(no subject)
Tryst
Dark, uncontrollable tendrils pour out and spiral down, framing and highlighting the most delicate parts of her face, as they rest on her perfect porcelain shoulders. The only thing partially obscured is her face. Her intent, desire and passion bubbling just below the surface would be obvious to anyone who knew what they were looking for. It’s a vulnerability hidden in plain sight.
She walks boldly and unnoticed into the dark establishment that is only a fourth of the way full of the usual uninterested patrons. With most new or strange situations, once she’s crossed the threshold, she finds herself relying on old habits. One old habit is walking into any uncharted situation shyly, head down a little. This she doesn’t like and quickly throws her head up, her shoulders back as she closes her eyes, breathes deeply and slowly raises her eyelids until she has a look she’s more satisfied with. Cool, calm and in control. Most of which is a self-projected façade.
Her other habit is an old one that has damned and saved her numerous times. Once she’s gone this far, she’s not going back. She’d hate herself if she went back, always wondering.
She labored for quite some time about what to don this evening, not wanting to be too suggestive in any direction. Without even getting to the part of the night that holds such emotion she is already regretting her black thinly strapped blouse and silver/gray skirt combination. As she glides across the establishment she can feel, without looking, at the subtle and not-so-subtle glances carelessly thrown her way. They feed her current growing insecurity.
Her senses become heightened, taking in more than she can process, and she stops again to force out everything. The onlookers; the room in general, herself, everything but the next few stops are out of her conscious mind.
It’s only fifteen to twenty steps more. Each one intensifies and raises this growing feeling in the pit of her stomach. She may as well be a mile away.
Step.
Step.
Don’t Trip.
That lump is now somewhere between her stomach and throat.
Step.
Step.
She fights back the feeling that is now begging to burst out of her.
In cinematic moments like these, its expected there’d be something memorably said.
This is not a movie.
All that she can muster is a breathy, “Hi”.
He’s not any better, “Yeah… Been awhile.”
“Yeah, a long while.”
No returning of the greeting. It’s as if hers made it so he didn’t need to say one and went to the next pre-thought out thing in his mind. He’ll kick himself later for that when he realizes it.
They’re both fighting nervous smiles.
He coyly scans and his eyes drink her in, trying desperately to not make it obvious, before his eyes shoot back up to meet her intense gaze.
“You look…great”. He shakes his head slightly, forgets himself, and allows his vision to drop to her perfectly shaped hips covered by her form fitting black spaghetti string top.
“You want a drink?”, he says while he nods toward the empty booth he was eagerly waiting at.
“Uh yeah.” She adjusts the rogue hair that falls between her eyes and slides into the booth opposite him.
They both order drinks that aren’t entirely too alcoholic, again worrying about being suggestive, just conversation lubricant.
The initial topics are simple. Did she find the place easily? How was the trip? Was he waiting long? But it doesn’t take long for chemistry to bubble and she’s fighting her desire to continually return the sweet gaze and half-smile he gives her. She can’t help but feel like the first day of school; nervous, vulnerable, bare. All of which slowly fades as he keeps dropping amusing stories, and leaving her plenty of opportunity to interject and offer her own.
Though he’s smiling like an 8 year old with candy, his demeanor remains fairly controlled and reserved. It’s not that he doesn’t feel the very same uncertainties, just that he enjoys them. Times where you get to feel like this are so rare. Raging knot in his stomach, be damned! He’s going to eat this time up. Personal motto/outlook and opening strokes # 1: No expectations, no regrets. Play loose and free. Rely on instincts and simply enjoy what is, be it life-changing moment, benign mistake, or simply a learning experience for next time.
Before long, they’ve both downed as many drinks as they can to feel at ease. He initiates their departure by throwing down twice as much as their tab was going to cost, grabbing her hand and playfully saying, “Come on.”
Out the door, and around the corner of the entrance, he stops and turns.
“Oh yeah wait…”
His body is facing her, but his look is toward where they just exited. He walks forward. She backs up to side step and let him by, completely unaware of his grip that dropped her hand and is now lazily around her waist. Her back hits the wall as he keeps walking forward. He stopped looking at the entrance and instead looks around, tightens his grip on her waist, and rolls his head until he’s looking straight into her confused, nervous and elated eyes.
“I forgot something…”
He leans his body into hers, reaches up with his opposite hand and gently slides it past her cheek, thru the lochs where it rests firmly at the nape of her neck. Unconsciously she rests a minute amount of her head’s weight in his hand. His hand and forearm respond and hold firm without moving.
“Hi.” He remembers now, and says gently, a stark contrast to how heavy his gaze is.
In an almost masochistic nature they both just stare deeply into each other’s eyes. They drink in the moment, the gazes and try in vain to hold onto every preciously powerful second that blend seamlessly into one another. In the back of both of their minds, they realize moments like this are to be savored. They are the kinds of moments you roll around your tongue, until you can’t help but let it slide down your throat and into your body, nourishing something you don’t fully understand.
His fingers tenderly knead her hair and skin, massaging more than just her nerves and sending a gentle stream of excitement down her spine.
Neither one of them realizes before it happened - lost in the moment-, his arms and hands pull her toward him, and he meets her soft quivering lips.
Instinct overcomes and she finds herself lost in the sea of sensations she had forced out not long ago. Her awareness of his weight against hers, not pressing, but holding her against the cold brick wall. His smell, like first love. His taste, like untouched territory.
Their body languages so opposite, yet complimentary. She attempts to lift her weight onto her tiptoes and lean back into him, anything to grab a handle on the moment. But it’s in vain as her control of posture and composure are all but gone. He picks up where her unconscious mind leaves off, tightening and conforming to her
Before she’s completely lost in the moment, he pulls back and lets her head rest against the brick wall. Her head drops as she’s now staring at the ground. He grins wildly as he raises his eyebrows, and bows his head questioningly.
His hand finds her again and he spreads his fingers betweens hers.
What he can’t see is an aspect of her that was hidden, or put off, but is alive and slowly building steam. What he can’t see is her meek and yet devilish smile, as her eyebrows drop intently and she continues to stare at the ground.
With this last moment quickly fading, she is now almost completely aware of herself and has stepped outside of it. A single thought crosses her mind for a split second.
“He is going to pay for that.”
He pulls her away from the wall, the moment and that thought.
Before long, they’re in a cab both enjoying the remaining moisture of emotions that followed them into the yellow cab. She sweetly stifles laughter that seems to come out in bubbles. He remains composed as he looks toward her, posture relaxed, one elbow resting on the space vacated by the recently rolled down window, the other rest higher where an adjustable headrest once lived. The rest of his alertly slouched, tucked in the corner of the back seat. He's a prize fighter who knows he's won the first round, ignoring his instincts tickle, further coaching him to stay aggressive, but to keep the guard up.
He knows he's won round one. His only concern is if she'll go the full fifteen.
Cruising home at a comfortable pace, light conversation starts again as the cab pulls in front of his apartment. Still slightly inebriated from the alcohol and the feelings they left behind, they make their way up the stairs and inside.
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