I always wondered what could be so bad in a person's brain that it couldn't deal with that negativity, somehow convert it to hope. Being a bit of a Pollyanna myself, maybe I don't really want to know, despite the curiosity.
After all, that shadow behind the irises is a damned scary thing to behold.
Zane had them, I remember. I had just turned seventeen when I first met him, and he wasn't much older than that. We were in the same grade in high school, but he was a transfer, so when he bumped into me at lunch, I didn't know him.
"Ow!" I protested, grabbing my wrist where he'd jammed it.
He blushed as he bent to pick my book off the floor, the color staining the back of his neck before he stood to face me.
"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice was low, rough, deep, flat, beautiful. "It would appear that neither one of us was watching where we were going."
I sucked in my breath as I got a look at him. I was used to attractive guys, but I usually found them to have a certain irresponsible levity to them, or a deplorably whiny angst. This one was just... dark.
I was too naive to be scared back then.
He had golden-bronze blond hair, an equally golden complexion and deep green eyes that seemed to see everything. His cheekbones where sharp and high, his lips full and sensuous, the bottom lip just a little bit more lush than the top. His neck was long and corded with muscle that continued into his broad shoulders, but was hidden by his t-shirt. His chest was wide, tapering down into his worn, grey-washed jeans. His arms were muscular, and his hands proportionately large and disproportionately sensitive as one wrapped almost completely around my book.
"If you're done staring," his voice drew me back to his unsmiling visage, "then you can have your Shakespeare back." He shoved the book toward me. "By the way, 'As You Like It' is just sappy. 'Macbeth' is much better."
I accepted the book, irritation wrinkling my brow. He was questioning my taste in literature!
"Thanks for the information," I said dryly, "But I like that 'As You Like It' is rather sappy. 'Macbeth' has its merits, like a truly beautiful portrayal of a psychopath, but it was a little grim for my mood when I woke up this morning."
His eyebrows arched in silent surprise. He was a lit snob, I just knew it. The type that didn't think a story was literature unless it portrayed the dark side of human nature or society. Hmph. He was severely limiting his world view, provided that was the case.
"But is he a psychopath or just your standard person?" he asked, confirming my theory. "After all, his wife masterminds Duncan's murder."
"Yes," I shot back, "But she cannot bring herself to perform the actual act, and the guilt of it all eventually destroys her. Macbeth experiences no such remorse."
He looked impressed now, nodding slowly, upper lip stiff.
"My name is Zane," he offered, thumbs in his pockets, fingers framing his zipper. "I didn't expect to meet anyone literature minded in this town."
I pointedly held my hand out for a shake.
"Don't let the small town atmosphere fool you. Our library selection may suck balls in a painful way, but that doesn't say anything about what we appreciate."
I looked from my hand to his face to his hands, which hadn't moved from his pockets, back to my hand.
Nothing.
"However, we do appreciate good manners. At least, I do," I finally prompted.
"Oh!" He blushed again and hastily placed his hand in mine to shake.
He had a nice handshake, straight up and down, confidently firm without being crushing.
"I'm Deia Cohls," I introduced myself, repressing an 'mm-mm!' for his handshake. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Zane...?"
"Astonse," he provided.
"Astonse," I finished, before getting wicked. "Well, after the initial nearly breaking my wrist part."
He smiled.
I wish I had known enough to keep my distance from such broken cheer.
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