Your invitation has made me a bit nervous, that’s all, I say, as I sit in the booth at a quarter past five, glancing at my watch–you said 5:30, and I have come early, not because I meant to, but because I did not get lost. And now I am sitting here, alone, aware enough of your intentions, and mine.
I have seen the gleam in your eyes, mornings, your grey wool, my hair up and neat, and we rode the elevator to the sixth floor, where I get off, you farther up, I knew, I knew as you glanced over at me, day after day, the wordless wolf-like grin, teeth showing. Big bad, little red. I need you.
Strolling in, you seem so cool, the room is yours, the universe. Squeezing fast in next to me in the tall seats, not cool, no, you are not, your heat searing my cunt with a brush of your hand, my hand shaking as the waitress hands me my scotch, you your gin. It burns, your hand tight on my thigh, grasping, then soft, higher, sigh, your fingers push my short skirt still higher as you speak indecipherable words that I realize later were kind, ordinary, the string of my thong now wet and teasing, tightwire. I might fall.
Ice in a glass, you ask, receive, reach for a cube, reach down, it melts as you trace patterns on my hot bare skin. “Here,” you hand a cube to me. “Put it in your cunt.”
I look, confused, at first, then determined, my fingers beneath my skirt, pushing aside the string of the thong, my fingers straight into the heat, my wet, the cube, melting quickly, my need multiplies. You continue to talk to me, tell me tales of the everyday, hold my hand, my wild eyes, wild desire, tomorrow, yes, I will, here, same time.