We Could Get By

xix.

 Mrs. Lovett glanced up from counting change, flicking her eyes briefly to the booth by the window where her husband was slouched. He was looking at her brazenly, swirling the gin in his glass. Sweeney had been looking at her all morning. Not just looking, but staring, though Nellie could not imagine what he thought he might find. Even when she turned away from him to clear things off the counter or wipe the tables clean after customers left, Nellie could feel his dark-ringed eyes on her. His own shop had been closed for the day on the grounds of "minor renovations"- really, neither of them had gotten around to cleaning the evidence of Sweeney's last ill-fated customer off the chair's upholstery.

"Love, are ya jus' gonna sit there n' glare at me customers all day? 'S bad for business, much as I like havin' ya 'round."

Sweeney lifted his shoulder in a languid half-shrug, his stare almost challenging over the top of the glass he held. If the man could not hold his gin so well, she might have suspected he was drunk. She narrowed her eyes at him and leaned forward to brush the table clean. The heat of his eyes on the low scoop of her neckline sent a thrill through her. After all this time, he was seeing her, looking at her.

It was enough to set her face ablaze with a telltale red flush. His long, solemn visage held no trace of his thoughts except the tiniest shadow of interest that seemed to hide in the hollows of his cheeks. It was more than enough to set her heart racing. Something had gotten into him; she was not yet sure whether it was a good thing. She wondered what he thought when he saw her. The mere possibility that Sweeney was enjoying the sight of her made her stomach flip.

Maybe that's just morning sickness.

Nellie busied herself with washing the plates her last customers had left behind, scraping the crumbs into the garbage bin and sliding the dishes into the sink. She heard his shuffle behind her as he pulled himself out of the booth. Up to her elbows in hot water, she willed herself not to turn around and fling herself into his arms.

Don't even look at him, Nellie, she scolded herself. Every muscle in her body pulled towards him. The longing swelled painfully inside her, but she remained rigidly positioned at the sink. If this game, whatever her husband thought he was playing at, continued any longer, she felt she would burst.

"With autumn comin' up, I been thinkin' maybe I ought to start whippin' up sweet pies again. What do you think?"

"Sounds fine," he said. The clipped silence was going to drive her mad. Had he just been brooding there at the table or even sulking about in the parlor, she could have handled it. At least a lack of conversation usually accompanied those activities. The entire day, Sweeney had carried an unusual atmosphere with him, thick and hazy and hanging like smog around his hunched shoulders.

She marched up to him so that the two were toe to toe, and she tilted her head back to meet his gaze with a ferocity all her own. Before Nellie could act further, his lips were on hers and she froze in the arms that encircled her. She had expected an argument, thought perhaps he was angry with her for something she had said or done without realizing. Nellie wormed free of his grip to tangle her hand in his thick black hair. She grasped the side of his face with her other hand, pulling him in to keep his mouth against her. He tasted of gin and something else entirely, but it was far from unpleasant. Beneath her palm, she felt the faint, rapid thrum of his pulse so wild and warm alive. She let him press her between the sharp angles of his body and the hard edge of the pie counter.

Sweeney's hands wandered to her hips, and he hoisted her clumsily onto the counter, sending flour up in a thick fog around them. Nellie fought to keep the sensation of his vaguely chapped lips moving against her own, but he pulled away as suddenly as he had begun. His eyes were hazy and half-lidded, but an unmistakable spark had been ignited somewhere behind them.