Spice & Steel

Newcastle in October is gray and damp and I love it anyway. I moved here three weeks ago, thirty-three years old, one duffel bag and a yoga mat, ready for something new. The apartment is on the first floor of a narrow row house on a cobblestone lane, and the walls are thin enough that I can hear my neighbor argue with his telly. Across the street there's an old spice warehouse, all dark brick and tall windows, and at night its sign creaks in the wind like it's complaining about the weather.

I stood at my window the night of my blind date, watching the warehouse lights flicker on and off. My friend Ruby had set this up before I even finished unpacking. A friend of a friend, a blacksmith, she said, and I had laughed because who says blacksmith anymore? But I said yes. I told myself I would stay single, keep things light, explore the city without commitments. I'd had one fling back at twenty-seven with a man from my yoga class, and it ended sweetly and quietly, and I learned I like my freedom.

Still, I put on the green dress.

* * *

I arrived at the pub fifteen minutes early because I am that person. The pub sits near the warehouse, low ceilings and a fire going, and there was already a man at the corner table nursing a pint. He was broad through the shoulders, forearms like rope, with a short beard and a look of someone also waiting for a date.

"You're Eleanor," he said, standing up. Not a question.

"And you're early too," I said. "Wes, right? Ruby's friend?"

"Guilty. I always get to places half an hour ahead. It's a disease." He shook my hand, and his palm was rough and warm.

"I got here fifteen minutes early and thought I was terrible. You win."

We laughed and sat down, and it was easy from the first minute. He asked about the move, the apartment, whether I'd found a good curry place yet. I hadn't, and he promised to fix that, which I noted he said without any pressure attached to it. Just a fact, like the weather.

Over the second round he told me about his work. He owns a small forge in the industrial district, and he lit up talking about it in a way I recognized, because I do the same thing about teaching yoga.

"Current project is daft," he said, turning his pint slowly. "A wedding cake topper. Commissioned. Two figures, forged from steel, holding hands. The bride's dress is the hardest part, getting the folds to read in metal at that scale."

"Steel folds," I said. "How do you even do that?"

"Patience and a lot of swearing. You heat it, you coax it. Metal moves if you ask it nicely enough times." He smiled. "It's like anything, I suppose. You can't force it."

I found myself leaning in. There was something about a man who talks about his craft with his whole face. "I'd love to see the forge sometime," I heard myself say.

"Anytime. Though fair warning, it's hot and loud and there's soot on everything."

"That sounds perfect, honestly."

We stayed until the fire burned low, and somewhere around the third round his knee touched mine under the table and neither of us moved away.

* * *

We walked back to my place along the lane, the warehouse looming above us, its sign groaning in the wind. He carried my scarf, which I hadn't asked him to do. Inside, he looked around the apartment, still half boxes, my yoga mat rolled up by the window.

"Nice mat," he said, deadpan. "Very professional."

"Excuse you, that mat has seen eleven years of sun salutations. Show respect." I grinned. "And don't think I didn't notice your hands. You could probably bend that mat in half with those."

He looked at his own palms, then at me. "Forging does that. Twenty years of it."

"You should show me what they can do sometime," I said, and then felt my face go warm, because that came out more forward than I planned. But he didn't laugh it off. He stepped closer, slow, so I could step back if I wanted.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked. Plain and simple.

"Yes," I said, and his mouth was warm and his beard scratched pleasantly at my chin, and his hands settled at my waist like they were used to holding delicate things carefully. I made a small noise into it and felt him smile.

We came up for air eventually. "So," I said, breathless. "Would you like to stay? I should mention I'm not looking for anything serious. Just so we're honest with each other."

"Same here, honestly. Work eats most of my week. Casual suits me fine." He kissed my forehead. "This can just be tonight, or the start of something loose. Your call."

"Tonight," I said. "And maybe loose."

I took his hand and led him toward the bedroom, boxes stacked along the hallway like little cardboard mountains. In the room there was a bed, a lamp, and not much else, which he commented made moving look easy.

"I own less than you'd think," I said. "Wait here one second."

I went to the nightstand and pulled open the drawer. There it was, a small vibrator, slim and purple, my trusty companion through two moves and one long dry spell. I held it up.

"So," I said, leaning in the doorway. "I have an idea. We take turns. I explore you, you explore me, and this little thing makes an appearance at some point. Sound good?"