And when he excuses himself to the bathroom, I lean over the table, discreetly
ingesting the woody eau de parfum ingrained in the fabric of its neck. Xander carries
the most amazing aromas, ones that linger in the senses, all subtle and suggestive.
What I’d give to never let them fade. I ask myself, what does Xander think of me?
Xander has beautiful skin. Sitting opposite him in the amber glow of candlelight,
I marvel at its near-flawlessness, full and vanilla and plump — not unlike the
cheesecake set out before us, creamy textures in abundance. Just as tasty, too.
And inside my head, the question flutters again, does Xander like me?
I find Xander’s wit charming, his gentle, personable nature puts me at ease. He
jokes about the strange couple by the window slurping on oysters and I can’t stop
laughing, except when he asks, “So, can I come to yours?” and then my stomach
cartwheels, and our gazes lock, and he adds, “If that’s okay, of course...”
Xander does like me, I tell myself. He really, really must.
Inside my flat, it’s cool and calm. I’m shaking slightly as I direct him to the sofa.
“Ah, you’ve only just had this delivered,” he observes, noting the polythene wrapped
around it, and as he settles upon the plastic, an arm hanging over the back, he scans my
cluttered, open-plan dwelling, admiring patchwork curtains, my quirky furniture, a
large collection of framed artworks, all hanging on grey walls. He nods.
“Very interesting place... Did you make many of these things yourself ?” He’s so
polite that he asks whether he should remove his Chelsea boots, even though there’s
no carpet. We kiss briefly, he runs a finger through my long hair, and then I fetch a
bottle of Chilean red from a cupboard, nearly tripping over my feet.
XANDER WEARS A LOVELY
LEATHER JACKET...
Flash fiction by Stephen Daultrey
Illustration by Liah Paterson