Second Set
It is later on Sunday. The hours have slid one past the next stretched with yoga, brushed in paint on a canvas formerly known as a dining room wall, an unsuccessful attempt to make time move quicker. Dinner tonight with Mark... Really, going there again?
An early dinner; with Mark that must mean something else in the works. A glance at the newspaper brings the realization that our home town team is in the playoffs. West Coast game means a later start time. Mark is a baseball fanatic. He'll be watching with his old crew at a dive they love. This means a choice, watching the game surrounded by stale beer and cigars with the risk of Mark and another home run or return home, alone. I have never been good at decisions.
I decide to leave early and do some window shopping. Ibrik is within walking distance of this time greedy apartment. I dress in a soft suede skirt and tuck in a white cotton blouse as crisp as the fall air. The skirt skims my hips and hugs my backside in just the right way. I pull on my favorite brown leather boots then decide to undo the bottom three buttons on the skirt. A little glimpse of leg is always a good thing.
There is a sudden twinge of guilt as I pass the desk and see the note from Alex. Guilt? Is dinner with a friend really cheating? What Alex and I did would hardly be considered a date. We have no relationship to cheat on.
I imagine the letter:
"Dear Miss Manners,
I fucked a guy in the upstairs room of a restaurant. Is it wrong to see someone else?
Signed,
Easy."
Her reply:
"Dear Easy,
It is only cheating if you fuck him too."
Well, too late for that.
I shake my head in an attempt to clear this thought. I can not continue to obsess. In a deluded attempt to clear my head I grab the red tie, loosely knot it under the collar of my blouse and tuck in the tail. Maybe this will settle the guilt. It will certainly annoy Mark.
Passing the mirror my reflection presents a new obsession. Hmmm, red menswear tie, white shirt, soft suede skirt, naughty school girl meets Ralph Lauren. Every now and then I get it right.
The off button on the CD player chokes Randy Newman as he continues to tell me, unconvincingly, why he loves LA. I slip out of my apartment, down the stairs of my building and start to walk. The fall air is sweet and smoky. Warm, now that the sun is high in the sky but a chill underneath betrays the lovely rays. Gingko leaves float to the sidewalk. The neighborhood is known for these trees.
I pass the Farmers Market, closed now except on Saturdays, then a high priced, trendy boutique. Next is a laundry; a bum meditating on the bench by the front door. The shop has a single customer and her pitiful boyfriend inside. The laundry and the bum's expression are vacant. At least the laundry smells nice.
Turning the corner I stop to gaze into the window of a vintage clothing store and admire the lace blouse in the window and the shirtwaist dress on the mannequin. The dress reminds me of something Lauren Bacall would wear back when she was Betty and she was meeting Bogey for a drink in some smoky bar. I can see myself wearing this dress, if only I had Bogey waiting for me.
I contemplate the fantasy of Bogart, or perhaps Grant (Cary or Hugh), ordering me a drink. The well tailored, cuffed trousers, the stylish, thinly veiled suggestive conversation, the smoky whisky, and then my heart stops. There he is, walking out of the used bookstore.
Alex turns as the door closes and for a minute I hope that he has not seen me. He has, though. His expression is one of surprise then slowly dawning pleasure. He is not wearing tailored, cuffed trousers; or perfectly pleated khakis. He is wearing a pair of jeans, worn, tight in just the right places. A soft brown sweater exposes a white t-shirt in its v-neck. I want to slide my hands under the sweater, down the jeans...
"Hi," his voice is deeper than I remember. It is not competing with the sounds of a bar band today. He extends a hand and states, business-like, "My name is Alex." His look is hopeful.
"Hi," I hesitate; the fantasy has never gone here before. I take a few seconds to take in my new acquaintance. He is tall, heavy, not fat but substantial, filled out, as they used to say. His sandy blonde hair is closely trimmed except for one lock that falls over his left eye; his piercingly blue left eye. "Kate, I'm Kate."
He grasps my hand but does not shake it holding it tight as though he does not wish to let it go again. He looks deep into my eyes and I know, like me, he is remembering our first meeting, the band, the guitar whining, our breathless groping the delicious release. I think I feel him shiver a tiny bit, but it might be the breeze.
His eyes slide over me and involuntarily I lick my lips as I feel his gaze on them. My lips tingle at the thought of his kiss. The lips that have tasted so much of me; devoured me, we have never just kissed. As his eyes skim my neck I feel a shiver in my spine, his red silk tie is loose around my neck and presses my blouse against my collar bone. His eyes pause briefly at the hollow of my throat; his lips part slightly. I close my eyes and pray for strength.
His gaze moves down to my breasts. He smiles a little. My breasts are rather full and the tight buttoned blouse accentuates this. That's why I like to wear it. He continues with his visual caress moving on to my waist, small, and my hips, rounder; pausing at the open edge of my skirt, my legs and boot top. I hear him inhale and I feel the desire to spin, so he can adjust his gaze to my ass. I know how good it looks in this skirt.
I connect to his gaze, drawing him into my eyes and smile. It is a slow, sweet smile at first. Reaching its zenith there is only devilish mirth and desire there. It works. His knees buckle, just a tiny bit. A little knowledge; it is a dangerous thing.
