The doorbell rang, shrill, almost prying; it put an end to my confused thoughts. He was here. Physically, he hadn’t changed: slim, straight brown but messy hair of which a lock reached down and divided up his high forehead, falling all the way down to his glasses which rarely moved from the very end of his nose.
We were directly opposite each other, awkward, in an uneasy silence; we didn’t dare look each other in the eyes. In a hand that -I think- was shaking, he took my hand and squeezed it gently.
“So, this is where you live...” The blandness of his remarks was probably intentional, an effort to open up communication. He was obviously waiting for me to open fire, but waiting is one of the things I do best: I can when circumstances so require it of me- hide my impatience behind a mask and remain completely unruffled.
I looked on at him like a cat stares out a mouse. I had the upper hand. How could someone who used to be so relaxed in conversation shut himself up in this monkish silence?
He gave in, and he started to look at me, looking at me who was looking at him; his eyes followed mine.