The Listeners

by Maggie Stiefvater

June knew how it felt when one’s blood turned to fizzy champagne, how strawberries tasted when someone else fed them to you on those pale leather sofas.

Every breath scraped her throat on its way in and dampened her scarf on its way out.

He had had the greatest laugh, the most inclusive laugh, that always sounded as if it was for you rather than about you. The moment she’d heard it, she’d known that was what she’d wanted her own laugh to sound like.

Good morning, sir, here’s your coffee just as you like it, did you know they were going to bomb Pearl Harbor? Good evening, ma’am, the quartet will be playing the Liszt piece you commented on yesterday, does your husband by any chance know where my Polish waiter’s missing mother might be? But June knew, deep down, that it was still the same game. The Avallon had never been for those who deserved it. The Avallon had to present itself the same to everyone who came, or the entire illusion collapsed.

To have achieved notability but not be asked to perform it: that was a kind of luxury, too.

Much is made of first kisses, and not enough of third or fourth kisses. Not enough is made of the third or fourth time a man takes a woman’s hand. Not enough of the third or fourth time a woman smiles at a man with all her teeth, like a girl. June and Tucker kissed, Bureau and hotel, although that was only true for another few hours, and it was better for not being the first time.