A Second Encounter - part 1
Switching between Him and her. Try and keep up! Part 2 in the next few days.
*****
I was excited, and still nervous about our second meeting.
I was given very little time to make arrangements to be free that evening. But he insisted. There was something in the tone of his message. Exciting; not demanding, but definitely different.
I arrived, as instructed exactly at 7pm (five minutes early actually). It was a Friday night, and the restaurant was already full; couples, lovers, friends, along with a small, but rowdy group of short-skirted girls, already very drunk. A birthday party perhaps?
I was a little disappointed that it was the same restaurant as our first 'date'. (Funny, what was it? A date, a meet, an encounter?)
I was shown to our pre-booked table. He wasn't here. I sat where I had been told to, if I "indeed arrived first"; my back to the wall. Even the way he spoke, his accent, his eloquence captured me.
"Drinks?" "Oh, sorry, yes please, a glass of house white please. Oh, and table water for my ... Err my friend". What is he to me? What am I to him? Am I anything?
He doesn't drink when he is driving. I admire this in him; his self-discipline, his ability to hold me with his eyes, his presence, and his conversation. I feel myself getting wet already.
Two girls from the rowdies in the opposite corner were dancing together, gyrating to the song they were singing (killing!) a little too loudly for some.
He would like them, for sure! My heart skipped. Would he like them more? How can he like them?
I checked my phone. 10 minutes late. No txt. Is he coming? My heart skipped another beat. Has he changed his mind? My drink was in front of me. When did that arrive? I lifted the glass, my hand trembling, and sipped my drink. I fought the urge to drain it.
I lowered my glass. My hand shook more intensely; my heart stopped. He stood in the doorway. Not yet seeing me, he began to walk, confidently, over towards the maitre d'restaurante. He slowed, allowing the dancing, barely-clothed temptresses to swish and sway in front of him.
His eyes never left the maitre de. He paid them no attention! Smoothly, he strode to the station. A brief conversation, and two heads swung in my direction; one I was completely oblivious to. The other, jump-started my heart.
The jolt, the rush of adrenaline coursed my veins. Did I physically jump in my seat? I tried to stand, as he approached the table, as I felt I should. His eyes had never left mine. My legs were useless. I half-rose, before I felt his hand, oh that touch, that hand on my bare shoulder, stopping me from standing.
I eased back into my seat, his hand slid to the side of my neck, beneath my fire-red hair. Hidden, it squeezed, gently, enough to squeeze more wetness from me. A light kiss, a warm greeting.
I was on fire already.
She sat opposite me, her chest rising and falling, trying to catch her breath. She quickly slipped her phone from the table, and into her bag. Good. Manners and 100% attention are a necessity.
From what I could tell - for now - she was wearing exactly as she has been told; black.
Black; of the night, villainous, sinister, potentially rotten; corruptible.
In stark contrast to her soft, smooth milky skin; white.
White; pure, innocent, virginal, clean; unblemished.
The only colour was that of her lips and hair; red
Red; blood, lust, bloodlust maybe, sexiness; temptress.
A waiter stood beside me. I ordered a fruit juice, and "she will have another wine". I could see her beautifully defined jaw tense slightly. She wanted to be an equal? This will be fun. A waitress returned with the drinks. I thanked her. The first words I had spoken since ordering the drinks. She had tried to start, but I silenced her with a finger to my lips. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, but remained silent.
I ordered the food - for both of us - without asking her what she wanted. Again, the jawline tensed, and she sipped her wine, looking around the room.
When she next caught my eye, I asked her about her day. Surprised, she flustered, and started to tell me about her work. I did not hear a word. I did not care what she had done; I cared for nothing she said. My attention was on her eyes, her lips, her tongue; her throat.
Our food arrived, and she continued to talk. I silenced her mid-sentence; "Eat!"
Startled, she picked up her knife and fork, and began. I could see her soft cheeks colour slightly, as she blushed; from embarrassment or from anger, or from both, I did not care.
This time, we ate in complete silence. So different from our first encounter. This put her on edge, I could see. We were just like the Vanillas all around us. Silent, polite, lost to ourselves. Silent, except for the stupid model-wannabes. It had taken all my control, when I first entered the restaurant, not to tell them all to "fuck off". But I am self-disciplined. Enough to torment the beauty sat across from me, when all I wanted to do was lose myself in her intoxication.
I was desperate to ask what I had done wrong. I had arrived on time (which meant five minutes early - noted from the last ... time) was dressed exactly as I was told - black, no colour - and had double-checked the seams on my stockings, moments before entering the restaurant. They had to be straight. No, it can't be that, as he hasn't seen them. He messaged me and told me that the dynamics of our relationship were changing, but I can't understand this ... this hostility towards me. I have been yearning for him since our last meeting, I have done all he asked.
I had hoped that when in public, I would be his equal - or even a pretence of that. Yes, I wanted another drink, and yes, the food is nice, but I shouldn't be allowing him to take this much control. I think I must say something. I can't bear this silence any more.
The thought of talking with out permission (technically he hadn't told me not to speak) scared me somewhat. I wasn't happy though. My throat was bone-dry. I took a sip of water and cleared my throat...
The icy stare he gave me burnt into the very heart of me. I hadn't seen that look before. I submitted, dropped my gaze before I even started.
We finished our meal in silence; no touch; no eye contact; no contact at all.
"We're leaving." It wasn't a question. It was an instruction. I didn't wait for an answer, but rose, buttoned my jacket and went to pay the bill. I paid quickly, in cash, and left.
I stood outside, a few doors down, and waited for my ... her to arrive. I took her hand quite gently, then gripped it hard and pulled her into a doorway. One hand pinned down at her side, my body pinning her to the door, my other at her throat, I pushed my tongue roughly into her mouth. No resistance, probably from submission, but mostly, I presumed, from just complete surprise.
No drink for me, means breath play. First windpipe, then artery, alternating, sapping the life from her. I twisted her neck to the side, biting, scraping my teeth over the silkiness of her skin.
