Acacia

There was a warm breeze on the terrace. For late in May, it began to feel like an early summer evening, with the darkness over the golf course and the glow of lights from the French doors of the clubhouse. He had circled the room filled with minor donors to the local museum, one of those end of season fund raising events rushed to get onto the calendar before the summer holidays began to draw everyone away. He played the part, dressed up a little in blazer and slacks, just casual enough not to be making too much of this, in a crowd where a hundred dollar donation allowed someone to show cultural awareness and get advance admission to the current museum opening, a traveling collection of Dutch landscape paintings. In fact he knew no one, and at the end of the evening probably still would not.

Couples and groups clustered and chatted, apparently from long acquaintance, and a few other strollers circulated in the room. Standard advice, for the divorced, was to join in and get out, which seemed like a good idea in theory and another moderately dull evening in practice. The paintings had been intriguing, to see how when individual works were brought together, patterns and standard genre elements became clear, and how simple landscape scenes had a level of other information that only became visible when you knew the code of the time- boats indicating thriving commercial activity, a dog lying under a tree to show fidelity, the tiny brushstrokes hinting at a girl in a Dutch cap, mysteriously on her own errand.

Still, the desire to socialize alternated with a feeling of being an observer in other people's lives. He stopped again at the bar, to take a second glass of red wine, something to sip and walk with. The bartender, a distracted younger man in a waiter's tuxedo, poured mid-priced Chilean Merlot-just the thing for this event, not too generic, not too special either. He slipped back into standard business marketing mode without thought- since most people in a crowd circulate in a room counter clockwise, unconsciously keeping their right hand closest to the wall, some long ago memory in case a sword fight breaks out, a good marketer knows to walk clockwise, looking into the faces (and name tags, if there are any) of those approaching.

Walking, sipping, looking, thinking lightly- couples in conversation, a laughing group of several men talking football as they passed, and clusters of older women. Finish the circuit of the room another time, then slip out the door and head home. Looking up from his wine, he noticed something slightly off, and realized it was a person standing still at the edge of the crowd- a taller brunette woman, of some medium age, self contained and observing the room over her drink, not chatting and not moving. Her stillness made her stand out from the crowd, while at the same time she was part of the background. Unlike the strolling doctors' wives, who had dressed up too much because they were glad of an excuse to have a social evening, or the groups of young women in too-bright party dresses and casual heels, this woman had chosen to dress in some understated but clearly expensive and tasteful way, a sleeveless gray dress and real-looking jewelry, dark high heels, her hair up off her neck.

As she turned, their eyes locked, and he flushed- caught looking, feeling foolish. He turned away, sipping more Merlot as a bit of stage business, turning the corner to finish the lap of the room. A waiter came by with a silver tray, and he had slipped his empty glass among the others and gone out onto the terrace.

Now he was standing at the stone wall on the edge of the tiled patio, facing out over the dark golf course and seeing the twilight blue sky making the trees at the edge of the course look like an inky black, with crisp outlines against the sky. The breeze brought some scent of the landscape and surprisingly made him shiver a bit. Hearing a tap of heels suddenly close by, he turned back toward the building and the fading party vignettes seen through the lit windows. The woman from the room, losing her stillness, had come onto the terrace, still holding her drink- something on the rocks, more than wine, sipping it and looking at him in a very direct way.

He slipped back into business mode, a medium-gauge marketing smile on his lips, and struggled to find the right ironic yet moderately charming thing to say- something about coming here a lot, or something setting the two of them apart from the crowd inside, but the look in her eyes made him stumble. It was a very direct look, not smiling or harsh or argumentative, but more apprising. He had the unconscious feeling of the painting that is observed and analyzed, without creating an immediate emotional response.

"You seem more in your element out here in the dark than you did in the room. Why do you think that is?" He had to pause and think, this was not on anyone's list of social questions to expect. He saw the immediate choice- to treat this as a real question, or to push things back onto the usual casual social footing of a cocktail party and then wonder later about missed connections and leave this as an anecdote to file away.

"The party was not really a party- not people together, just a shared event, and I wanted to reflect a little, not just circulate. And it seemed like a nice night for the terrace, too."

"That was only half an answer. What you mean, I think, is that you are more comfortable being on the outside looking in. I wonder about that."

He let himself look at her more directly now-a little younger than he was, though he was never a good judge of women's ages or clothing, except in the most obvious ways. Seen close up, she had a cool look, with something sharper in her eyes, watching his answers in a way he was not used to. The gold earrings and necklace looked very solid and real, something with a designer's name attached. Her dress was a simple shape, but clearly expensive and well tailored, with what looked like careful detailing and an elegant fabric that was a much more complex weave than a simple gray. Without being low cut or obvious, the dress clearly expressed her shape, a slim cleavage and strong legs. With her hair somehow pinned up, her neck seemed long and her head was slightly inclined, as she looked into his eyes.

"You're more right than you know; I've always thought of myself as an observer, someone who does not need to be involved, maybe more does not need to commit to involvement. At the same time, I find myself wanting to be part of things, to be more intensely in the middle of things without over-thinking everything. You seem comfortable as an observer, too, though."

"It is not the same thing at all, or maybe more accurately it's the inverse of what you are feeling. Some people find more intensity of feeling in managing the action, rather than in wanting to be drawn into something larger than them. I've always known that about myself. I think you know yourself too, but you've pushed that to the back of your mind. If you recognized it, you would see that intense feelings require a commitment, at least to the point of turning off your self-editing responses to life."

She sipped her drink, some sort of whiskey or bourbon by the look of it, ice cubes clinking in the short wide glass. Without his glass of wine, he felt disarmed now, not able to also sip and think, his eyes watching her and the landscape and party forgotten for a moment. The unexpected conversation had taken a strange turn, moving quickly into a territory inside his usual personal defenses. Without saying more, she surprised him by dipping a long forefinger into the drink, idly stirring the ice- then reaching out to place the dripping fingertip near his lips. Without conscious thought, or analysis, or even wondering, he leaned forward a few inches and took it into his lips, tasting the cold and the alcohol, old smooth bourbon it seemed. His lips pursed around it, while his tongue felt the sharp underside of her long nail. Startled by his own action, he drew back, stumbling again for the right thing to say, for having made a move that was not thought out at all.

His eyes met hers, and his start at a smile faded. What he saw was not playful teasing, or a smile, or anger- just analysis. "As I said, some direct the action, and some can find greater intensity in stepping outside who they think they are. I think you barely understand who you are, really."

Every thought led him to the obvious course, to make a smiling excuse of misunderstanding, to move away from this uneasy encounter, to try to find some more solid social ground under him. At the same time, he had a sense of her investment of thought in creating this moment, and his choice to deal or not with these questions from a stranger. He skipped over in his mind all of the background questions, about who she was and why she asked him these sorts or things or made him think about himself in a new way. Considered that way, it was time to invest in some real response, without trying to plot the social chess game for several moves ahead.

"When I think about myself, I see a false veneer that no one else does. I see past my situation, of being a senior professional in business life, of often being the older person in a group, of seeming to be long settled and pleasant but a bit dull. Inside, I usually feel like the youngest person, the least experienced, the least assured, someone who is riding the wave but is likely to fall off and be discovered as less adequate. My interior life comes from books, and films, and travel, not the experienced leader that people think I am."

"You're talking like someone at one of those business leadership seminars we all have to go to- you're talking with me without recognizing me as real person or as a woman, and without recognizing the sexual component of everyone. You step around the issue, but you accepted my touch and want more but can't deal with it." Still serious and not smiling, her eyes widened a bit as she watched his response. "You have every male's fantasy of sexual situations with those girls at the party, but as a string of passing ideas and nothing that recognizes those inner feelings. You seem to have some potential that way, but only if you can rise above that sense of yourself as unreal somehow."

Her frankness touched his mind and jarred him out of his social track, moving a casual chat to a higher level. He looked into her eyes again, trying to see her as more than just a stock character in his own play. Details snapped into sharper focus, the curve of her hair pinned back, the beginnings of a few fine lines around the eyes, the texture of her lipstick, the smooth skin of her neck soon hidden by her dress. He realized that her interest seemed to be in his potential, as someone who could be shaped in new ways, not as a suave character in a moonlight seduction scene. Her interest intrigued him in itself, and he found he was excited by a new direction, and by something more- the unexpected chance to improvise a new role without knowing and planning where it would go. As he thought about it, the idea that just reacting in a spontaneous way was such a departure from reality made him feel lame and foolish.

"I think- I know I want to get beyond that. You're suddenly making the rest of my life seem so restrictive and boxed in, and the idea of some other potential is exciting." He smiled lightly, a sophisticate responding to a striking woman.

Her eyes flared wide, and she suddenly took a step closer, again stirring her drink with a long finger but quickly bringing it to his lips and pushing it deep, over his tongue, almost making him choke as she pulled it back, hooked around his lower jaw, holding him closer. "This is probably not going to be what you might expect, are you really ready to find out more than you may want about yourself? No words now- I want to see it in your eyes. Make me see that you want this, show me longing."

Suddenly an actor on a stage, he felt himself pulled hard toward her in an awkward hold, while he made his eyes softer, pleading, trying to express a sudden longing, as he felt his body responding to her touch and her closeness. He kept his eyes wide, trying to put all his feelings there, and to forget the options. Still holding his mouth, she slid her other hand down his chest, over the starched shirt, and startled him with a firm grip around his right nipple, pinching hard and watching him accept it and stifle the gasp. For the first time since she came onto the terrace, a slight smile showed her even teeth, close to his face.

"So- we've already established your need, your longing for this, and your ability to give yourself up to a new set of feelings. Now is the real choice- to take a step this way, or to bail out now and never know. If I am directing the way, we are not having a game. I am not some web site fetish person from your late night imagination, with black leather and ridiculous shoes and a mock dungeon, but I will take your mind first and your physical self after that, where I want you to go. I am not a girlfriend and I don't care to know about the rest of your life, or even your name. I may take you for an hour, or the weekend, or only a few minutes- a lot depends on how well you learn and on the feelings you can give back. When I invest my time, I need to feel your intensity, or the encounter is worth nothing to either of us. If you decide not to step across the line, we won't see each other again and you will be left with your loss."

Her finger slipped away, leaving him feeling pierced and then vacant, as she took a step back and crossed her arms over her body. "I want this, this new set of feelings- you can see that already." He took a deeper breath, to rush on with it. "Yes, I mean, I am ready, I don't know for what, but I know I need to try, to see if I can be something else. I don't even know your name, what do I- what should I call you? Ma'am, or Mistress, or- you can see I need more guidance already."

"No, never those kinds of words! Ma'am is for very old ladies in elevators, Mistress is like a bad movie, and my name is certainly too private for you. When necessary, you may address me as Acacia- it is not a first name, it is the name of a beautiful tree but I like the sound of it. As for you, I will refer to you only as Five."

"A number? Five?" "Yes- simply because before there were four others. No more questions now. It is time to go. Please empty your pockets here, on the glass topped table, quickly please."

He started to ask the obvious question, and then caught himself. With a feeling like lining up at the top of a ski slope, he sorted through jacket and pants pockets to make a small pile of his everyday life in objects-the now ever-present Blackberry, wallet, house key with the initialed silver ring, valet parking ticket, handkerchief, a cheap office pen, a creased pair of business cards, some small change. He thought a moment, and then added the sporty watch. Without examining the pile, she swept it into her bag from the chair, some sort of expensive unconstructed leather purse.

"You won't need these. Your car can stay here for now. We'll see how you do. Walk with me now, out to my car, don't say anything." Concentrating now, he let her lead by a few steps, across the terrace and down a carpeted hall through the clubhouse. Walking behind, he felt somehow lighter without his usual things filling his pockets, and with eyes down he focused on her body, moving under the gray dress. Strong arms, firm calves, heels he had not noticed were quite that high, the dress tailored to skim over her body, hair up showing a long neck. As they went out through the lobby, other party stragglers were gathering and waiting for cars. She crossed the drive to hand her ticket to the red-jacketed valet with a pegboard full of car keys, and he unconsciously placed his hand on her back as they stepped off the curb. She turned suddenly, with a low voice "You will never touch me without my request. I am not some date to you. Last warning."

He flushed, put his arm down, and stood to the side as she arranged for the car. When the valet pulled up, it was a low two seater, not a make he recognized in the dark, some deep steel blue metallic color. She went immediately to the driver's side, and tipped the valet as she slid down into the car. Thinking about the right steps, he stood waiting at the other side until the valet came around and opened the door for him, with a dismissive look. Getting in required an awkward drop into the low seat, and folding his body into the small car. She reached across him to push him into the seat and fasten the shoulder belt across his body, then drove quickly down the winding drive and down the road with its stone wall along the club property. A minute or two down the road, she pulled onto the shoulder and stopped, opening the center console and looking through its contents. She turned toward him, serious and not smiling. "Here. Are you still as ready to explore as you were?" She was holding out two leather wrist cuffs that had a well used look. Thick black leather, 3 inches wide, with silver buckles and D rings attached, nothing playful about them. He held them, felt their solidity, and looked up. Her gray eyes watched him as he pushed up his jacket sleeves to buckle the cuffs onto his own wrists, feeling their weight. "Hands up behind the headrest now." He awkwardly reached up and behind his head, bringing the cuffs together as she reached over to snap the rings together, keeping his arms pinned there. Her breast brushed his body as she reached across, making him think about the sensation. She slipped a fabric blindfold, a leftover from some long flight over his eyes while he said nothing. "Now you are just Five. You have nothing except what you are wearing, you don't know where we are going, and you have made yourself open to me. Think about what you are." She checked the blindfold, and then let her hand skim down over his chest and thigh to make the point.

With only his sense of motion, and traces of the spicy scent she seemed to wear, he gave up trying to understand the direction they were taking. Smooth sweeping suburban roads seemed to give way to rougher country back roads, with tighter curves and dips. She switched on the radio, a classical station with little talk and an evening full of what seemed to be string quartets, but kept the volume low so that he had to concentrate to hear it. His body was held by the seat belt, and his shoulders ached now from his arms being held by the cuffs. As he settled into feeling the drive, her hand reached over to touch him from time to time, as a reminder that she had that right- a pat on the thigh, a pinch of his nipple, a touch of his face.

The car swung around a corner, and then stopped short on a bit of gravel. His blindfold was slipped off, but there was little to see- a driveway off a country road, old fieldstone pillars marking the drive, dark trees and the quiet of a country night, maybe the hum of far away truck traffic on a road over the hill they had come down. An old painted wooden sign near the mailbox said 'Haven' but it wasn't clear if this was a name or a place. She turned off the car, leaving only the ticking sound of the hot engine cooling.

"Five, this is where we start. I will direct, you will obey, and perhaps we will both learn new things about ourselves." She reached behind him to unclip the cuffs from each other but not to remove them, and he brought his arms down slowly, aching muscles stiff. The window on his door whirred down as she touched the controls. "Get out of the car, Five." He fumbled to find the door handle in the dark, then pushed the door open and awkwardly unfolded himself up and out of the car, closing the door.

"From here on, as long as I know you, do only what I ask but do it quickly and with no question. I will not need to explain myself to you. You have only one right now- to stop, but that is a one-way thing. If you ask to stop, there is no halfway point. I will have you returned to the rest of your life, but you will never see me or come here again- and you will always wonder what might have happened if you had the courage. This is also the last time I will ask -do you understand?"