The House

Chapter 21 - Day 3: The Cuckoo

"The time is completely out," David observes, standing in front of the wall housing the cuckoo clock, looking up at it as if he's never seen it before. He's right; the two hands of the clock are not even close to where they should be right now. Yesterday, I noticed the same thing about the clock in the study.

Looking at David, his feet firmly planted a foot apart and his fists shoved into his sides, the man suddenly seems a bit too large, too alive, and overwhelming, standing in the decaying old kitchen. I swallow, feeling uncomfortable and uncertain about what to say or do next, so I turn to my comfort zone. Food. I fill the kettle, put it on its stand on the kitchen island and switch it on before I take two mugs from a cupboard and place them on the island counter too. 

And now I've got nothing else to do.

"Would you like some coffee?" At least I have some words to say. That helps. "I only have instant, though. Craig says it tastes like dirty dishwater, especially when I make it. Would you like some?"

"Sounds great; I'd love some, thanks," David says, his eyes still glued to the clock on the wall slightly above his head. Perhaps it hypnotised him, and he didn't hear me right.

Oh, my soul! I've never seen someone this perfectly proportioned before in my entire life. He would look completely at home on the cover of a Studs-R-Us magazine containing all the perfect men of the world. I don't think there is a magazine like that, but gazing at David, I really think there should be, and it should be filled with photographs of him.

"Milk and sugar?" I try a more cryptic question to test his presence of mind and to stop myself from daydreaming like a shameless, love-starved swamp nymph.

"No, thanks. I like my dirty dishwater black and bitter."

"Like life?"

David turns to me and gives me a grin, his brows knitting in a quizzical frown. "Something like that."

He looks at me for a while, his eyes running over me from the top of my head (did I brush my hair?)  to my naked feet. I left my flip-flops at the door with his dirty shoes. I can't tell whether he likes what he's seeing, his eyes are guarded, and he has a slight smile tugging at his lips. 

His eyes are taking their time travelling along their route, studying my long dark hair, sliding over my face, pausing at the cheeky tip of my nose before running over my lips and down my chin. He tilts his head while he looks at my favourite homemade bead necklace and the small silver cross on the black cord.

I wonder if he likes the pretty Broderie Anglaise patterns on my mauve, gipsy-style top as much as I do or perhaps it is the long floral skirt that is deepening his smile. It could also be my array of bangles. He doesn't spend too much time and attention on my toes, and I'm really grateful for that because their nail polish is in dire need of a touch-up. 

It suddenly occurs to me that he is a stranger and that I've invited him into this weird-ass house, and that we are quite alone here in the middle of nowhere. It's just me and David and the loudly ticking cuckoo clock in the kitchen.

Should I be excited or scared?

Perhaps, I should be neither. Except for the rather breathtaking once-over, he's paying more attention to the cuckoo than to me. As if confirming my assessment, he turns back to the clock, and I can breathe again.

Apparently, he is going to unset the cuckoo clock, using his brain or glaring it into submission. It would work on me. I find his eyes very persuasive when they're looking into mine. I'd obey them if they were telling me to do things... like... shut up and make the coffee. Which I do now, adding a heaped spoon of coffee powder to each mug.