She paced slowly, methodically, back and forth like a tigress behind bars in a too-small cage. She smoked, and he hated that, but it looked right at the moment, the smoke curling from her ruby lips, sifting through her raven black hair, like flour through a sieve. She loved black it seemed, as he had seen her in nothing else. The outer garments were not present right now though, and she strutted in her black leather corset within which her breasts resisted with their every ounce of incredible being. Her high heels forced her hips forward with every step and she hummed a vaguely familiar but indiscernible song.
He watched her breathlessly as best he could, the white of her thighs between the corset and the stockings, the incredibly long silver ear-rings trimmed with black, the black eye shadow against her white face. Probably Goth at one time, he thought, but her age now, combined with the simplicity of her clothing and make-up choices, simply made her appear stunning, with sharp menacing edges, and erotic, sensual curves and shadows.
She had read him from the start. When they met at the Art Charity Function, they had both been observing a local artist's splash of colors on a canvas named "Bouquet". The colors were intense and varied, bleak-blues, ruby-reds, grass-greens.
"I don't like it," she said rather suddenly, without taking her eyes off the painting. Her breath of mint wafted his way and had an earthy tobacco edge.
Although his tux seemed to hold him rigid, he turned enough to look at her and said, "I like the colors."
She moved her eyes, but not her head, toward his gaze and flicked her observation of him from knees to head with precise and expert nonchalance. Her lithe and aristocratic body was swathed and hugged by a clingy black dress, the classic "little black dress" that fashion magazines say never goes out of style. She stood in apparent comfort in six-inch black stilettos, her skin was white at her cleavage where his eyes rested now. She was ivory and ebony and stunning.
"Are you gay?" she said suddenly, "This artist is. Too much color."
Odd thing to say, equating gayness with color. He had not taken his eyes off her, could not. "How else do you paint flowers?" he said.
"Just don't paint flowers. I like black." Then her head turned toward him and she asked again, "Are you gay then? I assume you are because you didn't answer."
He couldn't help it. He blushed and responded, "I am not gay; I'm straight, maybe a bit crooked, but not gay. I'm sexual." Why the hell did he say that, he wondered? The blush stayed with him and he wavered in eye contact. That was when she read him. She smiled.
"I see. Interesting response. You should get me a drink, a glass of wine, an oaky Chardonnay perhaps. My name is Alena." And she reached out her long arm toward him.
He wasn't sure what she wanted to do, but he took her hand and instinctively put it to his lips, and he bowed at the hip. Again, he felt silly, and he jerked his hand away while saying, "My name's Neil, Neil Webber."
She giggled slightly then and said, "Well Neil, I need a smoke desperately. Get me a glass of wine and bring it to the outside mezzanine just over there. I'll be there with all my friends." She didn't say please.
Neil strode away with as much confidence as he could muster, stiff in his penguin suit, wanting desperately to be alone with her, not with "all of her friends". With a glass of Chardonnay in one hand and a Shiraz in the other he walked over to where she had pointed and momentarily became confused, as there appeared to be no door to the outside, and when he looked outside to the deck there was no one there. Then he spotted the glass door and ventured out, expecting to be disappointed. She would not be there; she would have attached herself to someone else more interesting already and forgotten him. His insecurity always reared its ugly head when he met a fox.
The evening was cool, but not unpleasant, and the sun had been gone for an hour. Even if she was not there, it was good to get away from the stuffiness of the function. Besides, he now had two glasses of wine, and that couldn't be a bad thing. Then he smelled smoke and saw her at the far west corner of the deck, leaning on the rail, staring at the faint outline of the mountains. She was alone. He paused in momentary fear.
"Alena, there you are. Where are your friends?" He said as he brought her the wine.
