Page 11 of Error Handling
Skin: PASS.
His muscular brow protrudes slightly, providing a perfect anchor for the slight angle of his eyebrows. His eyebrows break seamlessly in the center, no stray hairs to indicate that his children might be born with monobrows.
Eyebrows: PASS.
His eyes and mouth are both well-defined, sloping downward at each corner, in perfect alignment with his eyebrows, and histhin, yet satisfyingly present, lips display no signs of cracking, oozing, or disease.
Eyes and Lips: PASS.
His unassuming nose takes up just enough space, not too big, not too small, not too flared, not too slender. It hardly makes itself known, which is a plus, since I’ve always thought noses are weird. No protruding nose hairs.
Nose: PASS.
I never realized tear troughs mattered on a face until now. Chris’s are prominent. They cut through his cheeks and work with his downturned features to create a resting sad face, which makes him all the more....
Dare I say it?
Kissable.
He could have bad breath. And I haven’t gotten a good look at his teeth. Are they knitting sweaters? Are his gums inflamed? All signs of potential disease. Not to be trifled with.
I’m not proud of this hyperawareness. If a stranger had access to my thoughts, they’d assume I’m shallow, and maybe I am, but I don’t measure a person’s worth on their details. I do, however, use those details to determine if I want to share their saliva. How others can go about kissing people willy-nilly has always astounded me. Do they know where that mouth has been? I usually shudder to think. But today, I’m not shuddering. Not yet. Maybe there is hope.
Chris exits the restaurant and joins me. I study him and verify my initial assessment. To my relief, he still passes. In fact, he looks better than I remembered.
He stands in front of me and stuffs his hands into his frayed jeans pockets. “It’s an hour and a half wait.” He shrugs, somehow managing not to disturb his resting sad face.
“Oh.”
I ate a pack of Ritz Bits on the way out of my apartment, but my stomach has already made good use of them. What little blood sugar boost they gave me is already gone.
“They said if we want to stay and wait, they’ll give us a basket of bread.”
As mouths go, Chris’s is on the unexpressive side, which only solidifies the sad theme and makes the gentle rolls of skin above the corners of his mouth maintain their fullness even as he speaks.
“Do you want to stay, or would you rather try somewhere else?” Rather than gesture with his hands which are still stuffed in his pockets, he puffs his chest and then relaxes it.
“Everywhere we go will probably be like this because of the festival crowd. I’m fine staying here.” But can I come up with enough conversation to fill the time? An hour and a half, not including dinner. That’s a lot. And Chris doesn’t seem to be a talker.
“Okay. I’ll put our name in and get some bread.” He smiles, revealing perfectly clean, white teeth.
This can’t be happening. I haven’t found anything wrong with him. Yet.
While Chris is gone, I contemplate the strange feeling in my stomach. It persists even in his absence but is notably stronger the closer he is to me.
How would my literary mother describe the sensation? It’s like I swallowed a squirrel, and the fluffy rodent is in there munching on a walnut, breaking the shell with his gnarly little teeth, spinning it round and round as squirrels do. As he eats, his fluffy tail flits excitedly, the tip of it tickling my heart.
There’s a reason I gave up my dream of becoming a writer.
Chris returns with a basket of steaming yeast rolls, four in total, two for each, although I would gladly eat his portion if he allowed it. Hunger overrides my squirrelly nervousness.
He suggests we head over to the boardwalk. I agree. We cross Battery Street and choose a bench facing the harbor. Sitting next to him, our arms nearly touching, unleashes a new burst of emotions that I can’t describe with my menial literary talent. “Overwhelming” is my best, albeit pathetic attempt. Above the smell of sweet yeast, I smell spiced oranges.Chris smells like spiced oranges. It renders me speechless.
I’m probably the only woman on the planet not enticed by musky cologne. It makes me sneeze and gives me a headache. But oranges with a splash of fall spice? Heaven.
After a few rounds of deep breathing, the overwhelming sensations quiet enough for my hunger to peek through again. I eye the buttered rolls with anticipation. He must notice.
“Help yourself.” He offers me the basket, and I take a roll. He doesn’t grab a roll for himself.