On an Edge of Glass

of guy that would look at home in Brooklyn?”
    I laugh.  “Yeah, I guess so.  He had on a leather bracelet.” 
    I shiver and turn to face the small table by the front door.  Ainsley set up a system of wire mesh baskets for sorting the mail between us and she does not like any deviation from the agreed upon arrangement.
                  “Huh.  So a tall and sexy bracelet-wearer?”
                  I blow my bangs out of my eyes and nod.  “Well I didn’t say sexy, but yeah.”
                  “And long hair?”  Mark leans with his back against the front door and his arms folded across his chest.  His blond eyebrows are drawn in so that they’re hidden behind his thick eyeglass frames. 
                  I flip an envelope into Payton’s basket.  “Yes, almost to his shoulders.  He was a bit… scruffy .  You know that isn’t my normal thing, but this guy was different somehow.”
                  “I see…  Different how?  Like that guy?”  He tips his chin toward the kitchen. 
                  I turn my body in the direction that Mark indicates and everything slips—like I’m looking at and through the scene playing out in my kitchen at the same time.  I open my mouth and my heart falls down my throat. 
    He’s here .  My coffee shop rescuer is in my freaking kitchen.  And he’s loading glasses into my dishwasher like he belongs here. 
    His hair is rumple d and he’s wearing a muted red shirt over jeans and that same leather cuff on his wrist.  He’s tapping his fingers against his leg and moving his feet across the grey linoleum floor almost like he’s dancing to music.
    I momentarily stop breathing.
                  What the hell?
                  I catch myself getting dizzy.  I’m literally slipping down the wall.  I shake my head and force in a gulp of air through my clenched teeth.
                  Mark is leaning over my shoulder.  “Well?” He asks me, eyebrows lifted high on his forehead and nostrils flared.
    “Uh, yeah. Exactly like that guy,” I whisper in a high-pitched, squeaky voice that doesn’t even sound like mine.
                  The guy turns and sees Mark and me standing in the hall near the door.  His eyes round in surprise.  He lifts a hand and pops out a set of green ear buds from his ears.  He tosses the cord loosely over his shoulder and pushes his dark hair back. 
    “Sorry,” he says in a slightly accented voice.  It’s deeper and softer than I remember. He stands to his full height and laughs.  He has a nice laugh.  “I didn’t hear you guys come in.”
                  He comes forward then, wiping his hands on the thighs of his faded jeans and adjusting his shirt so that it covers the entirety of his long torso.  Neither Mark nor I move.  I’m pretty sure that my bottom jaw is flapping somewhere around my knees. 
    “You must be Ellie,” he says.  There’s a smile sitting casually on his face. 
    I smile back, but awkwardly.  I’m trying to process this.  I’m trying not to react too strongly to the fact that this guy knows my name and is in my house. 
    As he crosses the living room and really looks at me for the first time, I can see the moment of recognition—the tiny flicker that flashes through his brown eyes and alters his expression.  His step changes slightly.  It’s almost as if the air stills for a fraction of a moment before sputtering back to life.  He shakes his head and wipes one hand down his face, squeezing his chin. 
    “Wow,” he says.  “This is strange.”
                  “Hi,” I respond cautiously, trying to think of a way to salvage the moment.  Words are propped on my tongue.  “Ummm… what are you doing here?” 
    I look around , like I expect someone to appear from behind a piece of furniture with an explanation.  My heart is hammering and my mind is whirling—throwing thoughts all over the place.
                  He looks uncomfortable in numerous ways.  He tucks his long brown hair behind his ears again and rolls his shoulders forward.  “Actually, I live here as of today or tomorrow I guess.”  He extends his hand to me and I think I catch it quiver.  Just barely.  “I’m Ben Hamilton.”
                  My eyes widen and I clutch the last piece of mail in my hand—a glossy marketing postcard for