It was me, the one who called first, but not right away. Right away would have been so wrong. Too desperate, so intense that it might burn out and then what?
For the rest of the week we had seen each other at work almost hourly. I had said nothing, neither had he. There were no meaningful looks, no signals, nothing.
But every night as I went out the office door onto Bloor Street I was imagining how it would be. A scenario played in my head over and over. In my bed. Urgent, yes, and freer, fierce like before, but not dangerous like the first time in the car. I couldn't stop envisioning it in my mind, when I tried to fall asleep and again when I first awoke. It was growing into an obsession that scared me and excited me at the same time.
Then, on Friday, we happened to walk out into the fresh air together. He held the door open for me. I wished he hadn't done it. It was too polite, too nice, too close. We shared a taxi to go home.
"See ya," he said as he got off the elevator.
"'Kay, bye," I said, but what did he mean?
I lasted through that night, through Saturday and into the early evening on Sunday. I couldn't wait any longer.
"Lindy," was all he said when he picked up the phone.
"You said there can be more," I said. I was on edge, feeling tense.
"Yes." Suddenly serious and without pause, as if it were front of mind for him. He said it just like the first time in the studio, as if it were only a fact, nothing more. He just waited.
"Come up," I said, throwing down the gauntlet. He simply hung up. Feeling butterflies even before I called, an adrenalin thrill went through me like a jolt of ice water in my veins.
But how do you set the scene for something like this, I wondered. This wasn't a normal situation. There were some things it couldn't be. It couldn't be romantic. We had agreed. That meant that there couldn't be any mood, no music, no soft lighting. It couldn't be seductive because neither of us needed persuasion. It couldn't even be friendly because we weren't friends. What were we, I wondered. Professionals. Colleagues. Associates. Not even a one night stand, at least I didn't think so. There wasn't a category I could think of.
Waiting for him in the kitchen, the movie reel in my head rolled. We'd get right down to it. He'd come in the door and we'd start right away, both of us hungry for it, maybe on the couch, maybe in the kitchen, maybe even on the floor.
But that seemed wrong somehow, too extreme, too abrupt. And yet I couldn't imagine us lingering either, sitting in my living room talking about safe things, neutral things, and then having awkward silences, waiting for the other one to signal, somehow, that it was on.
Something in between the two, I thought, neither immediate nor holding off.
I took two wine glasses down, and just then his knock came at the door.
"It's open," I called out and he came in. He looked good, very good. He might have started as a model back in the day, but he was not smooth, not done up. He was all natural, wearing who he was, a man who had lived, a man who had survived the bad and revelled in the good, and all that radiated from him, charisma. He wore a corduroy sport coat, a neat, crisp shirt, worn blue jeans and cowboy boots. My pulse quickened.
I watched as he turned away to close the door. Tall and lean, broad shoulders, narrow hips and, tonight, something in his carriage, something athletic, a swagger maybe. That didn't bother me like it would in other men. He owns that, I thought, has earned it.
"Glass of wine?" I asked.
"Red, if you've got it. Thanks."
