Fairy Dust and Glamorings

I’ve imagined it many times when my fingers have lingered along my belly; when my body–in it’s sleepless throes–has sabotaged my intellect. We meet by designation and appointment, a simple meeting. We expect to have coffee, share a few laughs, lay eyes upon each other, flirt and then move on, back through the crowds to our separate and distant lives. We do just that, as the hours pass, the caffeine fueling our discourse, laugh lines creasing our faces as we blush in complete disbelief to be face to face; our habitual brightness dripping from us. Dusk settles on the horizon but we are oblivious until it is very late.

We fight over the bill, of course, each of us stubbornly insisting. Finally I pay, I always get my way. Your hand lingers on my upper arm for a moment and we both feel the shock, the thrilling acceleration as blood rushes to our temples and cheeks. We smile, nervously. Our eyes meet. They lock together; rams warring for supremacy. It is the nature of the beast.

We linger much too long; an eternity in the dark confines of the cafe. That electrifying moment defines us. Not good or evil, not positive or negative; just us. It would not feel wrong save for the pressure of society, the many lessons drilled into our primitive brains. I’ve thought of it, savored it, lived it. Felt it.

The attraction is visceral and undeniable. It is the best possible type of attraction; the type that demands nothing and simply exists making us high.

Your eyes linger on the curves as I walk out in front of you and you open the door. I can feel your gaze and it makes me hot, turns my middle into a pool of liquid heat; makes my heart beat a little faster. I feel radiant as we walk side by side through crowded city streets. Everyone is in a rush except us. Only our minds are racing–our time limited.

I think about kissing you. I often do. It’s your lips that I enjoy most. I look down instead as we walk, or straight ahead. I punish myself, internally twisting, denying my desire. I tell you I know a great place downtown we could go for drinks–a dark, quiet place, velvet clad and decadent. We take the train ride as we continue our banter. I call it a multicultural slave ship, you laugh at me as you give me your theories about economic social classes.

The wine bar is only semi-crowded as we slink into a quiet corner. We look beautiful in the warm half-light of the burning candle. A few glance our way. We decide on absinthe since you’ve never tried it. I slide my foot out of my black heels and tease you under the table–two wily children playing games. Water drips slowly from the cut crystal fountain onto carved spoons bearing tiny sugar cubes. The deep green liquor is diluted, turning milky white. The sweet scent is not lost to us as we continue to talk, your hand reaching down to stroke my foot halting it from going further. You’re wearing a white fedora, I, a dark feather.

In anachronistic bliss we clink glasses. Cheers. Our eyes linger as the warm, soothing liquid travels downwards carving a delicious trail of intoxicated ecstasy. The heat between my legs is suffocating, coloring every interaction down to the way my eyes settle on your lips through dark lashes. I set the glass down.

The words, “Kiss me,” surprise me as they roll off my tongue. Too bold perhaps and the fear of rejection wells up inside me suddenly making my world spin. “I’m kidding!” I say to guard myself as you stop, mid sentence. You reach out and caress my long, dark hair your fingertips feather light as you say, nearly whispering, “Come here.”