Page 35 of Napkins and Other Distractions
I roll down my window and put the car into park.
“Did you want to come in?” he asks, and before I can answer, he adds, “To talk.”
Vincent’s condo appears different with the lights on. That first night, a blur of lips and mouths and motion, and what I remember most is … the bathroom. Oy.
His living room and kitchen combo room exude a stylishness that could easily grace the pages of a home-furnishings catalog. All sleek lines and sharp edges, everything appears to be earth tones and black. Simple. Clean. Neat. Just like him.
There’s a dining-room table in the living room covered in … LEGO. Giant structures jut up from the surface, and small white bowls line the table’s perimeter. I can’t quite make out what he’s up to, but clearly, it’s monumental.
“Can I get you anything?” he asks, lingering near the island.
“I’m good.”
He takes a can of seltzer from the stainless-steel fridge and runs the top under the tap. A dab of liquid soap, and he’s scrubbing the lid of the can. My throat aches, imagining what it must be like, walking through the world this way. That lingering urge to protect him—shield him from, well, himself—surfaces. But Vincent appears unfazed.
“Your daughter is a hoot,” he says, sitting on the caramel sofa that matches the jacket he removed when we entered.
“Yeah, she definitely would agree with you.”
“I love how close you are. I don’t have … well, anyone. No kids. No siblings.”
He’s an only child. This line of conversation intrigues me. I join him on the couch, leaving a respectful space between us. Facing him, I say, “So, just you. What about your folks?”
“Married still. They live in Vermont now. My dad always wanted goats, and goats kind of need a farm.” He pulls his legs up and grabs a throw pillow. “I don’t visit much. Have you ever been around goats? They literally eat trash. Goats might be the filthiest animals in existence.”
“Noted.”
“You and your daughter. And your granddaughter. That’s special.”
“Yeah, she’s always been a daddy’s girl … various almost-murdering incidents aside, we love each other. A lot.”
“I can tell.”
My lips ease into a smile, and warmth spreads through me as I think of my family. “And Lia. I adore her to bits. Once a month, I take her on a Saturday. Sometimes we go to a movie. Or take an adventure somewhere new. Or stay at my place, and I read picture books all day. We make pillow and blanket forts.”
Vincent smiles, stretches his socked feet out, and pulls them back. I pat my lap. “Here.”
“You don’t mind?”
A laugh escapes my lips, and I grab his feet and carefully place them on my thighs. I slowly massage his toes and the pads of his soles. Dark navy wool, toasty and soft, makes it a bit of a challenge, but I’m able to press my thumb in and get some nice friction.
“It doesn’t bother you?” he asks.
“Your feet?” I hold one up.
“Yeah.”
“Not at all. Why would they?”
“Feet are … ” He scrunches his face. “Gross.”
“Vincent Manda, feet are just another part of the body, and bodies are beautiful.”
I tug at the sock on his left foot. “May I?”
He nods, and I slip the sock off. Not surprisingly, Vincent’s toes are immaculate and pedicured. I’m not sure I’ve seen such beautiful feet before. His toes are perfect, almost the same length, with the big toe slightly longer than the others. There’s not a trace of hair on Vincent’s ankle or foot.
“Do you have hair anywhere on your body?” I run my hand up his shin.
