Cafes and Pink Lace
I arrived at the cafe first, finding a lopsided table in the quietest corner. I sat myself between a postered wall and a dusty upright piano. I didn't order anything for myself, instead I opened my textbook hoping my studious performance will label me as smart and full of purpose in the eyes of my arriving company. My old headphones played Miles Davis. My foot kicked to the sound of trumpets and percussion.
I got here early, to avoid being late. The extra time allowed me to finish the notes I've been procrastinating for two weeks. My pen rolls over lined paper in anticipation. I'm nervous, but I pretend not to notice.
She arrived twenty minutes after me. Her ginger hair catching up to her as she escaped the outside wind. My foot stopped dancing as I watched her in my peripherals. Her strappy heels competed with my Miles Davis CD. They clicked on the concrete floor as she walked. It's a melody I could never ignore.
It didn't take her long to stop in front of me, pink toe nails peaking from beneath the table. I pretended not to notice her at first. I pretended long enough that she had to bend down to catch my attention.
That's my cue.
I almost missed it.
"Oh shit. Hey. Sorry, I didn't see you there."
I look up at her in performative surprise and give her a charming smile, standing up from my chair to greet her. A gentle hug and a tickled kiss on the cheek is enough to say hello. She smirks at me with glossed lips. She smirks as if she knows I saw her walk through the door. As if she knows I couldn't help but trace my eyes down her kept figure. As if she knows I couldn't help but watch her hips rhythmically sway as she strut through the cafe. My eyes following her french tips and gold rings as she waves to the freckled barista. She always knows someone. I like it, I think. But I pretend not to notice.
I'm getting distracted.
I pull her chair out, smoothly guiding her to sit while I push it back towards the table. I take my time to get back to my seat. Hoping she doesn't notice the deep breath I take behind her.
"You look good today."
I say it while I cross one leg over the other, painting a flirty smile on my face.
"Not too flirty", I tell myself.
She laughs at my compliment, bright white teeth catching the dim lights as she looks at me with discerning eyes.
"You haven't even looked at me."
Her eyebrow raises over a light blue ocean.
I hate that she challenges my performance.
I hate that she knows me too well.
But I'm too stubborn to back down. So I sigh instead. I sigh a noticeable sigh, to display my reluctance, and lift myself up from the wobbling seat once again. I throw my hand out to her in a way that says 'this is for you not for me.'
She takes her own time grabbing it. She always likes to make me wait. But I don't mind. Her slow movements give me more time to watch her mini skirt move over pink lace as she stands.
I pretend not to notice.
My hand snakes around her waist, guiding her to a slow spin so I can prove that I've now looked at her. And I do look. God do I look.
"Yeah.. see? You look good."
A closed mouth smile stains my face as I meet her eyes again. I don't want her to know I mean it. I don't want her to know that she's in my favorite skirt. That the heels I bought her make my pulse race. That her hair is my temptress. That it leads my wandering eyes straight into her tight shirt and braless chest. Her diamond necklace laid perfectly between perky C-cups. Its gold pointed setting wrapping around the rock and dragging my eyes down to her toned stomach. Down to her 34 inch waist, wrapped in that fucking pink lace and topped with a bow.
She's a big fan of pilates, you can tell.
After meeting her, so am I.
I almost forget to order us drinks.
I tell her I'm getting a coffee. Hot and black, as usual. I ask her if she wants anything. She looks up at me with those eyes again, and tells me she wants a latte. Hot. Vanilla. With almond milk.
She didn't have to tell me, I know what she wants, but I make her tell me anyway. And I pretend to listen. But I'm more focused on the smile playing out her lips. On her flirty, seductive fingers grazing the edge of the table. Her foot just close enough to slide up my leg as she speaks. It's all I can think about in that moment.
I pretend not to notice.
Eventually, the drinks are made and drank, and we get tired of the conversations and cafe noise, so we go back to her place. I ask for the address. I don't want her to know that I have the route memorized. That I could get to her place with nothing but that memory, no matter where I'm coming from.
She just tells me to follow her. That's what she always tells me. That's what I always do.
She doesn't live far. A fifteen minute drive and I'm following her through the old apartment door. I follow her to the couch. She leaves me for the kitchen, where she makes me a drink. Scotch and Soda. With a lemon slice. She doesn't ask me what I want. She doesn't have to. She just sets the crystal encased liquor in front of me.
She never makes a drink for herself. I pretend not to notice.
Instead, I follow the water droplets as they roll down and onto the silver coaster. Then I greedily lead the glass to my mouth. And eventually, her hands greedily lead my mouth to hers. My belt is quickly undone by manicured fingers. I don't notice until I feel her. That cold, light pressure exactly where I need it. She doesn't ask before she touches me. She doesn't need to.
I don't ask her either. My hands roam and listen to her silent words. I know where my hands should graze. I know where they should grasp. And I know they should tangle in her hair eventually. And eventually, they do. And, eventually, she knows hers should tangle in mine. So she lets them. And soon, she's guiding my head down towards her waist. Another silent request. I notice. I listen to it. I make sure she knows I do.
Sex is always the easy part for me.
I wish the rest was easier.
I pretend not to notice.
She pretends not to either.
I wonder how long her patience will last with me.
I wonder how long I have until I crumble and break into a million pieces in front of her., the anxiety of loving someone simply too much to carry.
I wonder how long until she sees how weak I am. How vulnerability stabs through my chest and makes me spill out all my flaws at once, leaving me with a void I'm forced to live with.
I never live with it.
I prefer to fill it with opioids and whiskey.
I haven't told her I'm an addict.
Eventually she'll find out.
I think she already has.
I pretend not to notice.
Perce G.