He's not really hungry.
Mesmerized, he watches Rose methodically slather butter on her toast and add too much sugar and cream to her coffee. He still can't believe that she hasn't scarpered off yet, or that she doesn't mind being seen with him out in public. Maybe she doesn't read the papers or watch the news, he muses. Obviously, she doesn't realize she's having breakfast with the Worst Cop in Britain. He has to believe if she did know, she'd probably want nothing to do with him. Hell, he doesn't even want anything to do with himself lately. Not since Tess lost vital evidence while she was conducting her sordid little tryst. The worst part about the whole situation is that he hadn't even suspected a thing. If the evidence hadn't gone missing, he probably would've never known about the affair. Some detective he's turned out to be.
"Hey, are you alright? You've hardly touched your oatmeal."
He snaps back into himself at the sound of her voice. "Hmm? Oh, yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking."
"About?"
"Nothing in particular."
"You're not a very good liar, you know," she says, not unkindly.
"Why did you call me? We barely talked, you hardly knew me, but you called me. Why?" he asks before he can change his mind and chicken out. He's still desperate to know what this woman sees in him.
She shrugs offhandedly. "Dunno, really. You were cute, funny, and you left a good tip. I was lonely, you seemed lonely, too. Why'd you leave me your number?"
He can't very well tell her the truth (that he was looking for a revenge shag), but he doesn't want to lie, so he compromises. "Because you were kind to me."
"Is kindness that rare for you?" she asks, taking a sip of her coffee.
"Yes," he replies, not bothering to elaborate. He doesn't want to bore or burden her with the boatload of baggage he's toting around.
She reaches out across the table to clasp his hand briefly. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," he says, withdrawing back against his chair. "I'm kind of a bastard."
"Could've fooled me," she says, spooning raspberry jam onto her toast.
He's not sure what to say in response to that. Could it be possible that she actually does like him? Well, she seems to at any rate, but then again, she doesn't really know him at all. He's torn between wanting to stay and bask in the warmth of her glow and knowing that he's just prolonging the inevitable. The longer he holds out, the more it's just going to end up hurting. The longer he stays with her, the more he will fantasize about all the things that could never be. Why does he have to fall in love with every woman he sees who shows him the least bit of attention?
"How old are you?" he blurts out awkwardly.
She raises her eyebrows, but if she thinks the question rude she doesn't mention it. "Twenty-five. Is that important?"
"No," he says, not sure if he should feel guilty or relieved that she's at least ten years older than his daughter and less than fifteen years younger than himself.
"Quid pro quo, Alec. How old are you?" she asks, propping her chin up with her hand.
"Too old," he replies, and that is the truth.
She shakes her head and chuckles. "You can't bullshit a bullshitter. How old are you, really?"
"I'll turn thirty-eight later this year."
"You're older than you look," she finally comments a few moments later.
"I could say the same about you," he answers back, a slight edge in his voice.
"Touché."
They lapse into an uncomfortable silence that neither one of them attempts to break. He takes a few bites of his sodden, joyless oatmeal and sips his too weak and overly sweet tea, trying not to stare at her as she nibbles delicately around the edges of her toast. Her tongue darts out to lick away a bit of jam at the corner of her mouth, and he swallows hard, watching. A million questions that he shouldn't ask her run through his mind, but he stays silent. He should go. He should really, really go, before he says or does something stupid or embarrassing.
"Did you want to take that oatmeal to go, love?" the waitress asks, stopping at the side of their table.
"Oh. Um, no, I think I'm done with it," he says, pushing the bowl away. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize to me, you're the one paying for it," she says matter of factly, clearing the dirty dishes and silverware from the table. "I'll be right back with the cheque."
"Are you quite sure you're alright?" Rose asks him again after they've paid the bill and left the restaurant.
"Fine," he lies. "I just need to get going. I have to get back to my hotel and pack for check out."
"Oh...alright," she says. "Well, I had a really nice time with you."
"Oh believe me, the pleasure was all mine," he replies sincerely.
"Could I call you again sometime?" she asks.
"I'm not from around here," he says, pulling at his collar. "Just passing through. Don't know when I'll be back again."
"Right," she says, and he can see the disappointment in her eyes. "I guess this is goodbye then."
"Suppose so."
She wraps her arms tightly around him, and something about the gesture feels even more intimate than what they had been doing in bed less than two hours previous. Regret that he has to leave floods through him. She leans up on her tiptoes and presses her lips gently against his own. "See you around."
And then he's watching her walk away, hips swaying salaciously. In his head, he can just about hear John Travolta saying, "I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave." He gazes longingly after her, and it's only when she disappears around the corner that he turns the opposite direction and begins trudging back to the hotel.