A tip of the hat to the brilliant IronicLaconic, whose help with proofing this proved indispensable.
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Our apartment is perennially scented with a tinge of tiger lilies. Not from a plush bouquet of flowers - the pollen would have driven me insane, but from the Diptyque candles I've been habitually planting in his place ever since I moved in. And as I let myself back into our home, the scent mingles with that of a fresh breeze from an open window.
The house smells and feels empty.
I kick off my high heels. Black pointy pumps, last season's Prada. On any other woman the heels would've looked ordinary enough, if not a little posh and expensive. But on my feet - an exquisitely dainty size 4, with an equally fetching set of legs to go with - they look fucking fantastic.
No, I'm not being conceited. Quite the contrary, for that matter. The women who notice my petite feet tend to first coo about how cute my shoes are (anything looks adorable at that size, even if it's a pair of white Converses), and later lament about how broad theirs are and how it makes for pumps being an absolute hell.
The men, however, react rather differently. Their reactions can vary from a dismissive glance to a full-on double take, ending in either a comment along the lines of "wow, your feet are really small," to an exclamation-filled side-by-side comparison. "You're a four? Jesus, that's less than half my size" (suddenly basic arithmetic is a topic of fascination), then we line our feet up together, gasp gasp laugh laugh. And that's when I see it. It's a mere spark of interest, more intrigue than full-on lust, but it's the single thread of electric that will get the magnet going.
Sometimes men aren't the most subtle creatures. A part of me thinks that they'll enjoy anything petite and dainty, anything smaller than them. But I've learnt enough about men to know that no two are ever alike, or even remotely close.
I digress.
Shoes off, bare feet cool on the floor, I pad into the study where a broad wooden desk holds four colossal computer screens - two iMacs and two prototype organic screens, accompanied by a stack of hardcover books and a framed photo of us. This is his sanctum, the solitary pod of mystique and maverick that he retreats into every day. To this day I maintain that it's physically impossible for anyone to focus on four screens at once, but it's his nightly routine as a means to relax from work.
I start fishing out some papers from my briefcase, intending to file them into a cabinet tucked away in my corner of the room. I've barely gotten around to doing it when I hear a cheery chirrup from one of the computers.
i'm not the prying type, and the nature of his work has nipped my past curiosities in the bud. Choosing to ignore the alert, I'm about to resume with my work when the electronic trill rings out again. Probably a message of some sort, I think, but I'm quickly proven wrong when the computer starts chirping rhythmically, as though waiting for me to come over and silence it.
With hesitant steps I edge over towards his seat to get a look at the screens. The screens are black but the sound is still chiming out at a static rhythm. Weird. I'm unsure of what to do, which isn't really in my nature. The alarm-like ringing in the room doesn't help and I can feel myself becoming increasingly bewildered.
I mean, I can't just touch his computer...Jesus, the first time I'd done that, three months into our relationship...I give a little shudder at the thought of it. I'd been so naive, having thought myself immensely clever, and stumbled onto a labyrinth I wasn't meant to navigate. I'd broken through most of the firewalls and encryptions with a cup of tea in hand (lavender chamomile in my favorite Van Gogh mug), and a cat-got-the-cream smile on my face. All done in my jammies, too.
Please, it's not as if I was to know that what I did was a federal offense. And to be fair, when your boyfriend calls you on the phone, hissing like a madman to "get away from the computer, get away from the computer", any sane person's reaction would be to treat it as a prank. I know I did. Wasn't one of my better judgement calls.
I won't make the same mistake again. Looking at the computer makes my heart start to race, but almost immediately I decide that it would be best to pretend I'd never heard the computer in the first place. And if it really happens to be an urgent matter, one of life and death, I would be totally exonerated of all responsibilities, no matter what they may be. With a sigh I'm about to move away from his desk when the words write themselves in a minimalist white font dead center on the black screen.
MO CHUISLE
I start a little at the sight of that phrase. It can't be.
This message is meant for me. For a minute I stand there staring down at the computers, arms akimbo, trepidation keeping me rooted to the spot. I re-read and re-read and re-read those two words until I can think no more.
This is real. He wants me to do this.
Gingerly, I reach out and touch the Herman Miller chair, giving it an experimental stroke, feeling like a child who's just been allowed to touch her newborn baby brother. This is it. This is the throne he has never shared with anyone, not even with me...and now he's sent me an open invite.
I won't lie, I'm a little afraid, but it's a good kind of scared. It's the same kind of fear that creeps on my skin whenever I'm on my tiptoes, peering over the edge of a tall balcony. It's the same kind of fear I had when I was trying out for the MIT chess team (daunting enough for an adult, completely terrifying for a fourteen year old).
The same kind of scared I was the first time I found myself alone in a bedroom with him.
The best kind of fear.
Breathing in deeply, I settle myself into the plush chair and swivel myself into position, pulling myself up to the desk. I've seen him work at this desk enough times to know better than to look for the keyboard and the mouse. All I need to do is hover my hands over the table in front of the screen, like I'm waiting to play the piano. Flex all my fingers, starting from the pinky to thumb, to activate the positioning system.
The laser keyboard flickers to life, glowing white against the dark ebony of the desk.
An almost inaudible electronic whine starts, only discernible because of how quiet the room is. The processors are kicking in, networks are opening up, programs are running themselves. My surprise is about to unfold itself before me.
The words disappear, replaced by a thin white progress bar on the screen. As soon as it finishes loading, the following message pops up.
NOTICE ANYTHING NEW?
The question isn't quite what I expected. We know each other well enough, and truthfully I was anticipating something along the lines of a dynamic Gorrelinium fractal for me to solve. I lean back into the chair, cross my arms and frown at the screen, running a list of possibilities through my head. Notice anything new? How about the fact that I'm touching his computer, for instance?
There's the obvious, which calls for me to examine the room for clues. Immediately opposite his desk is my smaller glass-topped one, set to face his. The only things on it right now are two holders full of watercolor pens and white markers, and the desk doesn't have any drawer space to conceal anything.
Shelves run throughout the length of the wall to my right, bearing a trove of ancient tomes that we acquired as a joint collection. Red, brown and dark blue leather with their titles embossed on the spines in a fading gold ink. Mostly in French and English for me, Latin and Germanic for him.
