have interesting ideas?”

  “Ideas? Yes. Ideals? No.”

  I scoffed, enjoying myself far too much, my heart and stomach fluttering together, in cahoots like squealing fangirls. “Name one interesting idea that’s arrived via sexism.”

  “Well, let’s see…” His eyes narrowed again, flickered over me as though predicting my reaction to his words before he’d spoken them, “Yemeni laws state that a woman must obey her husband and must not leave home without his permission.”

  “And why is that interesting?” I felt a strange mixture of offended on behalf of Yemani women and incongruously curious and excited by the prospect of his answer.

  “I think men will always be arrested on some level by the idea of owning their spouse, of completely possessing the woman they love, of having her unquestioning trust and obedience and admiration. But most importantly, of actually being a man that deserves it all. And I think women—though they are loathe to admit it—fundamentally want to be possessed.”

  “That’s repugnant.” I wrinkled my nose at him, trying to hide how paradoxically disturbed and bizarrely hot his words made me. “There is nothing interesting about treating women as possessions; it’s dehumanizing.”

  “Not necessarily, not if a man treasures his possession, cherishes her, protects her—it’s about ownership.”

  “Ownership? Possessions can be discarded, given away,” I pointed out, feeling a thrill. Our conversation had become rapid fire, almost to the point of speaking over each other.

  “So can people. People are discarded all the time. But if you truly own her, own her heart, if she is truly yours, abandoned to you, then you cannot discard her. She is where she belongs, hence the ownership.”

  “Possessions don’t have thoughts or feelings; they’re inanimate objects.”

  “Ah, but women are never inanimate, not the way I do it.” I ignored this comment because his tone, which remained uninflected,
was at odds with the suggestiveness of his words.

  “If a husband were at the whim of his wife, it would be called emasculating. But when it’s the reverse, it’s acceptable?”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Which part?”

  “You don’t like the idea of being owned? Of wholly belonging to someone?” he asked softly, his eyes warming and dipping to my neck before drifting to my lips.

  “Other than to myself? No. I don’t like the idea of being a possession. Do you?”

  “Yes,” he nodded slowly, his eyes no longer cautious. “Yes, I do quite like the idea of mutual ownership.”

  I sputtered, warmth suffusing my chest, twisting in my stomach, making me feel breathless. I glanced at the ceiling, then glared at him; I tried to force myself to feel the irritation I should. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

  “But you like it.” Suddenly his tone changed; it was quiet, intimate, yet tremendously self-assured.

  I felt my grin too late; it had already split my face by the time I realized I was smiling. But his answering crooked grin and darkening eyes were worth the transparency of my expression.

  He was more than fascinating; he was engaging. I found myself wanting to interact with him.

  I liked him, the shocking things he said, his measured offensive abrasiveness, and I let it show on my face. Furthermore I was about to admit these feelings out loud when our outrageous and flirtatious exchange was interrupted and the spell shattered.

  “Greg, babe, you’re not dressed yet,” a girl called from several feet away, and I turned my attention towards her voice.

  I had to fight the urge to gape. She was gorgeous, and she definitely wasn’t a girl. Towering at almost six feet, auburn hair, whiskey-colored eyes, she had the most perfect body I’d ever seen on an actual live person.

  Her gaze moved over me and settled on something between dismissive and friendly. I’d learned early on in my observations last semester that women frequently did this (sizing their fellow females up in the span of a few seconds). I used to think it was something only athletes did to other competitors.

  The mysterious supermodel had clearly determined that I was not a threat.