I had scribbled my number on a gallery program and offered it to him. He smiled, eyes twinkling.
I still have it.
Really? After a year?
Maybe I'm a pack rat.
He is smiling so broadly. It's contagious.
May I have yours then?
My rat? It was a figure of speech.
Your number, silly.
Why?
So I can invite you over for dinner.
Are you a good cook?
No.
Then yes. Here.
He took the pen from me and wrote his number on the inside of my wrist. On the smooth skin above my hand. His hands were warm and so large it was as if he was holding a toothpick instead of my arm.
Three days later I called him.
Hello.
Hello, Jacob? It's Bridget. I'm sorry, did I wake you?
Yes.
Should I call back?
Why? I'm awake now. I'm glad you woke me up.
Why is that? Are you due somewhere?
No? Why do you ask?
Why are you glad I woke you?
Because I'm always happy to hear from you.
This is the first time I've ever called you!
Yes it is.
I don't think our conversations ever grew less endearing. He had a way about him. The thick Newfoundland accent and the no nonsense or all nonsense dialogue left little to hide behind. To my delight, I realized that instead of being frustrated by his way of teasing me, I was flattered. He could be very warm and formal with others and incredibly sweet with me.
I gave him the details of dinner and the next two days flew by as I shopped and planned and cooked and cleaned.
If I had known exactly how much food Jacob could consume in one sitting I would have shopped a little more.
