Let Me Do It

The rain was not falling; it was standing. It had pooled in the gutters of the old bookshop, turning the narrow street outside into a shallow, dark lake. I stood on the other side of the till, holding a damp invoice, while Emeka leaned against the display case, watching me count the change.

We had been seeing each other for four weeks. We had shared three dinners and two awkward mornings in my kitchen. Tonight, we were just two people trapped in a room that smelled of old paper and wet wool, waiting for the downpour to stop so we could go to a charity gala we were both obligated to attend. The shop was my sister’s, and on Fridays I closed it for her.

I looked up. He was not looking at the door. He was looking at me, his charcoal suit jacket draped over the back of a chair, the only casual thing in a room of stiff collars. His hands were large, resting on his hips, and there was a smudge of ink on his thumb. He knew I was tired. He knew I carried the weight of every argument I had ever won.