It was the hours of twilight. She walks into the small dim lit tavern, eyes quickly adjusting to the darkness, searching for him and assessing the crowd. 3 couples, 1 single and him. She walks to his table, the look in her eyes and the sway of her hip suggestive, provocative. She agreed to this seventh date hoping they would move to the next base. Lucky number seven?
He looks like a polished primitive tucked in Brooks Brothers, the reflection of the candlelight giving his eyes an eerie gleam. The occasional tease of his expensive scent, almost intoxicating. She can't take her eyes off his hands. Strong fingers fiddle with the stem of the glass and his knowing smile faints away to something else... A look, a feeling, that is as old as time.
She gets up and walks to the far end of the room, into a darkened corridor. If he doesnt come.....
Her back against the wall, his shadow looms over her, his expression unreadable in the dark. He appears alot more taller, broader this near. She didn't think fear would surge along with everything else that she was feeling. His lips hovers above hers, not really touching. The tip of his fingers graze the length of her arm, the curve of her neck, almost like a whisper. His hot breath on her face was heating the blood running in her veins. She was sure this heat would leave her scalded. The lace that she was wearing beneath is drenched in perspiration.
Her heart was thumping in her chest so hard, she knew it was racing against time, time that she did not have.
She placed her hands on his forearms that held her captive against the wall, the hair tickles the raw nerve ends of her sweaty palms. She still waits for the union of their lips, the anticipation, the scent, the stuff in the air leaving her breathless. He brushed his lips across hers. She could feel him smiling.
As swiftly as he came, he disappeared back into the shadows.
Her face flushed, hunger unfed, thirst un-quenched, an insatiable desire for a man she can't seem to have.... her body screamed, it was monstrously unjust.
She walked back into the room, returning to her tormentor and stopped dead on her tracks.
He sat there, exactly as she had left him, nursing his glass of wine, fingers fiddling with it's stem, his cufflinks winking at her. Cufflinks? She could still feel the heat on her palms.
She looked at the single stranger on the next table, staring at her over his drink, a crooked smile on his lips, short-sleeved-checked-shirt..... and familiar forearms.