Monday, October 05, 2009
She painted the color of his eyes with imaginary fingertips. Grey circles. Like targets boring into her. Or a coyote's stare through autumn underbrush.
Across the table, she dipped into the water of those eyes as he spoke. And as he didn't speak. Never did she feel the nervous weight to look away. So strange. Her usual reserve fluttered somewhere above her. Like laundry waltzing on the wind. Clean and apart from her. Fears of exposure rinsed away.
She had to sit close to him. Surely he understood.
He didn't shrink away.
Any farther and her hands might claw for him. This close, he was within reach. The churning thoughts of wanting, needing, would not snap and rip through her. The mountain of emptiness not crushing her.
She touched the martini to her numb lips and the swaying dance of her senses. Was the heat from her? From his skin? The dark brush of hair darkened his chest near the shirt collar. The ripples in his neck glowed ruddy in the candlelight. She wanted to breathe there. Where his shirt cut into shadow. Where his chin would cradle her nestlings.
They say the last and greatest reward of love is the melting fire of joining. The thing that can't be undone. She shivered with it. Parted her lips to it.
And then he is not talking, and she is not rippling the pool of his eyes.
Her fingernails are denting his skin. Her thigh climbs over his.
She breathes where she so longed to breath. Her head is thrown back as he does the same. The waitress utters a partial word and turns away.
They must be right about the final reward, because she can't bear the cry, her rush to suicide. She needs to become. She needs to die.
Their lips collide and the table shoves away.
A check appears with his money splayed across it.
In the dark, down the halls, she shudder-groans. She will never again fear to crave.