Buy Me, Sir

And I don’t want to risk it. I can’t risk it.

He takes my hand at the bottom of the stairs, and all thought of a confession zips out of my mind.

“Let me show you my collection,” he says.AlexanderKings and Castles. They have a hardcore following, but to say it’s on the small side would be generous.

Barely anyone even knows they exist.

But Amy does.

I’m not sure this shit could get any more fucking weird if it tried.

I’m no bloody sap. I don’t believe in happy ever afters, or soulmates, or twin flames or any of that other mumbo jumbo shit they use to sell dating site memberships and Valentine’s Day cards.

I don’t believe in anything other than two people deciding they can tolerate each other enough to make it through life in the same building, with maybe a bit of mutual affection along the way.

And sex. I believe in sex.

My heart is racing ten to the fucking dozen. My throat feels dry as I lead this girl upstairs, and there’s a tickle in my gut driving me insane.

A tickle that daren’t hope. That would be insane to even fucking hope this crazy connection between us could mean something.

Yet she feels so fucking real. The soul in her eyes is so fucking real. The way she wants me feels too insanely right to be wrong.

I’m terrified how much I fucking want this.

I lead her straight through to the crystal room and flick on the light.

Nobody has ever seen my collection, nobody that would give a shit about it anyway. Barely anyone finds these wonders of the natural world as beautiful as I find them.

But Amy does.

Her eyes widen as I input the cabinet code, she gasps as the light hits the gemstones and makes them sparkle in all their glory.

“My God,” she whispers. “This is insanely awesome.”

I stare at her as she surveys my collection open-mouthed, and I’ve misjudged her by thinking of her as a new-age hippy type. Of course I have.

Nothing about this girl any longer surprises me.

“You have poudretteite! I’ve wanted to see one in the flesh for years! I read about it when I was a kid, how they found it in Mont St. Hilaire!” Her fingers dither in the air. “And musgravite! From the Musgrave Ranges in Australia! This is crazy!”

Yes. Yes it is.

I listen to her in awe. Her knowledge of rare gemstones is incredible, better even than some of the hardcore collectors I go up against in auctions, those trigger happy types who take the listing details as gospel and care nothing for the actual stones themselves.

“You can touch them,” I tell her, and she gasps.

“I couldn’t!”

I take out the musgravite and place it in her hand, and her fingers are trembling.

I’m taken aback to find that mine are too.

“I had no idea you were so…” I begin, and I struggle to find the words without sounding like a condescending cunt.

She giggles. “Serious? It’s alright. I have a couple of cheap stones in a little velvet bag. It hardly reeks of sophistication.”

I feel like an asshole, but she looks at me like I’m the greatest man alive.

“You amaze me,” I tell her, and she takes a breath.

“You amaze me, too,” she whispers, and then she giggles some more. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe any of this.”

Neither can I.

I can hardly breathe. Hardly think. Hardly fucking speak as I watch that girl hold the musgravite up to the light.

She puts it back so gently on its display stand, and her fingers drift down to the empty space where the fire opal once rested.

“It was one of your favourites,” she says as she runs a finger over the plinth.

“I have a new favourite,” I tell her, and take the quartz from my pocket. I place it on the plinth and even though it looks so thoroughly out of place amongst the others, I love it more than any of them.

Her cheeks flush pink. “You need a new display card.”

“You can write me one,” I tell her, and dig around on the shelf for a piece of card. I present her with a fountain pen and wait for her to fill in the details, but she hovers. Dithers.

“My handwriting will be messy,” she says. “You should really print one.”

But I don’t want a printed one. I want her to pen it by hand.

I tell her so.

“Your handwriting will be neater,” she protests, but I shake my head.

“Please, Amy.”

Her fingers are still shaking as she writes out the description. It’s hardly what I was expecting. No weight, or mining location. No crazy new age properties.

Instead there is a simple description.

Angel Hair Quartz. From me to you, Alexander, with love.

With love.

She seems embarrassed as soon as she’s written it, placing it front of the empty plinth with a shrug.