The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,68
waiting to access the ATM coughs impatiently, and I snatch my money and receipt and dive away.
Emma hasn’t seen me and I shove my wallet in my pocket and follow them down the street. Then I stop. What am I doing following her? Have I lost my mind? I watch the girls wandering along the pavement. There’s something about the way Emma moves—so easy and relaxed. Her shoulders ride low and the smile that curls her lips when I catch her profile is self-assured. She seems to smile easily and often. She’s someone who’s comfortable in company. She’s everything that I’m not.
The girls stop and talk outside a café. They glance my way, but don’t seem to notice me standing stupidly on the footpath. Emma probably doesn’t even remember me. She’s only met me once and it’s unlikely I impressed her. They disappear into the café and I stand for a while, wondering what to do. Should I follow them inside? Is it wrong to want to see more of Emma? I slip my hands into my pockets and try to walk nonchalantly into the café.
Inside it’s dimly lit. Most of the tables are full, but down the back there’s a small round table with just one seat. Emma and her friend are at the counter looking at a menu. I grab a newspaper from the communal magazine rack and make my way to the empty table. My heart is pumping. What if they see me and Emma recognises me? What will I do then?
I hide behind the sheets of the Mercury, pretending to read. A waitress comes by and I order coffee. The girls have taken a table near the door and are deep in conversation. Sunlight casts a halo around Emma’s head, but with her cropped short hair and sturdy build she doesn’t look angelic. I feel a flush of pleasure and then succumb to confusion. Why do I care? I haven’t looked at a woman in years. And now here I am, oscillating wildly between excitement and fear.
I’m still gazing at Emma over the top of the newspaper when the waitress asks where she should put my cappuccino. I reach for the cup and look at her for the first time. She’s heavily made-up with bleached blonde hair but she’s smiling at me, and I realise I don’t mind the curve of her waist where her black apron is tied. The cup shakes in my hand as I take it from her, and froth spills into the saucer.
‘Sorry,’ she says.
‘It’s my fault.’
‘No. I’ll clean it up for you.’
‘Don’t worry.’
But she’s already gone and I slide my attention from her hips to Emma’s happy laugh, which mingles with the general hum from the other tables.
The waitress returns straightaway with a cloth and wipes out my saucer. Her eyes are rimmed with black kohl and her lashes are laden with mascara. It’s impossible to tell what she really looks like underneath all that make-up. She raises her eyebrows at me and walks away, cloth in hand. Then she glances back at me with a half-smile that makes me nervous. She thinks I like her. How did that happen? I’ve never known how to act around women. I suppress an urge to escape. If I rush out, my exit will be obvious and Emma may notice. I should go back to reading, and hopefully the waitress will lose interest.
I bend my head over the paper and pretend to be absorbed, but in truth my senses are all focused on Emma. I’m listening with my whole body for the sound of her voice or the pleasant dry tone of her laugh. Even with my eyes fixed on the paper I can see her in my peripheral vision.
‘What are you reading?’ It’s the waitress again, carrying a pile of dishes past my table. ‘Must be a good article,’ she says with a wink.
Fear cascades in my chest and my resolve falters. I have to leave or the waitress will be asking me out. I imagine myself blushing and stammering, trying to politely turn down her invitation. I envisage the amusement of the other café patrons, watching my discomfort. Emma or no Emma, I have to go. I drain my coffee, shake four dollars out of my pocket and leave it on the table, slinking past Emma and her friend as I escape through the door.
At work, I struggle with vertigo. Emma is with me beneath the car, her smile stoking my courage.