Eyes closed.
A staccato drumbeat of heavy rain over the taut fabric of a sheltering umbrella. Waves of white noise, tyres on wet tarmac, sweep left and right. A dull, musty yet sharp-edged smell of wet city. Chill raindrops sprinkle over skin exposed below the knee. The sore ache of feet and toes bound tightly in leather, lifted on unfamiliar heels. Cool, silky smoothness of my long coat's lining wrapping my bare skin beneath. Flutter of a racing heartbeat.
And something else.
Something conspicuously unfamiliar and new. Something light, cool, barely there, encircling my ankle, placed there by my loving husband, John, only an hour ago. I remember that moment, its significance and meaning. Heart heavy, bitter sorrow surges again in my chest.
Smiles and tears at our parting. An emotional wrench to turn and walk away.
I catch a sob and, with conscious effort, suppress it beneath a swell of nervous anticipation.
There was the long bus ride into the city, self conscious of my attire among fellow passengers, anxious of premature discovery. The short walk through bustling, rain drenched streets. I yearned to blend in. But each step was a new experience of stiletto heel strike, adjusted gait and hip sway, and momentum to unbridled breasts that risked unwanted attention.
And here I am.
Eyes open.
He's there, just as he said he would be. Through the cafe window he raises a cup, sips, and turns the page of a newspaper. Something deep inside is urging me to cross the street to him. And yet, legs resist moving a body heavy with guilt. Puzzled, I look down at them.
Emotions spin and tumble like the autumn leaves caught in the swirls and eddies of rainwater flowing around my feet. My husband - my love - the centre of my life, and... This man. This opportunity to fulfil needs so long neglected.
Inertia quashed, rivulets trail across the floor from the cafe door to where I stand before him, coat and folded umbrella dripping, smile anxious and uncertain. He looks up. A welcoming smile dawns. He stands, offering a hand. We shake gently but firmly, and raindrops scatter from my sleeve across the table and his newspaper. Embarrassed, I laugh self-consciously. His laugh is warm, genuine amusement, and he gestures to the seat across from him.
His consideration and empathy is notable: No intrusive invasion of body space with stilted hug or awkward air kiss, no showy, old-school chivalry with a chair, just that genuinely friendly handshake and invitation to join him at his table for two. And his glance - that seemed to try to take in my whole body - gives me a warm, tingly feeling.
We exchange pleasantries. He asks what I'd like to drink and steps over to the barista's counter to place the order. I watch the hazy to-and-fro of headlamps and brake lights through the window's growing condensation. The warm, bright interior contrasts sharply with the cold, grey, darkening day outside. A chill of doubt sweeps into my troubled mind. He returns with fresh, steaming cups. The first sip of hot, sweet flavour and his smile warms away the chill and the cold, grey mood. At least for the moment.
He's about the same height as John, I think. He's smart-casual today: an expensive linen open-necked shirt, designer jeans, and tan leather shoes over a slim and healthy frame. He could be John's twin, an impression that's both disarmingly comforting and yet unsettling.
The air is filled with cafe chatter and barista shouts, punctuated by the frothy snarl of the hard working coffee machine.
"I'm delighted you decided to come," he begins, his voice quiet, calming, and deeply resonant. There's an awkward pause as I stir my coffee, staring thoughtfully into the briefly rippling latte foam. He continues, "But naturally, I'm curious. What helped you to decide?"
"John trusts you."
"Thank you," he smiles. "That really means a lot to me." A thoughtful pause. "And what about you? How do you feel about us meeting today?"
His dark eyes convey a softness and kindness reflecting genuine concern.
"I... I don't know." I can feel him watching me intently, looking for some clue, some revealing truth. "I honestly feel a confused mess inside. So many feelings, so many things spinning through my head. They're difficult to untangle."
He thinks for a moment then says, "So let's see if we can find out where we're starting." He turns toward the cafe window and draws three cartoon faces in the condensation with a finger: a sad face, a neutral face and a smiley face spaced along an imaginary line. "So if this was a scale from sad and upset to happy and excited, where do you think your feelings are right now?"
Impulsively, I draw an 'x' between the neutral and happy faces.
"Thank goodness," he chuckles. "But let's make sure of something really important." He pauses to sip his coffee, choosing his words. "You and John mean a lot to me." He reaches across the table and places his hand lightly over mine, looking serious. "If there's anything today - anything at all - that makes you feel bad, or upset, or in any way concerned, then you say 'stop' and we stop. Okay?"
I nodded. Some anxiety lifted a little and I smiled.
"And it goes without saying that if I feel something's wrong, I'm going to do the same." He looks cautiously at me and continues, "Remember, I've not done anything like this before either."
We laugh together, nervously. And our quiet laughter rings out, unintentionally: it lands into one of those strange instants of silence that suddenly descended, as though everyone's unrelated cafe conversations have simultaneously arrived at the same pause. For an uncomfortable moment I feel very conspicuous and exposed as eyes turn towards us. The feeling persists even though chatter gradually returns.
"Hungry?" he asks. I shake my head. "Me neither." With an uncertain smile he confesses, "I feel like I've swallowed a bucketful of live butterflies."
I smile. "Good to know that we feel the same."
After pausing again he says, "I think we have a lot to talk about. How about we go somewhere a little more private to catch up?"
"Go where?"
"Perhaps my hotel?" He ventures. Then, spotting my wry smile quickly adds, "Don't worry, they have a big lounge area next to the lobby. Big picture windows overlooking the sea, sofas, dusty fake plants - you know the sort of thing."
We chuckle together, take final sips, gather our belongings and leave.
It's still pouring. We hug together under my umbrella. His arm around me feels strong, firm, yet friendly, not possessive. Away from the coffee-infused cafe air and tucked in close, I catch the scent of something. He's wearing John's cologne. That's thoughtful of him.
It's a short walk through torrential, blustery rain to his boutique hotel on the seafront. As we approach the foot of the steps something compels me to stop. I stare up at the heavy, panelled door framed by ornate carved stone columns. Looking up, the building's Georgian facade looms under scudding dark grey rain clouds. Second thoughts course through my mind.
"Is something wrong?" He asks, clearly concerned.
"No... It's just..."
Patiently, he asks, "Would you prefer we go back to the cafe?"
"No. No, I..."
"Come inside and let's make those sofas in the lobby wet," he smiles. Almost without being aware of the decision I allow his arm around me to guide me up the steps and through the heavy door.
I sit on a large Chesterfield sofa in the lounge bar, surrounded by pots of those dusty plastic plants and muted decor hues. Cheesy bossa nova jazz quietly drifts in the warm air adding to the clichéd environment. Blustery raindrops rattle across the bay window through which I stare, watching surging storm waves crashing over the beach.
Bringing two more coffees from the bar, he sits next to me and asks, "Don't you want to take that soaking coat off?"
I shake my head.
"Oh." He looks concerned. "Keeping your options open for a quick escape, I suppose."
He's right, in a way. That's partially true. But he's not aware of my secret immodesty. I feel a warm flush cross my face and another flutter in my chest, suddenly very self-conscious. But dressing as I have is the only way of ensuring that, if I choose to, my commitment would be decisive and clear with no risk of second thoughts.
We sit in an awkward silence for a moment, sipping the hot coffee. It's terrible. But at least it's hot. He's visibly shivering, wet shirt and jeans clinging, his soaked jacket discarded over the arm of the sofa.
