A Cafe off of Arip’dzoqiq Street, Laus Oma
She promised to try, and Aremu nodded, grateful. He took another little sip of his kofi, setting the cup down and studying her across the table, all freckles and flushed cheeks and pale red hair.
He didn’t ask for any more from her; he had asked, Aremu thought, enough already. He didn’t know whether he thought she would tell him; he didn’t think so, quite, if he looked straight at it. He didn’t think she would hurt him, or rather, he didn’t think he could blame her if she did. All the same, he was glad she hadn’t asked the same of him; he didn’t know what he could have said.
“I’d,” Aremu began, but Aurelie rushed on. He smiled a little more at her. “I thought we could finish our kofi and tea, and then look for fabric?” He suggested. “There’s still time until Feza’s to deliver the part - if you’d like, we might have time to go to a park afterwards. There’s some gardens not very far from here. If - if you want any of it, or whatever of it you want, I mean.” I can take you home instead, he half wanted to offer, but he didn’t, not quite.
Aremu took another sip of his kofi; he’d finished almost all of it, now, for all it was almost too bitter to enjoy. Almost, he thought, but not quite. His hand curled around the edge of the table; his gaze dropped to Aurelie’s hands for a moment, and then it settled in his lap instead, not quite reaching out to hold, for all that he did want to.
He wanted, Aremu thought, if he were honest, more than just to hold her hand. He would have kissed her, here, in the midst of the tea shop, if he had thought it wouldn’t make her profoundly uncomfortable. There was a part of him which needed it - which longed for it, that tangible reminder that he hadn’t made too many mistakes, not yet.
He swallowed it down, and found patience. He could think of little worse than imposing his kisses on her; he didn’t even wish to impose his hand. She hadn’t reached for him, he knew; she could have. He didn’t blame her; he didn’t think he could.