"Don't tell me any more..."
As I sit in the dark, waiting for her inevitable return, I replay her words in my head, feverishly looking for hidden meaning or missed nuance. Frantic thoughts and nagging doubts spiral around my mind, vying for attention. I shift in the seat, uncomfortable and hot despite the cool midnight breeze through the partially opened window. I feel an insistent pressure against my leg, a rigidity that reminds me of what I'm about to do. As if I needed reminding.
For the twentieth time, I check the pockets of the loose fitting pants I'm wearing. For the twentieth time I find the pre-looped zip-tie and the pocket knife, exactly where I expected them to be, and I try to relax. But no amount of reassurance can slow the quick jackhammer beat of my heart, or cool the burning of my skin, or calm my racing mind.
Am I sure?
The question bubbles to the surface of my racing emotions, momentarily becoming my sole focus. Am I sure? Am I sure she wants this? Her image forms in my mind, dressed as she will be tonight. Flowing, black cocktail dress; long, coltish legs, bare and tanned; pretty heels, strapped to her feet with a complex weave of thin leather. Her honey blonde hair pinned up and back, revealing the pale fragility of her neck. Am I sure?
Outside the house a car door slams, and I freeze in place. She's earlier than I expected. I'm not ready. I consider running, consider standing and fleeing through the back door of the house, sinking into the shadows of the garden and forgetting this ever happened. But I remain seated, gripping the armrests of the wing-back chair, trying to slow my breathing. She wants this, I'm certain.
Across the room, I hear her fumble the lock, the soft scratch of metal on metal as she tries to force the key home. She must have been drinking, I think to myself. A flush of irrational jealousy clouds my vision, causing me to exhale softly. Who was she drinking with? Did she speak to anyone? But I swat it away with a shake of my head. She was mine, mine alone. Nothing could change that.
Outside the house, the lock finally capitulates to her drunken attempts and the door creaks open. I watch from the corner, cloaked in darkness, dressed in dark pants, top and a black cap. My heart hammers quickly. I'm sure she will be able to hear me. If she sees me, then it would all be over...
She steps into the room and throws her clutch purse and keys on the table by the window, softly shutting the door behind her. I can hear the sound of her breath, quick and soft; I can smell the sweet aroma of her scent, like spring lilies. Deep inside me, I feel a rush of arousal, a familiar response to the sight of my obsession. I push it back, struggling to control my breathing, unable to move but unable to stop. She walks across the room, heels tapping on the wooden floor, swaying slightly in the dark.
Then she stops, frozen in place by some instinct I can only guess at. Her head lifts up and she looks around, struggling to see in the near darkness. I catch my breath and sink into the seat, fixated on the dark silhouette of her body, framed against the dim light of the far window. Do I say something? Do I reveal myself? But then the moment passes. She shrugs and giggles to herself, then continues walking to the bedroom.
This is it, I think to myself as she leaves the room, this is the point of no return.
Any doubt I had has gone now, banished by the provoked emotion of her proximity, fuelled by the sight of her body and the faint hint of her perfume. As it always was.
