Selective Focus

Then he notices what she has on—or more specifically, what she doesn’t have on—and he can’t find it within himself to regret his impetuousness. He can plainly see the shadows of her areolas through her thin white cotton T-shirt, and he feels something similar to how he would have felt if as a young boy, he caught an unintentional glimpse of ankle under a petticoat. The dirty rush of getting away with seeing something he shouldn’t is familiar, but lacks the shame he would have felt in his youth. If the past hundred years or so have taught Edward anything, it’s the extent to which he likes feeling dirty. It isn’t until he puts his hand in the front pocket of his trousers and adjusts himself that he feels a twinge of embarrassment—not because he’s abashed at the way in which his body responds to her, but because he doesn’t want her to feel uncomfortable.

His sentiment is wasted. A veteran whore would be affected by the intensity of the lust in his eyes; it’s going to take a lot more than a half-hearted attempt to conceal his erection for Bella to feel at ease with his obvious concupiscence. Self-conscious under the heat of his gaze, she folds her arms across her chest, blushing.

He’s dumbfounded by her modesty, which makes no sense to him given the liberties she’d permitted him the previous evening. He likes her ability to surprise him.

“Good afternoon,” he says, grinning. “Aren’t you going to let me in?”

She hesitates, thinking she’s dreaming. On the off-chance she isn’t, she also thinks she should go put on some panties before inviting him inside.

“What are you doing here?”

“Don’t you remember? Last night, I asked if I could see you again today, and you agreed. In fact, you seemed more than a little excited at the prospect.”

“Right. I was—I mean, I am. I guess I just expected you to call first.”

He knows he shouldn’t have appeared at her door without warning, but if he’s going to make a genuine effort not to peep at her from outside her bedroom window, he needs to get his fix somehow. Cloaked by the darkness of a late-afternoon thunderstorm, he’s able to make a rare daytime appearance—what little sun gets through the clouds is safe for him. He doesn’t regret inconveniencing Bella—dropping by unannounced gives him the perfect opportunity to surprise both her and her nipples. Evidently, the latter wake up far more quickly than the former—though Bella is still very obviously groggy, her breasts appear to be ready for company. She catches him staring at her nipples, so he pretends that he’s deciphering the words on her T-shirt.

“New Jersey: Where the Weak Are Killed and Eaten,” he reads aloud. After a brief pause, he laughs.

It’s unguarded and real, like nothing she’s encountered since she’s been on her own. She wants to record it and make it his personalized ringtone on her cellphone or something equally asinine given the fact she’s a grown woman. As such, she should be beyond such adolescent female behavior as recording his voice without his consent, collecting things he’s touched, and doodling her hypothetical married name on random scraps of paper. Except she isn’t beyond that sort of thing, and if she knew what Edward’s last name was, there’d be written evidence of her infatuation hidden in the recycling bin in her kitchen.

Upon silencing her inner twelve-year-old, Bella realizes that although Edward’s laughter is incredibly attractive, she has no idea what he finds so amusing. The slogan on her T-shirt isn’t that funny.

“What?” she asks.

He nods toward her chest. “Truer words have never been spoken. Though to be fair, I enjoyed my place at the top of the food chain long before taking up residence in your home state. Now, back to the issue at hand. If standing on ceremony is really that important to you, I’ll get back in my car and call you to let you know that I’m in the neighborhood and ask permission to call on you. Please decide quickly. Not only am I getting drenched out here, but you’re not exactly appropriately attired to be standing there with your door wide open.”

“As if anyone can see.”

The possibility that she could be flashing her neighbors is the least of her concerns—their opinions don’t matter to her.

“I assure you, at this very moment, there’s a fourteen-year-old boy in the red trailer across the way, watching us through the slats of his bedroom’s miniblinds, unable to believe his luck.”

Bella thinks Edward is lying to her despite his frighteningly accurate description of her neighbor’s son, but just in case he isn’t, she gestures him inside and pulls the door closed. The T-shirt in which she slept covers her ass only if she doesn’t raise her arms, leaving her in a bit of a conundrum. No matter what she does (outside of asking him to close his eyes) she’ll be partially exposed as she darts into her bedroom to throw on some clothes.

“This isn’t how I pictured our second date.”

She doesn’t intend for him to hear her, but he does; his ensuing smile confirms it. As if her semi-nudity isn’t making her feel awkward enough, he now knows that she dreams of him. Not wanting him to think she’s a psychopath, she tries to explain.

“Like, I didn’t make plans or anything. I’m not pretending we’re in relationship; I wasn’t getting ahead of myself.”

“You just assumed you’d be dressed, and I wouldn’t be soaked to the bone–”

“Well…yeah.”

“If you get me a towel, I can dry off. Of course, that does nothing to address your missing panties–”

“I’ll put on clothes.”

“Underneath them, you’ll still be wet.”

“Probably,” she whispers, unable to meet his gaze.

Bella isn’t sure which she finds more off-putting—his ability to arouse her so quickly, or the fact that he knows he has this power over her.

“Why don’t I go do that?”

“A towel would be much appreciated, but I’d prefer that you not put on clothes.”

With her arms glued to her side in a futile attempt to avoid displaying her backside to him, she retrieves a towel from the bathroom. She reemerges seconds later, she’s still clad only in her T-shirt. She doesn’t look at him as she hands him the towel, and can only assume that he uses it.

“How can you offer me your body yet exhibit visible discomfort at the prospect of letting me see it?” He takes a step forward, making him close enough to touch her. “Raise your arms above your head.”

Her fear of him makes no sense in the context of her desire for him, but she feels it nonetheless and trembles as she contemplates doing his bidding. Regardless, she complies; a small part of her acknowledges she always will. For several heartbeats she waits, expecting him to brush the newly-exposed skin of her hips and thighs with his fingertips, but he doesn’t. He touches her only with his gaze, which she can feel feasting upon her flesh even though her eyes remain closed—she still doesn’t think she can look at him as he looks at her.

Careful not to touch her inappropriately, he tugs her shirt over her head and tosses it aside. The urge is overwhelming—not to drink of her, because he knows that in of itself will not fulfill him. He wants to touch her, to feel her come apart in his fingers. He wants to take her picture, to capture the glow of her pale skin and the soft lines of her body. It isn’t because she’s beautiful, though she is, nor is it because he’d get pleasure from doing so, though he would. That feeling is not new to him, and though what Bella has inspired in him isn’t either, it’s been dormant for so many decades it may as well be. She’s made him feel alive.

Completely nude, with her arms above her head, it’s impossible not to notice her nervousness. She’s taking shallow breaths, as is evident by the rapid rise and fall of her ribcage and her eyes remain downcast. Though he wants to memorize every curve, every freckle, and every scar, there’s something about looking at her without her consent that feels wrong, even though less that forty-eight hours ago, he was watching her masturbate from the bushes outside her bedroom window. He doesn’t want to be like that, so for the first time in his life, he asks permission.

“You mean you haven’t looked already?”

“Not today.”

Assuming he’s teasing her, she smiles. When she doesn’t answer his question or look up, he tries his luck at a new one.

“Why won’t you make eye-contact with me?”

“I’m afraid.”

“Smart girl.” He won’t tell her that her fear is unfounded; he doesn’t want to lie to her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“But you’re not always in control of your actions.” Her tone is bitter; she’s heard this before, usually as justification for selfish behavior.

“No,” he admits.

Sighing, she brings her arms down and crosses them in front of her breasts. She isn’t bothered by her nudity—having grown up on the beach, she spent the majority of her leisure time in swimsuits that covered far less than the flimsy white T-shirt she was wearing when she opened the door. The problem is she feels exposed around Edward whether she’s clothed or not, and though she’s more than ready to share herself physically with him, she doesn’t want to fall in love with him.

“Bella, please look at me.”

“No.” She doesn’t realize he’s actually asking her to see him.

“Why not?”

“Because if anything in the way you look at me reminds me of the way the drunk assholes at work look at me, I won’t be able to go through with this. And as much as I want to go through with this, I don’t want to feel objectified or like a means to an end…you know, the kind of person someone like you uses once and then discards. At the same time, I’m afraid that you won’t and I don’t want to like you more than I already do. I can’t see how any good could come from that.” She closes her eyes and sighs. “Does any of this make sense to you?”

It does, so he wants her to know the truth.

“When I first saw you, I did entertain the thought of bringing you home with me.”

“The night you were rude to me?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He pauses for a moment, thinking. “After a few moments in your presence, I realized you were different.”

“How so?”

“I can’t tell what you’re thinking, and that’s a first for me.”

“In other words, you see through women.”

“Not just women, people in general. Most are only out for themselves. Since who you are isn’t obvious, I have to work to know you. I enjoy it; it reminds me of a time when things were simpler.”

In that instant, the connection she feels to him increases exponentially.

“You idealize your childhood, don’t you?” she asks.

When he answers, he seems almost wistful. “More than you know.”

“Me, too.”

They share a moment of silent reflection.

“Had you hit on me that first night, you probably would have gotten laid.”

“Even though I was obnoxious?” He’s simultaneously amused and horrified.

“Yes.” Because her attraction to him is no longer purely sexual, she is able to admit that initially it was. “I might not have heard from you afterward, but I would have had a better first experience with sex than any other girl I know. I mean, I don’t expect losing my virginity to be earth-shattering, but I’d like to enjoy it. Something tells me you’re the kind of guy who makes sure the person you’re with comes before you do. Am I right?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes meet his, but instead of the cocky pride she expects, she sees something almost like remorse. Like most genuine emotion, it’s fleeting.

“I didn’t always take pictures. Before photography became an accessible hobby, I painted.”

It’s a strange topic change, but she indulges him, wanting to know anything he is willing to tell her.

“You mean when cameras went digital?”

“No, I still shoot film. Anyway, I like to capture it…the moment of climax. Everyone reacts to it differently. So yes, the women I take home with me almost always come. It would defeat the purpose if they didn’t.”

“Oh,” she says. “I’m not comfortable doing that with you.”

“Neither am I—not yet, anyway. But I would like to sketch you. I’ll be a perfect gentlemen. We can talk while I work, and maybe you’ll become more comfortable with how I look at you.”

“Why?”

“Despite what my occupation would imply, I am a bit of a romantic. You aren’t like the others, therefore you deserve your own medium. Besides, a photograph can be taken in a fraction of a second. That’s not nearly enough time for us.”

She makes her decision with the speed of a shutter photographing a quickly moving object.

“Where do you want me?”