Painted Faces by L.H. Cosway

throw back, “You're fucking obsessed Viv. If you're that keen on them then by all means go ahead and have a squeeze. Get it out of your system.”
    I'm trying to be breezy. Breezy, breezy, breezy . When really if he did touch me I'd melt into a jittery mess of flesh and bones.
    His eyes sparkle with delight. “Can I hold you to that? I want to do it at a time when I can give them my full attention. Some place private.” His grin is a mixture of anticipation and mischief.
    My eyes almost bug out of their sockets, and I try to remember to be breezy. Breezy I say! “Oh, of course. Just give me some warning before you dive in. I can't guarantee I won't throw a punch if you catch me off guard.”
    He laughs and takes a sip of his latte. “So where to now? I was looking for Stephen's Green the other day on my explorations, but couldn't seem to find it. I ended up at some train station.”
    “ You must be fairly bad with directions, because you can't really miss it. Come on, I'll show you.”
    I lead him towards Grafton Street, where it's all bustle and noise. The buskers are out in full swing, trying to lure a few sheckles from the tourists.
    There's a living statue dressed in yellow from head to foot with his face painted gold. When a little girl throws a Euro into the basket at his feet he springs to life. He gives her a wide smile and a slow bow. She giggles and runs shyly back to her mother who's waiting close by.
    “ It must be stifling in all that fabric and paint,” I mention to Nicholas as I peer up at the living statue, before dumping my empty coffee cup in a rubbish bin.
    “ We all paint on a face to show the world,” Nicholas replies philosophically. “For some of us, that's quite literal.” He takes a brief pause. “When you're passionate about something, you don't mind suffering a little discomfort.”
    I give him a wry glance. “Have you had to suffer for your passion?”
    He nods gently, his eyes roving over the crowds as they push by us. “More than you would think.”
    There's some sort of sadness tingeing his words. I keep looking at him, wondering what kind of suffering he might have endured.
    But then he plasters on a bright smile and jokes, “Those high heels can give you blisters like you wouldn't believe.”
    I accept his change of tone, because I hardly know him well enough to probe for details. “Tell me about it, that's why I avoid them like the plague.”
    Nicholas quirks an eyebrow at me. “You never wear heels?”
    “ Not if I can help it. Me in heels never leads anywhere good, usually it ends up with me injuring myself and others,” I laugh.
    “ It's all about practice and technique, you know. I'll teach you, that way I'll get to see those shapely legs of yours in a pair of stilettos someday.”
    “ Never going to happen. And I take it that by “shapely” you mean legs eight-eight as opposed to eleven.”
    Nicholas shakes his head at me like I'm a naïve child. “You really do have pathological self-deprecation, don't you,” he comments. “When I saw you weren't wearing any tights last night I had to do a good job of keeping from slipping my hands beneath the hem of your dress to see if your skin feels as soft as it looks.”
    I shove him away from me, flattered but indignant. “You have sex on the brain twenty-four seven Viv. I think you might need therapy.”
    “ Perhaps I do,” he grins. “Don't get me wrong I'm no Russell Brand, but I do have quite an avid interest in shagging.”
    “ Enough said, I'll be steering clear of you and the myriad of sexually transmitted diseases you might have contracted over the years.”
    “ No need to worry. The closest I've ever come to an STD was a kidney infection,” he replies humorously. “I always put a rain coat on the little fella before heading into a storm.”
    At his words, I let out a long snort followed by furious giggles. Yes, a snort. God help me. I cover my mouth with both hands and try to gain some composure. “You