9

I was facing a possibly 500-pound man, his skin

crimson red from the shower, at least those parts

that weren’t covered in my poncho and the blankets

around his tummy – let’s call it 'waist' for simplicity.

A plump and dimpled hand kept the fabric in place.

Chubby wouldn’t begin to describe his Michelinman-like arms protruding from under the poncho.

His eyes, reflecting something between mortification and murder, dared me to laugh. His eye colour

was indistinguishable from my distance but now I

could see that his face was round and that he possessed dark hair with a bit of curl in dire need of a

trim. His nose was nothing out of the ordinary and

his mouth small and soft-looking with a pronounced double chin underneath. All in all, I was

staring into a likeable face despite his scraggly beard and scowl. I mentally corrected my guess from end

to mid-thirties.

Again, I squeezed my eyes shut against the onset

of tingles and treated myself to another breath before I looked at him again. “Sit. Have some tea. I've

prepared a broth, too.”

The man eyed the couch as if assessing its

strength but finally lowered himself on the longer

part of the L-shape, carefully holding the blankets

together over his spreading bulk. Averting my face

in order to conceal my reddening cheeks and to

spare him any more embarrassment, I took a seat

on my cherished brown sheepskin on the shorter

end of the couch. Out of the corner of my eye, I

saw the man pick up his mug and gradually he

seemed to relax a bit.

Running my fingertips over the fuzziness of the

sheepskin brought a smile to my face as always. I

might not be able to touch human skin but I always

made the most out of the connection with certain

inorganic materials. A sharp gasp brought my gaze

up to the man, who had just burnt his tongue on

the hot tea. For a moment he looked as adorable as

a child, an impression emphasized by his round

cheeks and chubby hands. He deposited the offending item back on the couch table and met my eyes

at last.

“Thanks.”

More so than the single word it was his face

which betrayed the extent of his gratefulness.

“You’re welcome.” “What’s your name?” he asked, never taking his

gaze off me.

“Ela. And yours?”

“Blake.”

It was an American name, was it not? Now, however, was not the time to discuss personal details.

Again, we both stared at each other. The longer I

was exposed to this man’s presence, the more

acutely my mind and body reminded me of how

long it had been since I had faced and conversed

with a person in such proximity.

“Are you feeling better?”

“I’m no longer cold.”

The omission implied that the mental state he

was in had hardly improved. He needed to be kept

safe. “Is there anyone you’d like to call?”

“No.” His mood, rather neutral so far, now

seemed to cast its own shadow. “I’ll just wait for

my clothes to wash and dry and then I’ll be out of

your hair.”

I cast a sceptical look out the window. “I doubt

that. If anything, it’s getting worse. You should stay

until it’s over.”

He followed my gaze out the window. “That

could take all night.”

“Then you may spend the night.” Whoops! As

little as I had meant to extend the invitation, at that

moment I realized that I meant it.

His eyes accosted to mine again, now narrowed

with suspicion. “Why are you doing this?” His in- credulity morphed into a sneer. “Haven’t your parents told you not to speak to strangers, let alone let

them shower or spend the night at your place?”

I couldn’t suppress a wince at the mention of a

mother I might never see again but managed to

change the wince into a shrug. “I’m a grown-up.”

“I still don’t get it,” the large man named Blake

declared, at last, his eyes still on me.

“That’s OK.”

When it became an evidence that I wouldn’t elaborate it to him, his gaze dropped to my hands.

“Why are you wearing gloves?”

“Because I can,” I replied him succinctly.

I had come to find out that monosyllabic and information-deprived answers disconcerted people to

such an extent that they usually didn’t probe any

deeper. We continued to sip our tea in silence until

I heard the water in the pot on the stove bubble

and I hopped up in relief.

“Would you like some hot broth?”

For a moment he looked caged. “That sounds

good,” he replied at last. “Uh-huh, do you have a

hairdryer so I can dry my shoes in the meantime?”

“Sure. In the cabinet under the sink.”

“Thanks.”

I didn’t stay to watch him heave himself to his

feet. My body couldn’t take much more of this…

this vicarious embarrassment, that’s what this tingle

had to be. Five minutes later I carried the broth

with egg and some alphabet noodles over to the couch table and turned on some music in order to

fill the silence that was sure to follow. At that moment I heard the hairdryer stop and Blake

reemerged from the bathroom, the sight of his massive shape causing my insides to twist into knots

again, even more so when he antagonized the pins

that held the blankets together by gingerly lowering

himself once more.

Averting my face again, I concentrated on the act

of placing one of my round wooden plates on my

lap to balance the soup bowl on before I handed

another one to Blake. At that moment I realized

that it would be impossible for him to follow suit as

he had to spread his thighs wide to accommodate

his enormous belly. One of the few advantages of

my condition was that all this time spent removed

from people had sharpened my heretofore nonexistent perception of their needs. With a warm face, I

withdrew my hand again and held out the tray to

him instead, not meeting his eyes. Again, we consumed the liquid in front of us without conversation until we were both full and dared to face one

another.

“You don’t have to talk about it, you know, but

just in case you do, I’ll listen.”

He laughed with more surprise than humour.

“It’s a long story. Something you shouldn’t trigger

your concern on. I’ll be out of here first thing in the

morning anyway. I’ll have a cab pick me—”

The remainder of his utterance drowned in a

massive gulp.