He wondered what it would be like to walk hand-in-hand down the street, instead of like this, brushing against her fortuitously and irregularly in the process of evading the occasional overenthusiastic pedestrian. Clichéd, he decided as soon as he found himself cupping his hands together and sighing air into them. It held the allure of something he'd never done before. Like riding a motorcycle or building a transistor radio.
She'd always enjoyed walking, for reasons Alan assumed had more to do with politics than the beauty of Dedham or the friendliness of its citizens. Everyone knew her, of course, and the choice few with the ability to provoke an about-face on the unkempt sidewalk all possessed an upright bearing that signaled an unmistakable, elusive, and vaguely enviable power.
He caught himself staring and averted his eyes, spinning in mid-step so that the dusky city, abrupt patches outlined by streetlamps, blurred with the beauty of the woman beside him. Well, slightly ahead of him now.
He hurried to catch up, once more falling in step beside her. "The streets are so empty at night. Why do you think that is?"
She slowed, turning her head just enough for him to catch the force of a reproving look. "Alan, there isn't a topic of conversation to be changing. You do—"
"Is that perfume?" He'd had an idea she'd stop suddenly—didn't know he'd had the idea until she'd done it.
He sidled up to her and, feeling faintly ridiculous in his bulky winter jacket, rested a hand on the nape of her neck. "Are you wearing perfume for me?" In a teasing imitation of a kiss, he leaned towards her, sniffing dramatically. The perfume smelled stale, still receding from an important lunch date she must have had earlier in the day.
She chuckled in spite of herself, laughing with a hesitance he'd never imagine applying to anything else about her. He adored her laugh. "Alan..."
He lifted his hand from her back, sweeping hers up in it just as he strode forward. "Yes?"
"Your hand is freezing." Something about the way she said it made him smile. "You do own gloves, dear?" The follow-up should have stung, but he was struck by the idea that she'd missed a beat in timing it. He clung to that belief more resolutely than he was holding her hand.
"At my house," he murmured finally.
They walked in silence amplified by the cold and the incongruity of the gesture, Alan staring at the linked shadows cast by the streetlamps, rough charcoal lines hewn into the sidewalk. He imagined it was cold enough that he could see his breath. He imagined his breath as light, as the hazy glow from above. He imagined he could feel her gaze on him, the quiet regularity of their footfalls underscoring its intensity. Then he wondered when she'd let go.
"I feel like I should be doing this to make sure you cross the street safely," she muttered.
He'd released her hand before she'd finished the sentence.