“What?”
I shrug. “I just didn’t have you figured as a fancy coffeemaker sort of guy, that’s all.”
Will leans, too, close enough that if he stretched out a leg he could tap my foot with his. “Oh. That. It’s not mine. It was my wife’s.”
Instinctively, I look around his place for signs of a woman’s touch, not that I’m sure what that might be. Flowers and throw pillows, I guess. The scent of perfume. He laughs. I’m caught.
“Ex,” he emphasizes. “Was. She took the cat. I got the coffeemaker.”
“Oh.” The machine spits and hisses, burping out black liquid. The smell is amazing. Just coffee, nothing odd. Still amazing.
He pours me a cup. Then one for himself. He pulls a bottle from a cupboard. Bushmills. “Want some?”
“Um...no.” It’s nearly one in the morning. I have to leave in a few minutes so I can catch the last train.
I shouldn’t be here at all.
“You sure?” He wags the bottle. Tempting me. He splashes his mug with a liberal dose. “It’s good.”
I’m sure it is. I haven’t had whiskey in...well, I can’t remember the last time. Have I ever had whiskey? Surely in those booze-addled college days when we drank whatever we could get our hands on, I must’ve had whiskey.
I hold out my mug. “Not too much.”
“No such thing,” Will says, and pours in a healthy shot. He raises his mug and waits until I’ve done the same. “Sláinte.”
“Are you Irish?” I take a hesitant sip. The coffee’s hot and good. The whiskey, better. Both are strong and hit the back of my throat and then my stomach with heat. Or maybe I shouldn’t lie. It’s the way he looks at me, not anything I’m drinking.
“Who isn’t?” He lifts the mug and drinks without so much as a wince. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
“Not your etchings, I hope.” The joke’s not smooth, but since everything about me feels herky-jerky, all rough edges and stumbling feet, why should my words be any different?
Will glances over his shoulder. “Something like that.”
I do hesitate then, just for a second. Then another. I’m in a stranger’s apartment so late it’s soon going to be early. I took his liquor. Would I blame him if he thought there might be more to this?
Would I be disappointed if he doesn’t?
In one corner of the vast space, he shows me a desk set up with an impressive desktop computer, stacks of file folders, bits of crumpled paper. A little farther back is a set of red velvet curtains hung on the wall. Next to that is a metal rack holding several rolls of paper backdrops. Also, another table fitted with several lights and a contraption of metal and fabric I’ve seen before. I forget what it’s called. A light box, maybe. Something to showcase items to be photographed.
“This is where the magic happens.” He turns on one of the big lights, bathing everything in a golden glow.
I shield my eyes for a second, glad the beam is focused on a battered wooden chair set in front of the velvet curtains, and not on me. That light highlights that chair’s every crack and splinter, every flaw. I can only imagine what it would show on my face.
Will opens a folder to pull out an eight-by-ten glossy of a woman seated at a desk, typing at an old-fashioned typewriter. She’s dressed like a fetishized secretary. Tight black skirt, white shirt with a bow at the collar, impossibly high heels. Hair pulled back in a severe bun, glasses covering eyes made up with far too much shadow and liner to be appropriate for a real office. I’m confused.
“Stock art.” He pulls another shot from the folder, this one of a businessman in a suit and tie, holding a paper take-out cup of coffee and a briefcase. Will waves the photo slowly.
“You took those?”
“I did.” He fits them back into the folder. “My bread and butter.”
Somehow, this deflates me. “Oh. I didn’t know.”
“Gotta eat,” Will says. “But look at these.”
He gestures for me to move closer, and to resist would, at the very least, seem impolite. I stand next to him at the desk, our shoulders brushing as he sorts through another folder to pull out a colorful print of a man and a woman in an embrace. They’re wearing historical costumes, her hair flowing. For that matter, his hair’s flowing, too. The print behind it is of the same shot, though it’s been altered to add a different background and some stylized effects. Also, text.
“Book covers? You do book covers?”
“When they hire me.” Will grins and taps the picture. “Love this one. Supersexy, don’t you think?”
It is a sexy picture, I have to admit that, though honestly, it’s the sort of cover my eyes would skate over in a store. Like whiskey, when’s the last time I picked up a romance novel? Have I ever?
He pulls another shot from the pile. This one’s darker. A woman in black leather holds a gun, her long hair in a braid over her shoulder. I covet her boots. It’s a night for envy, I think, moving closer to him without thinking, so that I can get a better look at the print.
“I’ve seen that one,” I say. “Science fiction, right? They just made a movie out of the book.”
“Yep.” He sounds proud. “It was a bestseller.”
We are standing very close. I could turn an inch in one direction and we’ll no longer touch. An inch in the other and I’ll be pressed up against him. I imagine the push and pull of the muscles in his arms if I were to put my hands on them. I do not move.
“Let me take your picture,” Will says.
That’s it. I back up one step, two, my head shaking. “No. No way.”
My reaction’s too strong for such a simple request, and I feel instantly stupid. I force myself not to turn tail and run. I lift my chin, square my shoulders. I meet his gaze.
He isn’t smiling. Not laughing. Will’s studying me with a serious look I can’t interpret, and can’t match.
“Why not?”
“Why would you want to?” I let out a slow but shaky breath.
“I like to take portraits. It’s my favorite thing.”
“You don’t want a picture of me.”
Will looks at the chair, pinned by that bright light. If I sit there, in that chair, that light will be all over me. I’ll be all light, no dark. Nothing hidden. No secrets. He’ll see all of me, every wrinkle and crevice, every line, every stray and unplucked hair. There is no fucking way I’m sitting in that chair.
Will says nothing.
“I don’t want a picture of me,” I tell him.
He picks up his camera. I know the finished product of art. The canvases, the matted prints. But I know nothing of the tools used to create it. Paints and brushes, f-stops and apertures, lenses, film speed, clay and glaze. I can tell you what it’s worth when it’s finished, but I have no idea about its creation.
He holds it carefully in one palm, the size of it impressive. I used to have a point-and-shoot until I lost the charger. Now I use my phone to take snapshots, when and if I feel the need to capture the moment. Mostly, I take pictures and forget about them until it’s time to update my phone’s software, when I upload them to my computer’s hard drive and then forget them there.
Will lifts the camera to one eye and points it at the chair. He snaps a shot. Looks at the view screen. He makes some adjustment to something. Takes another picture.
I