"You live alone?" he asks, glancingaround.
I want to say that I have a boyfriend living with me who plays linebacker on the football team, or a big Rottweiler, but he'll know both are a lie. He's touched me quite a bit tonight and probably already knows I'm a single cat lady inwaiting.
"Yes. I have two cats, but otherwise I live by myself. I also have two real Samurai swords on the wall in mybedroom."
Damn. I didn't really say that, didI?
He smiles and then laughs out loud, his too-blue eyes filled with amusement. My face burns and so I go to my closet and remove my coat and hang it up, depositing my umbrellainside.
He comes over to me and takes my hands in his. I try to avoid him, but he's far too strong. He turns my palms face up and inspects eachpalm.
"They're already healing," he says. "It's that good old Adamantine magic we have in our saliva and all bodilyfluids."
"Adamantine?"
"An undying eternal property. The principle that keeps us immortal. Your mother should have something about it in herfiles."
"So you really didn't need to come in and fix mypalms."
"No," he says lightly. "I lied. People who can't lie aren't very good at detecting deception. They're two sides of the same coin. But we do need totalk."
"Make yourself at home." I wave to the apartment and exhale with frustration. "Since you can now, whenever you want, no matter what Iwant."
"Thankyou."
He's so damn pleased with himself, like he's just won an important battle. He starts walking around my tiny flat, inspecting things like he's searching for something. At my old upright piano against the wall, he sorts through my sheet music, selecting Chopin's Ballade No. 1, tilting his head to one side. I don't play it very well because it's so damnhard.
"You were aprodigy."
"Supposedly, but you take any three-year-old and drill them like they're an army recruit and make it so that every ounce of love they get is premised on performance and you'll produce a little piano playing machine,too."
"Dieu," he says and glances at me. "God, you sound bitter. I'd think you'd be pleased that your parents invested so much time honing yourtalent."
I shrug. I guess I am bitter. All that practice and performance for nothing. All those years wasted taking ballet and music when I could have just been a normal kid and had normalexperiences.
"I studied for eight years. Besides dance, practicing piano was my whole life. I used to envy other kids who weren't forced to play or perform. After a certain age, I was pulled out of school and tutored because my father wanted me to be a professional like him and my mother wanted me to be a dancer the way she always dreamed ofbeing."
"Yes, parents can be such beasts at times," he says. "I hope you'll play for me one day." He looks up from the keys and smiles at me, just a quick smile. "Music is one of my greatpassions."
The way he says it – passions – makes me feel suddenly uncomfortable for I can't help but think of him being passionate. He looks like someone who could get all passionate – like an obsessive musician or artist – and that's dangerous ground forme.
"Is playing part of my job description?" I say, trying to be asmartass.
"No, of course not. Music is my greatest love. It makes existencebearable."
His words have a strange effect on me. Music makes his existence bearable? I'm a bit unnerved by that and I don't know what to say for amoment.
"I'm out of practice. I've been pretty busy with finals and haven't played for quite awhile."
He frowns. "You shouldn't let your skills rust, Eve. When you have a beautiful gem, you should make sure to keep it polished. Such a waste otherwise. And so sad that all you have is this old piece of junk on which toplay."
"It's all that could fit in my apartment." I turn away and make a face, unsure how to respond. Is he chastising me for not playing enough? Where does he getoff?
He stands in the middle of my piles of paper from my mother's files, which are spread out on the hardwoodfloor.
"You need a filingcabinet."
I start picking up the piles, placing them on my desk at the side of theroom.