Stolen Magic. Esri Rose
put the glass back on the ledge. “Not tonight. I made it through about a third of the players before I got shot down, though, which is an improvement. Butch will probably win. He usually does.”
I leaned back to hook my elbows on the bar, my shoulder resting lightly against his. Should I move? Should I stay put? I could feel his body heat through my shirt. Perversely, it made me want to shiver.
He leaned toward me, resting his fingers on my upper arm and speaking close to my ear. “See that guy in the red T-shirt? That’s the only real competition. Butch has been calling him Red Shirt all night to psych him out, but I don’t think it fazes him.”
I turned my head toward his slightly. “How do you play this game, anyway?”
“It’s straight eight ball tonight.”
“And that means…” I waved a hand vaguely.
He leaned forward so he could look me in the eye. “You really don’t know?”
“I was homeschooled.” A standard elf excuse. It seemed to work for a lot of things. Mark explained the basics of pool to me, his voice intimate, his breath smelling of apples. I told him about the chicken-game antecedent, and he thought that was hysterical. We were laughing together over some nonsense when a roar went up from the pool table.
Butch shook his opponent’s hand and clapped him on the back.
“I guess they’re finished,” I said.
“I guess so.”
Butch came over, took the glass out of Mark’s hand, and downed the last of the cider. He looked at the empty glass, then at me. “Was this yours?”
“It’s possible.”
He grinned at me. “How about a kiss for the loser?”
“Um…”
“Forget the loser. He doesn’t deserve it. How about a kiss for me?” He leaned over and gave me a smacking kiss on the cheek.
“You won again?” Mark asked.
“So much for counting on you to cheer me on.” Butch shook his head sadly. “Why do I even ask you to these things?” He took a wad of cash out of his jeans pocket and flicked it against his fingers. “Dinner, anyone? Sushi’s on me.”
Mark looked at me. “I was just thinking I might—”
“I should probably go home,” I said, not wanting to spend the next few hours pretending to eat raw fish.
“…teach Adlia to play pool,” Mark finished. “But if you need to go, I can walk you to your car.”
“Teach me to play pool?” I asked, and then remembered I was supposed to be at work now.
Butch winked at me. “Mark can’t play worth shit, but he’s a good teacher—very conscientious about making sure you bend over the table just right.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Mark said, smacking Butch in the ribs. “I play fine.”
“Maybe some other time,” I said. “I really should get going.”
Butch gave his money a last fondle and put it away. “You two kids do what you want, but I’m finishing the night with a mouthful of raw octopus.”
Mark lifted his hand in a brief wave. “I’ll catch you later.”
Butch disappeared into the crowded bar, and we got up.
“So where are you parked?” Mark asked, holding the door open for me.
“I walked.”
“Then I’ll walk you home.” He smiled and tilted his head. “Or I could, you know, get you a cab, if you’re not in the mood for company.”
“No, I like company.”
We stared at each other. I felt the impulse to lean toward him, to touch, and wondered if he felt it, too. Mark was so friendly in general, it was hard to tell if he liked me in particular.
“Okay, then. Let’s go,” I said abruptly, and started walking.
The air was still balmy outside, with even more people around than before. As we reached the sidewalk, I heard the sound of a band from the nearby Pearl Street Mall.
“So where do you live?” Mark asked.
I needed to get to work, so I gestured vaguely south. “I’m just a little past the library.” We walked in silence for a while before I asked, “How long have you and Butch been friends?”
“A year? Maybe a year and a half?”
“Is that all? I thought you grew up together or something.”
“Nah. We met when he had me take a picture of him with his Boxer. Yoda.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yoda is his dog, a white Boxer. He brushed him with green food coloring last year for Halloween.” Mark chuckled. “It was frickin’ hysterical, although Butch’s sofa will never be the same.”
I laughed. This was exactly the kind of weird humor that attracted me to humans, but what had Yoda the dog thought of the experiment? Since elves could communicate with animals, I might get the chance to ask him. “Do you have a pet?” I wanted to know more about him—everything, in fact.
Mark shook his head. “Not with the traveling I do. If the money’s there, I try to take a trip every year—some place picturesque, so I can sell a calendar of the pictures. Last year I went to Italy. The exchange rate was terrible, but I stayed with relatives.”
“You have relatives in Italy?”
“Sure. What part of ‘big Italian family’ did you not understand?” We had reached Canyon Boulevard, and he pushed the button on the pole at the crosswalk, to activate the flashing lights. “Let me guess. Your relatives are all WASPy types who came over on the Mayflower.”
I didn’t say anything.
“C’mon, Adlia. We always seem to wind up talking about me. What’s your story?”
I’d rather tell Mark than anyone else, but I wasn’t supposed to, and he wouldn’t believe me, anyway. “Well, I told you my parents are dead, and I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”
“I can’t even imagine what that would be like.”
“What’s it like, having a big family?”
He gave me a look. “We’re talking about you, remember?”
“Right.” I sighed. “I was brought up by a sort of cousin to the family. Aunt Kootie, I call her, even though she isn’t really my aunt.” We walked through the Canyon Gallery parking lot. Now was when I should go into work. Instead I led the way across the bridge that spanned Boulder Creek. “Anyway, Aunt Kootie isn’t one of these warm, cookie-baking women. She’s kind of stern and negative. Plus, she has a hairy mole on her face, so we didn’t go out and socialize much.”
“You said you were homeschooled. Did you go to college?” Mark asked.
“No. What about you?”
“I’ve got a BA in photography from the School of Visual Arts in New York. Do you have a job?”
“Aunt Kootie manages the investments for our family, and I help her. It’s boring, so I took up photography. And that’s how I met you. There’s really nothing more to tell.”
“Sure there is. What do you do for fun?”
“Fun…I take pictures and draw a little. I write in my journal, although I’m not sure that qualifies as fun.” Describing my life was starting to depress me. I steered us toward a brick quadplex. “This is my place.”
“Do you still live with your aunt?”