The Wife, The Submissive, The Nymph
Part 2: Tinder Box
Her headache reached its crescendo mere minutes after leaving Lumet's and she reached for her pills in the glove box. The bottle firmly resisted her twists due to pain induced shakiness. Finally, the white top came off and she swallowed three tablets quickly. The faint metallic taste of blood made her touch her lip. She had bitten it during the frenetic struggle to open the bottle. Luckily, the meds activated quickly but she still faced a few minutes of excruciating hell. She pulled into an empty parking lot, tucking herself behind the tall hedges of the median for concealment. There she passively endured the remainder of her affliction. The doctor had told her that "Grounding" was a meditative alleviator she should utilize in the interim of pill consumption and pill activation. Lately, her "Grounding" exercises had all revolved around Lumet, every detail about him offering something delicious to linger on. She first relished his smell. A mixture of chamomile and cedar that instantly precipitated feelings of comfort. Then came spontaneous memories, each battling each other for the mental supremacy of focus. She chose the moment they first spoke.
The spark of the flame began unassumingly in a boutique coffeeshop downtown. She went there every Tuesday to write. It contained a composed energy that she found as an apt accelerant for her writing. The constant, ambient sound cocooned her and provided a necessary isolation.
Someone, though, had broken through and she found herself repeatedly focused on her surroundings, not the computer screen in front of her. Lumet was tall with short blonde hair, broad angled shoulders and a tattoo she would come to know intimately that went up the left side of his neck before stopping at his chin. Exceptionally well dressed, he would don an open black pea coat, slacks of varying colors, with a matching Aran sweater.
Baristas would adopt completely different mannerisms, taking his order, as opposed to the vacant flaccidity they expressed with others. One, a young college student named Beck, would start subtly bobbing in clear throes of attraction anxiety. It was always amusing to watch the three-step sequence of interplay that routinely swirled around him. There would be the customer before Lumet, Lumet and then the customer after. Poor Beck appeared exhausted and in need of a break immediately after any of these interactions.
One day Sarah went to retrieve her order from the counter as he was grabbing his.
"Lumet, that's a unique name." He didn't make eye contact, his response dismissive. "Indeed," he replied hurriedly, grabbing his coffee.
Sarah immediately felt she had annoyingly imposed, but that feeling evaporated when he paused midstep and turned back to her.
