Free Boston by Alexis Alvarez Page A

reemerge. He’s sitting in a backwards chair, his arms folded over the top of it, his eyes on me, and as I flicker into the present I also feel a flicker of arousal at his gaze, which is low-lidded and direct.
    “Good writing today?” he asks, his voice a murmur.
    “Yes.” I stand and stretch, feeling my shirt rise up to reveal my stomach, but I feel sexy because of what I just wrote, so I take my time, feeling his eyes land on the bare skin. “I’m happy with it.”
    He smiles so briefly I think I imagined it, maybe. “You get so intense. It’s like nothing else exists.”
    I nod. “It comes alive for me, like I’m watching a movie and hearing a song, but I’m directing real time. It’s like living in another dimension.”
    Now he smiles for real. “You talk like a book of poetry sometimes. Not that I evah read much poetry. Your ex does, I guess, though.” His smile fades.
    I blink. “How did you know that?”
    His gaze meets mine. “I read his profile on the university website. Saw that he’s published a dozen books on the theory of law, and a book of poetry, too.”
    I shrug. “Yeah, he writes a lot. Reads, too. Erik reads everything that exists. He’s a walking Wikipedia, without any user error.”
    Boston looks away. “Pretty smart guy. Understatement, right?”
    “He’s just a guy. And sometimes it got overwhelming.” I pull my hem back down. “Sometimes I want to be the expert on something, you know? Did you get a lot done today, too?”
    He nods and stands. “I edited the motorcycle pictures, especially the one you wanted for the cover. Want to see?”
    I do, and I come over to his laptop. I like standing so close to him; like last time, I bend my head down to look, wondering how close I can come to his jaw without being obvious. The warmth from his body is magnetic and I want to keep leaning in. That’s a lie: I want to push in, to leap in, to grab him.
    I’m supposed to be looking at the screen but he’s just opening up files so I dart my eyes to his profile; his chiseled jaw, his sharp nose. His nose isn’t exactly perfect, but I like it, and I like the stubble on his chin. I want to stroke those tiny sharps under my index finger. I want to stick my tongue in his ear.
    I force myself to focus, put my eyes back into the screen just in time: The picture is up and it’s magnificent. The first time I saw it, I loved it, but now it snaps with power. The whites and blacks feed off of each other and blend into a cohesive image. The light is sun painted over his body. I know for sure that this is perfect.
    “Boston. It’s—how did you do that?” My voice is hushed. “This is like a visual poem.”
    He smiles and I think he’s proud. “Thanks, Abby. It’s what I love. I practice a lot, you know?”
    He turns to look at me and our faces are close—so close! He blinks and swallows, then pushes back his chair.
    “I would guess I am about halfway done with your pictures, Abby.”
    I nod. “Great.”
    Neither of us speak, then we both do at once. I say, “So I guess I should—”
    And he’s saying, “You want to have a beer or somethin’?”
    I flush. “Really? You actually drink something made from grain?”
    He laughs. “Yeah. I cheat once in a while. You in?” He raises one eyebrow.
    “I’m in.”
    I don’t follow him to the kitchen; instead, I walk to the window to admire the sunset. It’s bright, so bright, the oranges and yellow licking into the room and over my keyboard like flames attacking dry branches.
    Boston comes back and touches my shoulder, his fingers lingering one extra second, and that’s all it takes to make my heartbeat accelerate. Does he? Doesn’t he? Are we? But he just hands me a cold beer and raises it. “To your book, Abby. Your amazing brain.”
    I reply, “And your pictures. Your amazing body—I mean, well, yeah, of course it is amazing. But I didn’t mean it like, I mean…”
    He smiles and shakes his head at me, takes a long swig of beer.