Michael’s eyes follow the movements of Wolfgang’s fingers closely. He looks at the shape of their wrist, the curve and length of their neck, and it’s odd. He looks at parts of other people all the time; some of them are interesting and others aren’t, but he’s never gotten any kind of thrill out of it, never felt the things others say they feel. This, though—he doesn’t know what this is. It would be easier to figure it out if it weren’t so inappropriate to stare at someone’s body while they’re across the table from you in a restaurant.
“Um,” he says. “Right. I mean, no, making things smell good is harder than you think, that’s impressive.” Back on track. Come on. “Your shop, too, it’s always just right. Do you do it on purpose in there, for people who are sensitive to that kind of thing? And it’s so quiet in there too, maybe the quietest place I’ve found in the whole city. I thought that display window was just regular glass, how do you get it like that?”