Workman: Chapter Four - Part Six

6 

By the end of the match, John and the rest of his mates were really off their faces. Sangeeta and I were more than merry. The other blokes started singing a bunch of toneless anthems with a remarkable disregard for the correct lyrics. Sangeeta managed to pull me back over to the darker side of the pub, back to the booth we’d sat in the night before.

I felt amazingly good. There was a constant low-level buzz of arousal around my lower regions, reaching up as far as my chest, and my head was fairly swimming. We sat side by side in the booth, one elbow propped on the table, the other hand laying on the seat between us, not quite touching but occasionally coming into contact.

“So do you have a set of things you live by Geoff?” asked Sangeeta playfully.

“Huh?”

“You know, a code that you live your life by?”

I shrugged. “I guess. Not a specific list.”

She gave my hand a tiny stroke with her finger. “Well think about it now. I want to hear the top three things that describe what kind of man you are.”

What kind of man I was? I put my hand to my head. My thoughts were getting muzzy. I wasn’t a man. I was supposed to be a woman. This was all getting out of hand.

“Come on,” said Sangeeta. “I’ll start you off. Number one. You always intercede if you see a woman who’s in trouble.”

I gave a throaty chuckle. “Only if she’s gorgeous.”

Sangeeta slipped her hand just under my shirt so briefly that it almost didn’t happen and stroked my side. “You tease; don’t give me that. I bet I’m the hundredth damsel you rescued; and I bet you whisk them all off their feet straight afterwards.”

“I was just getting into practice for when I met the perfect girl.” I wiggled my eyebrows and she giggled. “Besides... you just admitted I swept you off your feet.”

“I never denied it!” She laughed out loud. “Come on then,” she said. “What’s your number two? What kind of man are you?”

I didn’t want to answer. I had a vague idea that whatever I said about myself came true: the name on the ID; the ability to do plastering. What if whatever I said now actually determined the type of man I was when I changed?

But I wanted to play along. It was great fun flirting like this and I didn’t want to be a spoilsport.

“Okay. Quality number two,” I said. I tried to think what my ideal man had always been and got an image of a skinny runt with floppy hair and an artistic temperament that made me sneer inwardly. I was the opposite of that. “I guess... I’m just an ordinary down-to-earth bloke – nothing fancy, you know... What my mum would have called a good old fashioned man.”

Sangeeta feigned surprise then smiled. “I think I would have liked you mum.”

“Yeah. She would have liked you too.”

“So you hold doors open for ladies... stuff like that.”

“It sounds a bit crap to say it like that, but...”

“Coats?”

“Huh?”

“Would you help with my coat on, if I had one?”

“Sure.”

“I think it’s sweet.” She touched my hand again. “But, old fashioned...? Does that mean you think women are worse than men?”

I had firsthand experience that I was certainly better at some things as a man than I had been as a woman, but I didn’t say so. “No. Women can do whatever they set their minds to – anything at all. I’d never hold a woman back, but I enjoy the differences, you know? I like it when women are women and men are men.”

I frowned, unsure why I was saying these things and surprising myself with how I felt. Again I got that duel sense of peace and contentment alongside racked up disconcert. The inner part of me that was poking at my sense of calm, telling me this was all wrong, was getting louder; harder to ignore.

“Can you read minds or something?”

“Eh?”

Sangeeta put her hand on top of mine on the table. “You’re listing all the best qualities I’m attracted to in a man.”

“Well maybe you should tell me what my third quality is then,” I said. “You seem to know me better than I know myself.”

“Alright,” she replied, straightening in the seat, putting one arm horizontally across her belly and resting the other elbow on its wrist, tapping her cheek thoughtfully with her forefinger. “Let’s see...”

I folded my arms, striking a masculine pose.

“Alright,” she said. “I think I’ve got it.” She made a show of getting comfortable. “I was going to say that I bet you’re a man who believes in always pulling his weight – that I bet you’re hard-working and I bet you tidy up after yourself. I was going to say I bet you’re generous with your money and that you always make sure people you care about are okay.”

She paused and eventually I filled it. “You were going to say that?”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re not going to?”

“No.”

“So what do you think is the third quality that defines me?”

She grinned. “Libido,” she said. “I bet you’re an animal in bed.”

We both grinned and she slid her hand up my arm, under the loosely rolled cuff. Her other hand slid under my shirt again, teasing at my bare side.

I looked into her big lovely eyes and slowly moved my head towards hers.

“Sangeeta?”

We both frowned without moving, then our eyes slid off to the side, followed by our heads, and I saw the man who had spoken.

It was an Indian man about the same age as we were dressed in a cream sweater, his face turned in with confusion and a smidgeon of anger.

“Oh God,” muttered Sangeeta.

I turned in my seat to look at him properly.

“Geoff,” she said, gesturing to the man. “Meet Rasheed.”