By the time Jason had delivered Cleo home, she had calmed and appeared to be nothing more than a woman who was tired after a long day. He had gone to her door with her to make sure that she got in all right, but they hadn't touched or said more than a few words. For once in his life, he was definitely at a loss for them. Rather than feeling irritated by or even indifferent to the incident, he felt hollow and hesitant. As Cleo opened the door and paused a minute on the doorstep, Jason, nevertheless, felt he couldn't quite let go.
"Will I see ya again?"
Under normal circumstances, he would have kicked himself for the plaintiveness in his voice, the hovering sound of doubt. She didn't answer but gave a vague shrug of her shoulders. In a flash, it took him back to his orphanage days when a similar gesture of indifference had hidden a lack of confidence. It could also mean that one was hiding something. What was Cleo hiding? He had come close enough that he had frightened her into action. It came over him like a wave of relief as he realised that it was really nothing to do with him personally. It was that he had come too close to something that she was, in a sense, protecting or masking. Now he was really intrigued because he had often been exposed to cases of dissimulation by kids in care. Hadn't his own cockiness been a bit of bravado to hide his own insecurity?
He took a card out of his wallet and pencilled his mobile phone number on the back. This was not his work phone number but his personal number, reserved for special people. The test came as he held it out to her. Would she take it and more important, would she use it? He felt obliged to add the clarification.
"It's my personal number. I really would like to see ya again sometime. If ya give me a call we can go to a pub, or... wherever ya like. I'm sorry Cleo if I spoiled anything. The day was good for me."
She slowly took it with a weak smile and a slight nod.
"Thank you, Jason. It was a good day. My behaviour is me, how I am. I over-reacted and now I have spoiled what should have been perfect. Give me time. I can't say better than that; until I've slept and am less tired. OK?"
She looked at him frankly and he tried to discern if he should understand more, if he were missing unsaid words. He slowly took her hand between his, gave the back a soft stroke, then a light squeeze and dropped it.
"Good night, Cleo. Do I get a quick, good night kiss?" he dared to ask with a hint of his cheekiness.
She laughed involuntarily at his daring after all the awkwardness. How could she not give this man a kiss? She liked him a lot and no one had ever made her feel quite so contented – until the crossing over of limits...
She leaned towards him and immediately took in the light, fragrant cologne he was wearing with the hint of something exciting. She planted her lips on his and he sighed. All was not lost.
"Good night Jason."
He turned as she did and this time they didn't wave to each other. They were both too lost in thought.
-oOo-
Cleo stood in the barren hallway looking up the uncarpeted stairs and then along the passageway towards the kitchen. There was enough light coming in from the street lamps and possibly the moon, for her to see how empty the place was. A twinge of guilt ran through her as she thought back to her conduct in Jason's house less than an hour ago. She knew her reaction had been exaggerated simply because she had panicked. Why had that happened when she knew deep down that she had nothing to fear from him? He had been drawn to her as she had been to him. She had recognised the mutual attraction from their first cup of coffee and yet, she was plagued by the idea that every man was out to get what he could from a woman, before running. She climbed the staircase with the lethargy that always came to her after she had cried. Toilet, teeth and bed. She wouldn't be capable of more.
Somehow, she got into her sleeping bag and it was the last thing she remembered.
Jason had driven home in a semi-trance. He lived less than ten minutes away from her, when there wasn't any traffic. He kept going over the day's happenings leading up to that unfortunate moment in his kitchen. Some of them had made him smile as well as making his abdomen stir. Little signs became apparent now that he looked for them. Her stand-offishness to begin and her general reluctance to encourage any physical contact. He had originally put it down to her 'class' or the work image that she must be used to projecting but he had soon discovered that as 'class' went, she was no better than he. The light kiss she had condescended to giving him as he prepared to leave had reassured him that she didn't hate him. She must quite like him because she could so easily have shut her door in his face. So – she was hung-up about something and should she phone him, he was determined to get to the bottom of it. If she didn't phone him, perhaps he would just make a point of contacting her. She already knew that he was impudent.
Reluctantly he returned to his kitchen. The bottle of red still stood majestically, unsampled, on the table, precariously near to the edge. He poured himself a glass and took it with him upstairs to his bedroom. Later in bed, as thoughts have the habit of doing, it came to him out of the blue that he really should buy some white wine. The day might come when he would need to open a chilled bottle of it.