Lisa crosses her legs. They glide against each other aided by the sheer black nylons that sheath her lean thighs. The nylons 'woosh' almost unperceptively as they rub against each other. Lisa feels the sensation against her skin. She hears the whispered 'woosh'. Somewhere deep inside it brings a smile. Not that anyone would have seen it. It wasn't that kind of a smile. It was something she felt in the recesses of her being. It was a private smile. Lisa was full of these private smiles. Along with her private laughs, plots, shrieks, sobs, prayers, blasphemies and releases. All inward. All her own. Just for her.
Thickety-click, thickety click, thickety-click. A woman in a dark blue two piece business suit appears from around the corner of the waiting area, her modest 3 inch heels temporarily suspend their march down the tiled floor. The woman looks around for her quarry. Lisa observes.
Over the years Lisa had developed an acute sense of observation. It wasn't intentional. It was simply a by-product of her training. Before Lisa's new beginning Lisa probably would not have thought twice about the woman now standing 4 meters in front of her. Lisa would have taken her simply for what she is - a messenger. Lisa wouldn't have noticed the well appointed Albert Nipon suit. She wouldn't have cared that the shoes were a bit more worn than would be expected, or that the blouse had some apparent crumbs from an earlier repast taken at her desk. The woman - perhaps 10 kilos overweight - was just attractive enough to pull off her cold bitch executive assistant role - but the years were beginning to take their toll. She was beginning that transition from cold milf to freeze dried matron. A transition Lisa was not completely unaware of herself. If not for a significant amount of modern medical magic Lisa would likely be facing a similar showdown with time. Of course it wasn't just the knife that kept Lisa fit and trim. She had training. Training and Discipline. And not forced upon her by some master - other than Time which ultimately is everyones' master. No. Her discipline was her own. At least it was now.
"Ms. Brock?" came the husky and breathy question from thickety-click.
Lisa caught the gaze and smiled noticeably.
"John just wanted to let you know he'll just be a few more moments" said thickety-click blandly "Can I get you some water or coffee while you wait."
"No thank you. I'm fine" Lisa replied with warmth and respect in her voice. "By the way, that is a wonderful Nipon on you." Lisa's training kicked in. A women's role was to give gifts. And this little complement was Lisa's gift to Ms. Thickety Click.
"Yes" was the curt reply. "John will be with you soon."
Woosh, woosh. Lisa crosses and uncrosses her legs as if to signal acceptance and turns her head to gaze at the Gauguin reproduction that is hanging off to her left.
Thickety-click, thickety-click - the woman is out of sight.
John is distracted. His mind is not in the present but in the not too distant future. It is with Lisa in his apartment this evening. She had made a promise and he is imagining her sticking to the promise.
Unfortunately his body is decidedly in the present. He is in his office and he has business to attend to and an underling proudly presenting his latest statistical achievement. His colleague, a short, thin young man with a well-manicured beard is leaning into his desk from the leather and steel chair sitting on the opposite side. His 'lean-in' is somewhere between aggressive business intensity and 'woah man - you are crowding my space'. The Leaner hands John the latest financial projection regarding the projected lifetime income losses for a young woman that had recently become paralyzed in a warehouse accident. Leaner takes the opportunity to hold his position and sits further forward with his elbow on the precipice of the desk. John feels his breath on his face. John takes the report and leans back in his chair. "Sweet Distance" he thinks.
Leaner pauses. John feels the heft of the report in his hands. He looks for the summary on the front page. Not there. He deftly fingers through the pages. Of all Johns' body parts, he is probably most conscious - most of the time - with his hands. He always had an uncanny ability to manipulate even the most intricate of spaces with his thin, long fingers. He could have been a magician - doing slight of hand to the amazement of kids, parents and the occasional young and single female. But John instead trained as a surgeon - perfecting his digital manipulation cutting, sewing and otherwise repairing the failing aspects of human flesh. Though he no longer practiced surgery he never really lost their muscle memory. He always viewed his fingers and his hands as the goose that laid his golden egg.
More accurately his dexterity was more like the magic beans. He actually had been only a moderately skilled surgeon. There were others with greater skill and specialization. But he made a nice income, had managed to pay back his substantial student loans within a few short years and lived in a modern loft apartment in the city. But then things went awry. He almost lost his practice but managed to come out unscathed with the help of some excellent legal assistance. Most importantly the experience gave left him with a keen insight regarding the human condition.
"People believe they are worth more than they actually are" he wrote in his original business plan. "And I can prove to people and to jurors - which are made of people - that they are worth a lot of money". He moved to the east coast and proceeded to build the most successful insurance services company in the region. His insight - backed up by some nifty voodoo mathematics - turned him into a multi-millionaire and was the real goose in the metaphor. His hands were only the instruments - much like the bean stalk - that led him to the insight that led to the gold.
Ironically, now that he no longer cut people open for a living, he keeps his fingers lithe doing what he should have done as a teenager - slight of hand. He practices card tricks, hide and seek tricks, or simply threads pencils or pens in and out of his fingers almost absent mindedly while reviewing the copious statistical and written reports that were part of his daily routine.
And so he is now threading his favorite Mont Blanc between his fingers as he reads Leaners report. He flips to the back page and reads through the final tally. He raises his brow and his eyes open in appreciation. "OKaaaay" he slowly groans. "I think I can use this. Good work." John makes eye contact with Leaner.
This is a gift to Leaner who finally sits back a bit and smiles. Not that it is intentional. When John consciously gives a gift they are always of the physical realm. Complements and stroking egos, is not in his Santa Clause repertoire. John just wants this part of his day to end. He has what he needs. Now he wants to get on with the what waits for him in the night.
"I'll review the rest tonight and call you tomorrow if I have more questions." John says as he rises from behind the desk. Leaner takes the cue, stands up and walks out of the room with a bit more joie de vivre than when he entered.
Woosh. Lisa uncrosses her legs. She is summoned. She is now trailing thickety-click through the well lit hallway to Johns business sanctuary. Along the way she has a good view of thickety-clicks back profile. Reddish brown hair hangs slightly plastered to just below her shoulders. Her gait is somewhere between an aging athlete and runway model. Foot in front of foot, if Lisa squints she can imagine Ms. Thickity-Click walking down a catwalk. But her slightly thick middle and husky shoulders gives more of an impression of a female boxer. She would be a tough and a worthy opponent. She also thinks Ms. Thickety-click would be a good lay. Physical enough to make the fight interesting - but not so tough as to be intimidating. "Are those spanks" she thinks "or is her ass actually that firm?"
Lisa's training had conditioned her mind to picture even casual strangers in sexual situations. And so Lisa imagines thickety-click lying in a hotel room bed with white sheets and dim lighting. She is lying on her stomach, clutching a pillow. A white sheet is pulled up over her ass, stopping just below the dimples that separate her ass cheeks from her well-muscled latissimus dorsi. The outline of her pale breasts could be made out as they press themselves up on the mattress below her - spilling off to the sides. She pictures a rhythmic sway to her back - left then right then left again. Back and forth as if matching a gentle breeze. Ms. Thickety-Click arches her back and raises her head. She turns to look backward and up to the hovering observer straddling over her, the slightly stiff brown curls fall over her flushed cheeks.
"John is waiting for you" thickety-click interrupts as she turns her head, opens the walnut door and waits for Lisa to pass through. Lisa catches a waft of sweet cologne and perhaps the glint of an approving smile in the corner of her eye as she switches positions with Thickety-Click and moves forward into the office. The door hangs open just long enough for Lisa to feel eyes measure up her own back profile. And suddenly she is back in the hotel room but now Lisa is clutching the pillow and Ms. Thickety-Click is straddling her. Moving together. Left, right, left, right. "Tchock - pock" the door is closed and the latches fall into place.
John emerges from what Lisa imagines is an attached private bath to her left. Interesting she thinks. She might be able to have some fun with that in the future.
"Ah Lisa" Johns' voice seems to be ½ an octave higher than usual "sorry you had to wait."
"I've been waiting my whole life for you John" she smiles as she emphasizes his name "what's a few more minutes."
He is straightening his tie and forces an awkward smile. She slowly approaches. "Besides" she continues "I had a chance to admire your wonderful Gaugin in the hallway."
"Oh yes, it's a nice piece. A reproduction of course - but still nice."
"Have you ever been?" Lisa asks?
