I glance at the clock as I take the chicken out of the oven. Only an hour left until your arrival. I have been cleaning my small, yet comfortable apartment all day. I glance around as I turn the chicken breasts over and wonder if I have missed something you might disapprove of.
I put the chicken back in the oven, and stir the pasta. I walk around the living room, confirming that my CDs and DVDs are in complete alphabetical order. The blanket thrown over the back of the couch is neat and straight, the pillows perfect leaning against both the back and arms of the couch. The remote to the TV and stereo system were on the coffee table, which also had one candle lit in the center. There were votive candles on the entertainment center and window sills of the same scent. The table had two taper candles, unscented, waiting to be lit.
You said I had not needed to worry about the condition of my bedroom, as this was a first meeting. Well, the first face to face meeting. My mind drifts back to the first meeting, the things that were done, things I let you do to me, all without seeing your face. My body starts to respond to the thoughts so I have to stop thinking about that night, about what might occur tonight. I tend to my bedroom anyways, picking up the random clothes that are littering the floor, and smoothing the black and white down comforter.
I look at the clock, and realize there's only a half hour left. I run to the kitchen and take the pasta off the stove and toss it from the pan into the waiting strainer. As I take the strainer in my hand to shake it, I notice my hands are shaking. I sigh and take a deep breath. I don't know why I am so nervous. I shake the feeling off as I take the chicken out of the oven and set it upon the stove.
I take the plates from the table; place a chicken breast on each, along with some pasta. I place both back on the table, along with the sauce, as I don't know how much, if any, sauce you like. With that done, I light the candles on the table, and take my position.
You will only knock on the door once when you arrive. Then you will walk in and I must be ready.
I unlock the door, take one last glance around the open room and smile. I think everything is as perfect as it could be. I get into the position you had specified to me in an earlier conversation.
I hear you knock, and my heart starts to pound so loud I am sure You can hear it. Part of me wants to get up and slam the door shut but it's to late.
You close the door behind you and stand above me. I so desperately want to look at you, into your eyes but I can't. I feel your eyes roam over my body, Looking at the quiver in my legs from kneeling, my hands clasped together, my chest rising and falling from my heavy breathing.
You say nothing, but touch me on the shoulder, which is the cue to rise, and lead you to the table. I am still not allowed to look at you, not until you say so. You sit down and you ask for some sauce for your pasta. I take the ladle and pour some on your plate until you let me know when I have poured enough. I proceed to ask you if you need anything else, and the answer is silence.
I begin to worry, thinking I have overlooked something. You finally tell me to sit, and enjoy the meal. The conversation over the meal is like that of a first date. You compliment me on the dinner, and the choice of the chilled chardonnay I have chosen.
Although we have talked many times before you ask me questions about myself, nothing sexual. Just things like what my ideal job would be, if I had any siblings, things like that. I eat little as I am nervous, and ask if you want seconds when done. You simply reply no, and I clear the plates away. I refill your wine glass without being asked, and continue to clean off the table.
I go to the sink, to rinse off all the dishes. I ask you how work was that day, and my response is feeling you press against me. You push me against the sink, biting into my neck. I drop the plate and the cloth, and grab the edges of the counter.