Author's Note: I had trouble categorizing this one. It's probably somewhere between Erotic Couplings and Non-Erotic, depending on your expectations. Furthermore, depending how much latitude you grant me, it may be considered Non-English as well!
*
Four seventeen showing on his alarm clock and he's been awake for an hour and a half.
Too early. Go back to sleep.
But he is too keyed up. She's in his head. Lying in bed he can't shake the thought of her. Unable to relax, mind churning hotly. Images of her run like a film in his mind. The terry robe as white as heaven. Her brown eyes burning. Her hands reaching. And then it's ruined, all of it.
Her fucking brother!
Go to SLEEP!
But in his mind there she is again. His first day with the company. In a committee room being introduced to his new staff but seeing her in the outer office through the open door. She's walking the length of the floor toward the room. Stunned by her, his mind is blank while his boss speaks and his new staff look on.
It's the way she carries herself, elegant, her posture. Foot in front of foot, her hips swinging slightly as if she is on a fashion runway. Her colouring, shining black hair to her neck, a hair clip giving her hair shape but not itself a focal point. The colour of her cheeks, just enough makeup to highlight her eyes, natural looking, clean and fresh.
She is dressed at the limit, almost too chic for the office. She wears a blousy, flowered shirt fitting loosely, autumn colours. The top buttons are undone, a deep vee exposing her collarbones and the black lace of her camisole. She wears a black leather skirt, perfectly tight, framing her hips and thighs. It seems short but really it's her legs, long and slim. Instead of pantyhose she wears opaque black tights. High heels, expensive looking.
In an instant, watching her come toward him, feeling her steal away his own life and capturing him into hers. Losing awareness of his surroundings, the passage of time, his own behaviour. Immediately she becomes all there is in his world.
She has noticed his smitten stare through the door. A crooked smile, almost a sneer as sees him staring. As if she's saying, "Go ahead and look. Go ahead and want. But do you dare?"
"Hello." He is acknowledged. She turns away, heads into one of the private offices.
The movie of her plays itself over and over again in his mind. He sees her in slow motion, can picture the part of it he wants, her hands, what she carries, the buttons on her shirt. The shape of her hips. He hears her voice.
Stop it. No. Get some sleep. Calm. Calm. Nothing in my mind. Nothing in my mind…
How she looked days later at the pub with some others after work. A friendly invitation to the new guy. Introductions all around in the loudness, but who can remember?
Her name's what, Dammy? Can't be. Must be Danny, Danielle. I can't hear.
He listens for her name again to be sure, to get it right. She sits across the table from him. He listens to the others, telling their stories.
Dammy, yes, it is. They're calling her Dammy.
It's Dress Down Friday so she's wearing jeans and a brown jacket over a beige t-shirt. Her hair is down, falling over her face. She brushes it aside, but not always right away, letting it obscure her face, her expression, showing just a part of it. She brushes it, flips it away.
She crosses her legs under the table, the toe of her shoe grazing his calf.
"Did I just kick you?" Something in her voice, the hint of an accent? Her crooked smile.
"I might not sue." A flirt. Trying to be cool, but it suddenly seems so lame, a line stolen from a movie.
Damn! Hope she doesn't know it.
She looks down at her drink and her hair falls. Raising her glass, holding it to her mouth, he sees just one beautiful, brown eye, a sparkle in it.
Mirth? Mockery?
When she lowers her glass her lips are smiling. Her upper lip, on the right it has a small twist, what might be mistaken for a sneer. He stares, unaware, unaware of what she thinks. She sweeps her hair from her face and he is spellbound.
Deep breath. Another. Sleep. Think about breathing. Nothing else, nothing else.
Lunchtime in the company cafeteria. She wears a chocolate brown suit, expensive. She wears her clothes well, a tailored look.
"Dammy, is it?" and without waiting for her response he sits. Her makeup is minimal today. Beautiful. So beautiful. Her smile captivates him, her unique smile. The twist that becomes more visible as her smile widens, something unique, eye-catching.
They ride the elevator back up to the office. The elevator is full so they must stand close, arms brushing, pressed together. He breathes in her scent, a hint, barely there. Clover. He turns to her again, wants to caress her face with the backs of his fingers. He wants to feel the smooth softness of her skin. He imagines how it would feel, her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, to undo her buttons and slip his hand over her breast, to cup her breast in his hand.
Lying in bed, he begins to stroke his hardness with his fingertips, long and slow.
Four twenty-nine. Some sleep. Need sleep.
But she is in his mind again, her face appearing in his open office door. She leans, holding on to the door frame. He sees her blouse fall open, the strap of her bra, the swell of her breast. His hand grips his cock firmly.
"Coming for lunch?"
Yes.
Walking to the elevator, people stare. She is so beautiful. She is with him.
No. Stop thinking. Sleep.
But now they are back in the pub, the same pub, alone for a drink after work. Not really a date. She drinks red wine.
"It's actually Damia, French. So Dammy or even Dams."
The accent, French.
"Everybody calls you Dani? Danielle?"
Her eyes widened. "
All
the time," as if she were impressed that he'd think of this.
"Mean anything?"
"Does yours? Con? Conrad?"
Before they go he asks. "Can I call you for a date? I think we could… I really like you." He has blurted this last, feels embarrassed. But it is the truth, how he feels.
A little spark in her eyes? Maybe.
"That would be nice." She writes the number on his palm. A nice smile, comfortable, familiar. A euro-kiss, two pecks, one side, the other.
"See you tomorrow," and she strides away. Again, watching her carriage, tall and confident, he sees her body move, illuminating the night, scattering her charisma over the sidewalk.
The reel of his mind spins forward. They are on the date, meeting in front of the movie theatre. He first sees her from behind, jeans and a t-shirt. The jeans are worn, threads only below her back pocket.
Do I see skin?
Black high-top shoes, white laces. He calls her name to not startle her and she spins with a smile. The t-shirt, Pearl Jam, Toronto 2006. She wears loop upon loop of beaded necklaces. She has punked her hair, uneven pigtails, chaotic, three he thinks. Heavy mascara, her eyes are darkly outlined, smoky. She looks funky, edgy, fabulous. The beads. He imagines the beads draped over her naked body. One hand at her mound loosely covering her there, the other at her breast, caressing, stroking her nipple. She is waiting for him…
He takes her to see the early show, hard to pick the film. Something with substance but not difficult. Sitting in the theatre with her, holding the popcorn until it is finished. Then, taking her hand in his. Her beautiful hand, long fingers. He plays with her rings, sliding, turning. Intimate. She turns and smiles, a peck on his cheek. On the screen the actors make love. Beautifully, erotically filmed.
What is she thinking?
The goodnight kiss, her arms around his neck, his hands at her waist. On tiptoes she kisses him once, twice on the lips. The feel of her lips on his.
Her lips on his, over and over in his mind.
Four thirty-six. Damn
. His fingers circle lightly at the head of his cock. His hips thrust involuntarily.
A new scene jumps up to him. She opens her door a crack, the chain bisecting her face in the dim light of the hallway. Her eyes are bright, excited. Her hair falls over her face as she looks down to unhook the chain.
He had called her, a dinner date maybe. But she had paused on the line. His heart had sunk.
No? She's ending this?
Ending us?
