It began as these things often do.
She blew in from the street, her coat held around her in an attempt to combat the chill in the outside air. Her hair was windblown and tousled as she slipped into the seat next to him and tossed a crumpled piece of paper holding directions unceremoniously onto the table in front of her.
They went on about mundane things like the weather, the wind, the season. She scooted her car keys back and forth across the shiny table with her equally shiny manicured nails. She ordered coffee. He ordered a beer. She made hers Irish with something out of her purse, and for a few moments they nursed their drinks in silence and contemplated each other.
In a way you could say the two of them matched each other, at least in the contrast of light and dark. Each had long angled fingers that moved just a little too much when they talked, whether to touch a spoon, fiddle with a sugar packet, or something equally idle. They each had almond-shaped eyes. They both wore black. They both liked the retro quality of the restaurant with its polished wooden banisters, cracked leather seats and worn tile floors. She particularly found comfort in the sizzle of food being prepared on the grills somewhere behind them, the nondescript scent of "warm" that permeated the air from years of preparation and serving within these walls. It took the chill out from the air outside and created an intimate atmosphere, even with the silhouette of skyscrapers looming somewhere beyond the double glass doors leading outside.
It began as these things often do.
They sat shoulder to shoulder and occasionally a knee would brush against knee, or ankle against ankle, toe against toe. The seat was formed in a semi-circle, hugged the equally circular table in the corner so they sat close, and said little.
They ordered food and she pushed her egg rolls around her plate, nibbling occasionally, sprinkling soy sauce, all idle gestures that meant little. They talked of work and politics. He mentioned a bar on the other side of the city. She commented that she'd never been there. He noted that the deep red paint on her lips didn't come off on the edge of her coffee cup, didn't smudge on her napkin. Everything was carefully precise about her makeup, while her hair remained wild, the collar on her shirt slightly askew. She offered a smile, dark lashes lowering over dark eyes.
Conversation lapsed again.
Finally, teeth chewing against her bottom lip in thought while she did it, she slid her hand across the cracked deep red of the seat until it came to rest lightly on his knee. He was suddenly tense against her shoulder, but his hand came to rest atop hers. His breathing had become utterly silent, he held himself carefully, as though it were the barrel of a gun pressed against his knee instead of her fingernails.
She found it endearing and a smile passed over her features again, hidden behind the fall of her hair and she glanced toward the glass doors, at the beginning twinkle of lights as the day grew darker and threatened to disappear. Her fingertips memorized the texture of the black denim beneath them, traced the alphabet over his knee with the slightest of tremors, the warmth of his hand shifting over hers as she did.
She trailed her nails lightly up his thigh and did not dare a glance at him as she did. He felt the muscles in his back tense in reaction to the attention. When she covered his hand with hers he looked at her. Her head was leaned back against the seat, her darkly shadowed eyes closed. When she drew his hand to her leg he let her, barely daring to breathe. She held her breath and kept her eyes closed, fighting every instinct and impulse she had to open them and look to see if he was looking at her, to see what his expression might be as she slid his hand up her thigh, under the black business skirt, slid his fingers further still to silently show him that there was nothing else.
It began as these things often do.
He moved his fingers up and watched her face as he did. She was both unabashed and perfectly composed as she leaned there, her hair a frame for the portrait of her face, one hand lying composedly over the coat she had neatly folded on her lap. Passing customers may give her an odd glance, wondering if she were asleep or not feeling well, but that was all. He watched her face as his thumb rubbed against the silky hem of her skirt while his fingertips played against her lips, moved between them deftly and dipped into her moist heat. He watched as her teeth bit her bottom lip when he did, and he smiled to himself. Quietly and with the barest of movements he searched out the jewel of her pleasures, her secret, and it was then her eyes opened just enough to stare at him, the tip of her tongue appearing against her dark lips for just a moment before her teeth bit down once again as her thighs trembled around his wrist.
