I quickly pull myself from my daze, remembering he asked a question. “I’m here for my mom. She’s a great seamstress, and when I visit her, I always take fabric remnants.” The more mismatched and color-clashing they are, the more she will love them. My days of patched clothes are long gone, but Dad’s clothes make him look like a walking, talking patchwork quilt. “And you are here because…” I let him finish my sentence.
“I collect chess sets.” His reply is blunt and to the point.
“Wooden or ceramic?” I don’t know what compels me to ask.
“Wooden.”
Ah, figures. Just like his conversation. “How many do you have?”
“Eleven.”
“Eleven is an angel number.”
He tilts his head to the side inquisitively. “Explain to me what that means.”
Great, he’s going to think I’m batshit crazy, but I answer anyway. “It’s often known as the illuminator, or the teacher.”
“Maybe I could teach you how to play chess.”
I raise my eyebrows in surprise at his offer, noticing how he drops his gaze downward and then back up my body. If I knew him well enough, I might be able to tell if he likes what he sees, but I can’t tell.
It may sound dull, but I would love nothing more than to spend more time with him, letting him teach me how to play chess and watching him use his strong, veined hands to move the chess pieces around the board. I brush those thoughts aside and regain my focus. “The number eleven symbolizes balance, a partnership of sorts; two ones side by side in perfect alignment. One, the mind, the other, the soul.” I hold up one hand, then the other, with my palms facing each other and a gap in between them. Having witnessed the way he lines everything on his desk, I’m sure he’ll appreciate that parallel analogy.
“You know a lot about numbers.”
“My mother taught me.” More like drummed it into me.
He proposes, “Maybe I should stop at eleven sets.”
“My mom would tell you to stop.” She’s a wise woman. “She reads the tarot, studies numerology, and angel numbers. And she makes the best donuts I’ve ever tasted.”
His lips twitch at the corners as he pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans at the mention of donut gate.
I wish he would smile, like a complete, wide smile so I could see him. It might help him not look like he has a bar of steel shoved up his ass. He’s so stiff and tense.
“Her donuts are better than Betty Bakes The Best, although you seemed to be enjoying the one I caught you eating yesterday.”
“I ate both,” he confesses, making me laugh out loud because that’s so unexpected.
I shake my head. “So, you don’t hate donuts?”
“I don’t.”
“You lied.”
“I’m sorry.”
I appreciate his to-the-point apology. There are no airs and graces or adding sprinkles to it. “And I’m sorry about yesterday, too. I can be a bit clumsy sometimes.”
“It’s fine. I keep extra shirts and ties at the office.”
Good for him; he’s efficient as well as anal retentive.
Time seems to stretch for what feels like forever, as if he’s torn with what to say or do next, then he hits me by surprise when he firmly comments, “You said you owed me a coffee.” From the moment I met him, his sudden changes in conversation confirm his displeasure with small talk: it’s enough to give anyone whiplash.
“I did.”
There’s a slight awkwardness when he flits his eyes around the thrift store, hesitating before he asks, “Would you like to have one with me now? That is, if you’re free?” he asks, confidence gaining with each word he speaks.