First Impressions

By Josephine Myles

For Lou Harper, for believing in this story, and for JL

Merrow, who helped knock the final version into shape.

The first thing I noticed about him was his socks.
That was pretty unusual for me. No, wait, that was

unprecedented. Usually I’ll notice a well-sculpted face, a long pair
of legs, or a pert arse first (not necessarily in that order). I honestly
couldn’t say I’d ever noticed a man’s socks before the rest of him.

They were the brightest things in the whole train carriage, a

whirling pattern of lime and magenta that made my eyeballs itch. I

could only see them because he had one pinstriped leg crossed over
the other, hitching the fabric up enough to reveal a few startling
inches between the tops of his shiny brogues and the hem of his
trousers.

I tracked the stripes up his legs to the sheaf of paperwork in his

lap, the neatly buttoned jacket, the Windsor knot at his throat, up
farther to a face that was nondescript in every way. They weren’t
the kind of features I’d be interested in sketching: pursed lips,
regular nose, grayish eyes. Dark hair tamed down with product,
with just a few unruly curls defying the Brylcreem tyranny. In
appearance there was little to distinguish him from the thousands of
other young businessmen making their way into London on the
Metropolitan line every day.

Then he looked up at me.
Those eyes! In the sickly, fluorescent lighting they were bleached

of any definite color, but the rings around the irises were dark, like
targets. I was drawn in, against my will, and then the smug bastard
only went and leered at me. Those priggish lips twisted themselves
up into a filthy grin, the regulation eyebrows quirking into a lopsided
come-on.

I looked down at my boots, my battered old army boots. I

looked at my dirty jeans, smeared with a spectrum of colors from
when I was too lazy to find a brush cleaning rag and the thick
dreads lying heavy over my shoulders. That couldn’t have been a
come-on. There’s no way a suit like that would look at a scruffy
loser like me. And there’s no way I’d be interested in someone like
that: capitalist scum, feeding off the hard-working proletariat. I
snorted and gave myself a mental kick up the backside. I was
starting to sound like the militant lefties I did my best to avoid at uni.

My fault for reading Marx directly before going to bed.

My eyes darted up again. He was absorbed in his paperwork. I

must have imagined it, probably had too much to drink last night. I
really should start eating a proper breakfast, instead of grabbing a
sugar waffle from the stand on my way in to the studio.

I got off before him, leaving for my connection at Baker Street. I

thought his gaze might have flicked over me as I walked past, but I
couldn’t really tell. When I looked back in through the grimy
window from the platform, he was immersed in his work.

***

The next time I saw him, his socks were lilac with burnt orange

spots. Hideous things that left a negative image of themselves
floating in my vision. The day after that was the turn of a crimson
pair with aquamarine robots dancing across them. Did he pick these
things himself? If so, he shouldn’t be allowed to shop without a
friend in tow. Preferably one with decent taste, although let’s face it,
even a blind man could probably pick out something less migraine-
inducing.

I realized that he always sat in the same seat, always working,

and figured that he must get on at one of the first stations on the line.
That made sense, as the Metropolitan line started out in the genteel
dormitory towns populated by stockbrokers and merchant bankers.

I found myself sitting in the same seat opposite him, day after

day. I got to know the impertinent spring that poked into my arse,
the strips of gaffa tape repairing the rips, the marker pen graffiti
behind his shoulder with its command to “Suk my huge dick”.

I found myself wondering if he’d chosen that seat deliberately. If

there was some kind of subliminal message he wanted to give me.
He hadn’t leered again, so it must have been a low blood sugar
hallucination after all. Our interactions were confined to a nod as I
settled down into my seat. A few days into our routine and we were
like an old married couple -- we’d just missed out the honeymoon
and skipped straight from flirtation to habit.

One Monday I missed my train, a pounding hangover after a late

night with Kathy leading me to ignore my alarm clock for longer
than usual. I got onto our usual carriage out of habit. There was an
empty seat, of course. I knew that there would be, but that didn’t
stop me imagining him filling the space, even once a large woman
had sat down there. I superimposed him over her, like a double
exposure; his charcoal pinstripes canceling out her floral dress. My
mind filled with all the possibilities for the socks he could have been
wearing that day. Not knowing what was covering his feet started
to irritate me. I was worried that this was becoming a rather
unhealthy obsession, but then again, I wouldn’t be the first artist to
develop one. Fuck knows why I was so interested in a man who
dealt with facts and figures, though, a man with no poetry in his soul.

I pictured him in a repulsive pair of fluorescent orange toweling

socks. The pair my Gran had given me for Christmas as a teenager.
I couldn’t bring myself to wear them, so I used to wank into them
instead, the thick fabric soaking up all the evidence rather than my
bedsheets.

***

I was half expecting him not to be on the train the next day, like

I’d jinxed things by being late. I couldn’t relax on the platform,

hopping up and down like I was busting for a piss or something. I
got a few funny looks from the other commuters. Mind you, I was
used to that. Being six foot two with blond dreads that reach down
to my arse, I was always getting people staring. I just scowled at
them until they looked away.

I felt fit to burst with happiness when I saw his silhouette against

the window. He gave me a smile as I sat down opposite, his lips
curving up in a graceful arch and resculpting his whole face. I
wanted to run my fingers across them. I yearned to know their
texture, to reproduce it in oils on canvas. I’d use alizarin crimson,
with a touch of yellow ochre and raw umber to knock it back, and
just enough white to lighten it to that juicy pink. I wondered if his
jaw was still smooth from the razor’s caress, or if his hair grew fast
enough to have turned it to sandpaper.

I started to notice things about his face. I’d taken up studying it,

the way that fleeting emotions passed over it as he read his
paperwork and scribbled his notes. Those tiny movements of his
eyebrows that seemed to signal amusement, horror, sorrow, and
more likely than not, disdain. It wasn’t really a plain face. In
movement it was something else: fascinating, subtle and rich with
possibilities. It was a face that demanded a portrait, although how
I’d ever capture any of those rapidly changing expressions was
bugging me. I was aching to take up the challenge, though.

***

In the whole month I’d been observing him, I hadn’t seen the

same pair of socks twice, which was weird as he only seemed to
have two suits and a handful of ties. Maybe he was some kind of

bizarre sock fetishist. Maybe he was sending me signals, like that
crazy handkerchief code they used back in the seventies. If so, what
was he saying? Unreliable? Experimental? Kinky as hell?

He probably had one of those old-fashioned wardrobes with

labeled shelves for shirts, vests and sundries, and a little container
on the back of the door for cuff links, just like Granddad used to
have. He’d come from the kind of family where you learned how to
dress properly and knew your way around a formal dinner service
before you were out of your nappies. My school had been full of
them, and they always knew how to put you in your place when you
were there on a scholarship.

I imagined his voice, all rich and plummy from years of inbred

privilege. He’d have one of those ridiculous names like Algernon or
Percival, but you can call him Algie, because he’s just one of the
lads, after all. And then he’d bray with laughter, before downing
another scotch.

One day he was sporting a pair of rainbow-striped socks, and I

found myself wondering if they went all the way up to the knee like
Kathy’s did. Or maybe he had a pair of those old-fashioned sock
suspenders holding them up, like they did in really old porn photos.
Picturing him in sepia, wearing nothing but a top hat and a pair of
socks and suspenders wasn’t the best idea, especially so close to
my stop. I had to clutch my bag to my crotch to hide my erection as
I got up.

***

When I finally heard his voice, it didn’t match the picture I’d

created. A bomb scare delayed the train between stations, the low

grumble of muttering commuters nearly drowning out his quiet tones
as he rang his employer. It was an educated voice, but an ordinary
one, the gentle twang of a regional accent still detectable. I tried to
place it. Those clipped vowels put him from somewhere farther
north.

I wanted to know. I needed to know. I fantasized about staying

on the train and following him to work. Of going and sitting next to
him, our thighs brushing together with the motion of the carriage. Of
saying, “Hi,” with a smile. Of reaching out and shaking his hand,
rubbing my thumb over the smooth knuckles. Of tearing his clothes
off and fucking him face down on the filthy floor, horrified
commuters drawing back from the inferno of our lust.

***

Then one sweltering Thursday after a couple of months of

watching him, something snapped inside me and I pulled out my
sketchpad. He had his jacket folded in his lap, his shirtsleeves rolled
up, and I couldn’t resist the lure of that flesh on display. Between
Pinner and Finchley Road, I drew like a man possessed, my pencil
skating across the paper. I began to fill in the rough outline. His feet
were first. I pulled a pink highlighter pen out of my pocket to
scribble in the vibrant socks. His face was next. While he frowned
down at his page for the best part of ten minutes, almost as if he
was posing, I managed to capture a certain likeness. It wasn’t
perfect, rather like an uglier twin, but there was a certain something
about the line of his lips that satisfied me.

There wasn’t much time left to finish. Before I could think about

what I was doing, my pencil traced the line of his calf up under the

trouser leg. The other side followed. I’d sketched enough nudes to
make a pretty good approximation as to what he’d be like under
those clothes. I figured his knees were probably bony, as he didn’t
seem to have much excess flesh. His shoulders and hips I could
guess at, the sweeping curve of his collarbone, and that hollow at
the base of his neck that must be there under the shirt. The arms
were straightforward, and as the sheaf of paper hid his hands, I
didn’t need to fuss over them. I was glad that his cross-legged pose
hid his groin so I didn’t have to decide just how generous I wanted
to be in that area. That only left me with a blank space where his
chest should be.

I could hear the woman next to me tutting as I quickly sketched

in nipples and a sprinkling of hair between them. I’m not sure
whether I wanted him to be hairy or not, but the space needed
filling, needed texture to compensate for the loss of his clothing.
Besides which, I could imagine running my fingers through a light
pelt of hair. I could picture it sticking to his skin with sweat, the
hairs swirling together into dark commas.

Hearing the squealing protest of the brakes that meant the train

was starting to slow for my stop, I quickly signed it with a scrawled
“Jez” and added my mobile number before I had a chance to bottle
out. I ripped it out of the book, folded it in half and threw it into his
lap as I fled from the train.

***

I was jumpy all day, my stomach turning over whenever my

phone rang. One time I didn’t recognize the number and my throat
went so dry I could barely croak out a hello, but it was only the

owner of a gallery I’d made inquiries at the previous week. I should
have been ecstatic that he was talking about showing a couple of
my recent nudes, but instead I couldn’t wait for him to get off the
line. I probably just ended up cementing my reputation as a surly git,
though.

I couldn’t concentrate on the canvas I was meant to be working

on, so I spent the afternoon on a self-portrait instead. There seemed
to be something different about my face, and I wanted to capture it
to see if I could work out what it was, to see if there was anything
redeemable about my ugly mug; my nose, too crooked to be
described as anything more generous than as having character; my
chin, more defiant than chiseled, half obscured by stubble; my mop
of blond dreadlocks, born out of laziness rather than design,
although Kathy did occasionally try to neaten them up, tutting as she
threaded beads and baubles in there; my pale blue eyes, glaring
balefully under a deeply furrowed forehead.

Or at least, they usually did. That day they were different. Lost. I

saw the birth of something new in their depths and it scared the shit
out of me. I didn’t know who I was anymore.

My mobile rang and I jumped, the pencil skidding across the

paper, adding a new scar to the forbidding portrait.

It was Kathy, and I contemplated not answering, but she’d only

call ‘round in a few minutes if I didn’t. Her dance studio was only a
couple of streets away. She wouldn’t stop chattering, so I agreed to
meet her for lunch, if only to get her off the line. I hung up and
checked for messages. There weren’t any. I wanted to throw the
phone out of the fucking window.

***

“So come on then, who is he?” Kathy scooped up a huge

spoonful of ice cream, staring at me with wide eyes as she let it melt
in her mouth.

“I thought dancers were all meant to be anorexic,” I grumbled.
“Nah, we need to keep our strength up. Besides, I can always

stick my fingers down my throat afterwards.” She winked to let me
know she was teasing. “Come on then, spill the beans. I want a
name.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” How the fuck did she always

know?

“Oh come on, Jez, you can’t fool me. I haven’t seen you like this

since... What was his name? Stan?”

“Don’t remind me of that arsehole.” I really knew how to pick

them, always drawn to the most unsuitable, emotionally unavailable
men. The sex would be great, and I’d start to think that he could be
the one. I’d start to open up and he’d draw away. Desperate to
make things work, I’d suggest that he move in; he’d leave. I’d
pretty much given up looking, and had spent the last couple of years
relying on my own hands and a string of one-night stands.

“So go on, then. Name?”
I sighed. “I don’t know his sodding name, all right? He’s just a

bloke on the train with terrible taste in socks and I think I’ve just
made a huge bloody fool of myself, okay?”

She looked at me with raised eyebrows, a smile dimpling the

edges of her mouth.

“I’m sure it’s not that bad, sweetie. You want to tell me about

it?”

I found that I did, after all, because it all flowed out in a jumble of

anger and lust, and I caught her looking at me with what I took to
be amused sympathy. She actually giggled when I told her what I’d
done with the drawing, but then clapped her hand over her mouth
and patted my arm.

“Oh, hon, it’s okay. He’s probably just a bit shocked if you’ve

never even spoken to him before. Are you sure he’s gay?”

“I don’t know. I thought so, but he doesn’t give much away.” I’d

gone and gotten it all wrong, hadn’t I? He probably had a wife and
two-point-four children tucked away in suburban bliss. Not that I
hadn’t ended up seeing married men before. Like I said, unsuitable
and emotionally unavailable is like catnip to me.

“I would suggest just striking up a conversation, but it’s a bit late

for that now. I expect he’ll phone you after work. He’ll be too busy
during the day. He’ll wait until he’s got some privacy.”

Maybe Kathy was right, but I still kept clutching the pocket with

my phone in, and it felt like my stomach was trying to tie itself up in
knots. I spent the afternoon savagely cleaning my studio in the
punishing heat, and stormed off home with a head full of
recriminations.

***

The next day I almost chose a different car, but I wasn’t about to

let some jumped-up office boy scare me away from my usual seat.
So I threw myself down on that broken spring and looked
anywhere but straight ahead. I could still see his fucking socks,
though. They were bright pink, like the ones I’d drawn, and they
assaulted me from my peripheral vision, reminding me of what an
idiot I’d been.

My phone buzzed. A text. I took it out of my pocket, my hands

trembling. Unknown sender. It just said, “Hi Jez.”

I looked up. He was smirking at me, phone in hand, one

eyebrow quirked upward. It was that expression I thought I’d
imagined, the first time I saw him. My stomach flipped over and I
fumbled with the keys in my haste to reply.

Hi. Don’t know your name.
It’s Steve.
Steve. A perfectly ordinary name after all. The kind of name I

could imagine writing on birthday cards. The kind of simple syllable
I could imagine crying out as I shot my load.

Hi Steve.
You want me to model for you?
He re-crossed his legs as I looked up at him, inclining his head

slightly. I wanted to close the gap between us and force those legs
apart. I wanted to bite those pouting lips. I wanted to find out just
what he had hidden under those pinstripes. I wanted to hear him
whimper his need as I teased him mercilessly.

I typed, When?
Tomorrow? I can come to yours.
I pictured him sitting on my bed, in just a pair of socks, his legs

crossed primly while he sucked my cock. I wonder if he knew what
he was letting himself in for.

We arranged a time for me to meet him at the station. I asked

him to wear his brightest socks. He chuckled when he read that
one, giving me a salacious grin.

I bounced around all day, not able to settle to anything. I counted

the hours, then decided to go home early and give the flat a well-
overdue spring clean, stopping at the local drapers to buy some

fresh sheets. It was still a bit of a mess once I’d finished, but at least
it was aired and most of the surfaces were presentable.

The last thing I did was change the bedsheets. I imagined pushing

him down on his hands and knees. I wondered what he’d taste like
when I licked the sweat from his back. When I swallowed his
spunk. When I pushed my tongue inside him. I felt like I needed a
cold shower. Instead, I took a pile of stinking clothes and bedding
down to the launderette. While the machines turned slowly, I went
out to buy a takeaway pizza and enough beer to stop my brain
buzzing.

I still ended up having to wank myself to sleep.

***

I was down the station a full twenty minutes early, which was a

miracle considering how long I’d spent in the shower and trying to
figure out what to wear. In the end I threw on the same old painting
clothes he always saw me in. It’s not like I had much choice in my
wardrobe, and I figured Steve would have to take me as he found
me.

The thought of him “taking me” made my head spin and my

blood pound. At least the baggy T-shirt hid my arousal from the
others waiting on the platform, even if it couldn’t conceal my
twitching movements as I paced up and down.

I almost didn’t recognize him. He stepped in front of me, a

different person with his crisp black jeans, tight red T-shirt, and
tousled, curly hair. It didn’t really click until he smiled that lop-sided
grin of his.

“Hi, Jez.” He sounded confident, predatory, and I suddenly

realized how little I knew about this Steve. He was taller than I’d
expected, almost as tall as me, and he moved with a cat-like grace
as he flicked a piece of gum into the bin beside me. Slightly slimmer
than I’d guessed under the suit, but with the kind of arse that made
me want to reach out and grab a double handful. I felt under-
dressed, and way out of my league.

“Hi.” I attempted a smile but my mouth didn’t want to co-

operate. My hands started shaking so I shoved them in my pockets,
trying to look nonchalant. “It’s this way. Come on.” I didn’t look
back, but soon saw him from the corner of my eye, keeping pace
with my strides.

“I didn’t realize it would feel so much like the city this far out.” I

could see him looking around, taking in the sari merchants and halal
butchers squeezed in amongst the betting shops and pawnbrokers. I
wondered how much he liked slumming it, and if he’d be shocked
by the peeling paint and stench of mildew in my building.

“Where are you from, then? The stockbroker belt?” I hated

those stuck up little dormitory towns, nestled in their phony
countryside of golf courses and riding schools.

He just chuckled, and although I wanted to shove him away for

laughing at me, the sound got to me, somehow: made me want to
hear it again, made me wonder if it would sound that good with my
head resting on his chest.

“Yeah, well, that’s where my folks moved a few years back. I

had to move back in after uni. Just staying there until I’ve saved
enough for a deposit somewhere closer to work. It’s not my sort of
place, either. Much more interesting around here.”

He lived with his fucking parents. Christ. This was starting to feel

like a huge mistake, but I couldn’t deny the pull he had on me. I

decided to keep my mouth shut. I didn’t want to find out anything
else that was going to upset my preconceived notions. I wanted to
picture him as an unattainable stockbroker in his spacious designer
apartment, not some office junior living with his folks.

Not someone I really could risk trying for.

***

“Cup of tea? Coffee?” I offered, wanting to do something useful

with my hands rather than watch him checking over my bookshelves
with a smile I couldn’t interpret. He was probably laughing at my
taste in pulp sci-fi and horror.

Steve turned around, eyebrows raised.
“I’m fine, thanks. Let’s just get on with it, shall we? Got your

pencils all sharpened?” He kicked off his boots and I caught a
glimpse of day-glo blue, orange, and pink stripes before he
distracted me by pulling his T-shirt over his head. I was arrested by
the sight of him, the dark hair lightly sprinkled over the wiry frame,
making a T-shape between his nipples and right down to the
waistband of his jeans. Gulping hard, I wondered whether I should
even bother with drawing him first.

Catching me looking, he gave a sly smile and started to unbutton

his fly with maddeningly slow fingers, obviously enjoying giving me a
show. Oh my God, his underpants! They were as bad as the socks.
No, they were worse: ghastly, tight orange and lime stripy briefs that
bulged enticingly and just shouldn’t have been so fucking sexy.

“You want me to leave these on, too?” Steve asked, hooking a

finger into the side and stretching them out so that they pulled even
tighter against his dick.

“Yeah, okay, uh, you sit there.” I indicated the armchair. “Just

like you do on the train.” Shit, why hadn’t I asked him to take them
off? I had to draw him now, all the time imagining what he had
hidden away under those God-awful stripes. He was fixing me with
a come-hither gaze that I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist for long.
I wanted to ask him to look away, but my mouth seemed to be too
dry to form any words.

It didn’t go so badly after all, because once I had the pencil in my

hand everything else flew away, and my mind was absorbed in the
task of translating the lines, curves, highlights and shadows of his
body onto the paper. It was only as I was finishing, and I noticed
him starting to fidget, that my cock began to stir and I wondered
what would come next. I wasn’t sure that the fantasy version of
events would work with the real Steve; I couldn’t picture him all
innocent and submissive like I’d imagined.

“Okay, I’m done. You can move now.” I stared down at the

sketch as he got up and walked toward me. I could smell him as he
stood over me, my breath hitching on the mixture of soap and musk
with a bright tint of lemon.

“That’s fantastic. Do you do this for a living, then?” He sounded

genuinely impressed, and I tried to look him in the eye, but my gaze
was snagged by the very obvious swelling in those dreadful briefs.

“Yeah, look, I should pay you for the modeling.” I wanted to get

it out of the way before anything else happened. I wouldn’t want
him to think that I was paying for sex.

“No need, it was my pleasure.” He flashed me that filthy grin

again, stepping even closer so that he was standing between my
legs.

“I always pay my models,” I insisted, knowing that my capacity

for rational thought was dwindling as my blood rushed south.

“I’m sure I can think of some other way you could compensate

me.”

With that, Steve hooked his fingers in either side of his briefs,

pulling them down so that his cock pinged upward, thick, veined,
and already leaking pre-come. I found myself salivating, reaching
out to cup his buttocks with my hands and take that beautiful prick
into my mouth. But I only got the tip of my tongue in contact before
he pulled back with a shimmy and a chuckle, leaving me gaping like
a fucking goldfish.

“Hey, wait a minute. There’s no rush, is there?” Before I knew

what had happened he was on his knees and we were kissing, his
hands in my hair as mine roamed over his naked back. He tasted
warm and welcoming, with a mere hint of mint lingering in his mouth.
“I just love your hair,” he said between nibbles to my lower lip,
tugging on my locks in a way that made me arch my head back,
hissing. “It’s like a mane. Makes you look like some kind of wild-
man.”

Steve fell on my neck, scraping the skin with his teeth and

sucking up marks, his busy fingers tugging up my T-shirt. I helped
out, pulling it off over my head and lifting my hips as he wrenched
down my jeans. I found myself idly wondering at what point I’d lost
control of the situation, but let’s face it, I’d probably never had it in
the first place. But it felt right, somehow, and I went with it,
asserting myself enough simply to grab hold of his hair when he
swallowed my cock. This wasn’t how I’d imagined it, with me
thrusting into his prim mouth and shocking him with my easy
mastery. No, he was deep-throating me like a pro, one hand
playing with my balls, the most delicious humming and moaning

sounds escaping him.

Looking down at those long lashes against his cheeks, at those

succulent lips wrapped around my cock was almost too much. I
squirmed, panting, sweating, and desperately trying to hold back
just for a little bit longer. He’d be leaving soon anyway, and I
wanted to eke out this sweetness for as long as I could.

More than anything, I realized that I wanted to hold him and taste

him. I wanted to see his expression and hear the sounds he made as
he came. I pulled him off me, saying, “Please. Steve. Here.”
Hooking my arms under his, I hoisted him up onto the sofa so that
he was straddling me, and I could take both our cocks in one spit-
slickened hand. I found his lips again. This time I could taste myself
in his mouth, the flavors mingling in an exquisite cocktail. I felt his
hand join mine, heard him moan, saw him pull away all flushed and
sweaty, saw him gazing at me with shining eyes like he thought I
was something special.

He came first, the sight of his seed spurting hot over my hand and

the sound of my name on his lips sending me tumbling after him. We
shuddered our way back to stillness, and I thought ‘this is the bit
where he makes his excuses and leaves.’ But then he laughed,
breathlessly, kissing me softly and telling me how fucking gorgeous I
was, and I just didn’t know whether I should believe him or not.

***

“These are beautiful,” Steve said with a reverent expression,

picking up a charcoal sketch of Kathy. “She must be someone you
really care about.”

I looked at him sharply. “What makes you say that?”

“Just the way you’ve captured her expression. There’s so much

tenderness, like you’re showing us something about her hopes and
dreams.” His gray eyes seemed to be focused somewhere far into
the distance, and I wondered if I’d ever be able to capture that on
paper.

How could an office grunt possibly understand all of this? And

why was he still here? He was back in his jeans with a cup of tea in
his hands, and seemed intent on making himself at home, walking
around and asking me about all my stuff, particularly my paintings,
which seemed to impress him hugely. I would have suspected it was
all a ploy to get into my pants, but he’d already done that so I
couldn’t tell what he was up to.

“What about your hopes and dreams, then?” I asked, thinking

that I may as well know the worst before I found myself falling for
him and his bloody soulful eyes.

“Depends whether you’re talking about careers or personal,

doesn’t it?” He gave a lopsided smile. “Careers-wise, I’m only just
starting out in publishing, but I want to work my way up to senior
editor, and one day start a small press of my own. That’s why I’m
always working on the slush pile manuscripts on the train.” He told
me about the mountain of unsolicited manuscripts he’d been given
to practice his editing skills on. “They need a lot of work, but
they’re people’s dreams and I have to respect the effort they’ve put
into them.”

Shame heated my face as I recalled how I’d judged him as some

kind of facts-and-figures obsessed automaton. He might dress like a
businessman, but that was only a shell. As he spoke of those
wannabe novelists his eyes took on that faraway look again, and I
found myself wanting to kiss him slowly, to be the focus of his

attention.

“And your personal dreams?” I held my breath for his reply,

feeling like his answer would seal our fate together. He looked at
me, really looked at me, a small smile on his lips.

“I just want to find someone special.” He took a step closer, his

hand brushing mine. “You know, I’ve been watching you ever since
I first saw you. I’ve been wanting to see you smile. You don’t do it
often enough.” He stroked my cheek, and I felt myself start to grin.
“That’s it. That’s beautiful.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I thought you hated me. You kept glaring. You know you’re

bloody scary when you glare.” I laughed at his expression of mock-
fright. “Love that sound,” he said, leaning in to claim my lips.

This time we made it to the bedroom, and I christened those new

sheets as Steve pounded into me from behind, his hands around my
cock. I found myself chanting his name over and over, and I didn’t
ever want to stop.

***

He stayed the night and we sat up until the early hours watching

some of my favorite zombie films. It turned out he loved them, too.
Steve sprawled on the sofa in his underpants and socks, with his
feet in my lap. I realized that I hadn’t seen his feet yet, so I peeled
those lurid socks away and studied them, wanting to learn every
inch of him. I traced over the tendons with my fingertips; I licked the
arches. He whimpered a little, trying to pull his foot away, but then I
sucked on his toes and he groaned.

We soon forgot all about Dawn of the Dead.

***

The train pulls into the station. I climb on, looking to see if my

seat is free. Steve hasn’t managed to find his usual one, so I take
one opposite where he’s now sitting. Because we get on at my old
stop -- our stop now -- he’s not always able to get that seat, but it
doesn’t stop us trying.

I watch him crossing his legs. I study the way the turquoise and

yellow zig-zag socks cling to his ankles. I remember picking them
out for him, thinking that they were like a Bridget Riley painting, and
the grin on his face when I gave them to him that evening. I’ve
realized that he can make the most tacky, clashing colors look good
just by being in them. I’ve realized that I don’t need to be angry
anymore.

I’ve realized that I’m worth loving.
I watch him and remember how wrong I was. Every now and

then he looks up at me, smiling, but mostly we just pretend to be
strangers. It keeps me from taking him for granted.

It’s always crowded on our return journey, and the seats are all

taken. We stand next to each other, clinging onto the same
handhold, our bodies nudging together with the rattling motion of the
train. We murmur into each other’s ears about our days. We walk
home from the station, side by side.

At night, when we tumble into bed, I always remember to look

up at the triptych of framed sketches over our headboard. On the
left, the stranger on the train, naked apart from his shoes and bright
pink socks. In the middle, a portrait of a dreadlocked man with
forlorn, lovesick eyes. And on the right, a man called Steve, posing

in his stripy underwear on the day he demolished the last of my first
impressions.

First Impressions
Copyright © 2010 by Josephine Myles
All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or

reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission
except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or
reviews. For information address Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box
2545, Round Rock, TX 78680

Printed in the United States of America.
Torquere Press, Inc.: Sips electronic edition / January 2011
Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, Inc.,

PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680