ever heard it in my
twenty-seven years. It sounded as though it was made for his mouth. “Do you
work?”
“Yes,”
I said, dipping my head in an exaggerated nod. “I work for Chicago M .”
“Writer?”
He leaned forward on his elbows.
I
shook my head. “Editorial assistant. Editor-in-training. I do contribute
sometimes, but it’s not ultimately what I want to do.” It was becoming hard to
ignore the fact that he was staring at my mouth as I spoke. “I don’t really
like writing,” I continued nervously. “Editing is very methodical - almost like
a puzzle, which I like. Do I have lipstick on my teeth?” I asked finally.
“Oh
uh, no, sorry. So no to writing. I’ve spoken with Diane at the magazine before.
Do you work for her?”
“Well,”
I hesitated. “I was her assistant actually, but not anymore. She was let go
recently.”
“I
see. So will you take her position?” His abrupt and somewhat intrusive tone
reminded me of something my father would ask.
“I’m
in the running, yes. I am taking over her key features, and if they go well, I
may get promoted.”
He
sat back and looked at me wistfully, as though he had just remembered
something. I liked the way his molten brown eyes watched me, and the way they made
me feel like I was the only person in the room. In this setting, between the
jazz and the wine, I wondered how pure his intentions were in asking me to meet
him. The dimly lit club was sensual and private, ideal for clandestine
encounters.
“Two
more,” he said suddenly, jarring me from my thoughts.
I
glanced up to see the passing waitress nod.
“How
long have you been married?” He looked genuinely curious. The way he focused
his attention on me when he spoke was unnerving.
“Ah,”
I took a moment to calculate. “It’ll be three years this summer,” I said
decidedly.
“How
did you meet your husband?”
“I
worked in his building as a personal assistant until I was hired at my current
job.”
“And
he asked you out?”
“Not
right away . . . After a while we became friends.” I fingered a button on my
blouse, feeling suddenly warm. He sure
asks a lot of questions . I was beginning to feel like I was in trouble.
“How
long?”
“How
long what?”
“Before
he asked you out.”
“Um.” Weird question . “Not right away.
Maybe six months?” He looked at me funny, and I looked back for what felt like
minutes. “And you, are you, ah, single?”
His
expression remained peculiar but he cocked his head. The waitress, it seemed on
purpose, chose that moment to arrive with fresh drinks. She made a note on her
pad while glancing up at him repeatedly, waiting, it seemed, for his answer.
“I
am available, yes.” Of course – he was a bachelor in the utmost sense. Stupid question . What am I even doing here ? Bolstered by a newfound strength, I
decided to cut to the chase.
“Mr.
ah, David.” It occurred to me then that I hadn’t gotten his last name. “Why did
you want to see me tonight? What can I do for you?” I reached for my wine and
took a sip, waiting for him to continue. Placing down the glass, my fingers
fidgeted with the base of the stem as I tried to focus on anything but his
unsettling gaze. He reached over and steadied my hand with his, so gently that
I gasped. It was as if my nerves were exposed, his touch was that powerful.
“I
think you know why I wanted to see you,” he said, his eyes boring into mine. I
licked wine from the inside of my lips and had the sudden urge to see what he
would taste like, to put my mouth on his. Removing my hand from underneath his,
I dashed the thought away.
“Why
do you do that?” he asked.
“I’m
sorry?” I looked at him questioningly. He motioned toward my earlobe.
“Oh,”
I acknowledged. “I don’t know, just a habit,” I said, placing my hands back in
my lap. I didn’t want him to know that tugging on my earlobe was in fact a
nervous habit. How many times had I done it in his presence? I never
twenty-seven years. It sounded as though it was made for his mouth. “Do you
work?”
“Yes,”
I said, dipping my head in an exaggerated nod. “I work for Chicago M .”
“Writer?”
He leaned forward on his elbows.
I
shook my head. “Editorial assistant. Editor-in-training. I do contribute
sometimes, but it’s not ultimately what I want to do.” It was becoming hard to
ignore the fact that he was staring at my mouth as I spoke. “I don’t really
like writing,” I continued nervously. “Editing is very methodical - almost like
a puzzle, which I like. Do I have lipstick on my teeth?” I asked finally.
“Oh
uh, no, sorry. So no to writing. I’ve spoken with Diane at the magazine before.
Do you work for her?”
“Well,”
I hesitated. “I was her assistant actually, but not anymore. She was let go
recently.”
“I
see. So will you take her position?” His abrupt and somewhat intrusive tone
reminded me of something my father would ask.
“I’m
in the running, yes. I am taking over her key features, and if they go well, I
may get promoted.”
He
sat back and looked at me wistfully, as though he had just remembered
something. I liked the way his molten brown eyes watched me, and the way they made
me feel like I was the only person in the room. In this setting, between the
jazz and the wine, I wondered how pure his intentions were in asking me to meet
him. The dimly lit club was sensual and private, ideal for clandestine
encounters.
“Two
more,” he said suddenly, jarring me from my thoughts.
I
glanced up to see the passing waitress nod.
“How
long have you been married?” He looked genuinely curious. The way he focused
his attention on me when he spoke was unnerving.
“Ah,”
I took a moment to calculate. “It’ll be three years this summer,” I said
decidedly.
“How
did you meet your husband?”
“I
worked in his building as a personal assistant until I was hired at my current
job.”
“And
he asked you out?”
“Not
right away . . . After a while we became friends.” I fingered a button on my
blouse, feeling suddenly warm. He sure
asks a lot of questions . I was beginning to feel like I was in trouble.
“How
long?”
“How
long what?”
“Before
he asked you out.”
“Um.” Weird question . “Not right away.
Maybe six months?” He looked at me funny, and I looked back for what felt like
minutes. “And you, are you, ah, single?”
His
expression remained peculiar but he cocked his head. The waitress, it seemed on
purpose, chose that moment to arrive with fresh drinks. She made a note on her
pad while glancing up at him repeatedly, waiting, it seemed, for his answer.
“I
am available, yes.” Of course – he was a bachelor in the utmost sense. Stupid question . What am I even doing here ? Bolstered by a newfound strength, I
decided to cut to the chase.
“Mr.
ah, David.” It occurred to me then that I hadn’t gotten his last name. “Why did
you want to see me tonight? What can I do for you?” I reached for my wine and
took a sip, waiting for him to continue. Placing down the glass, my fingers
fidgeted with the base of the stem as I tried to focus on anything but his
unsettling gaze. He reached over and steadied my hand with his, so gently that
I gasped. It was as if my nerves were exposed, his touch was that powerful.
“I
think you know why I wanted to see you,” he said, his eyes boring into mine. I
licked wine from the inside of my lips and had the sudden urge to see what he
would taste like, to put my mouth on his. Removing my hand from underneath his,
I dashed the thought away.
“Why
do you do that?” he asked.
“I’m
sorry?” I looked at him questioningly. He motioned toward my earlobe.
“Oh,”
I acknowledged. “I don’t know, just a habit,” I said, placing my hands back in
my lap. I didn’t want him to know that tugging on my earlobe was in fact a
nervous habit. How many times had I done it in his presence? I never
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