An accidental meeting lead to a sexual encounter under most unusual circumstances.
It was about 6:15 in the evening as I walked to Starbucks, just down the block from my hotel opposite the zoo. It was unusual for me to be alone, normally my wife would accompany me on any excuse to visit Oahu. The reasons for my solitude were forgotten as I appreciated the magic of the evening light, the last rays of the setting sun brushing everything with liquid gold. Waikiki was in the midst of its shift change as tourists and surfboards gave way to the party crowd, the diners and other denizens of the evening.
Starbucks was busy, the line practically to the door. I was in no hurry, no where to go, and I would much rather enjoy the rapidly changing light in those last moments of dusk. There is a word to describe that time of day. I had needed it recently to complete an NYT crossword. I search the recesses of memory, ah yes "gloaming" I believe. I took a seat among my fellow caffeine addicts outside and relaxed, waiting for the line to dwindle, my mind drifting with the music on my iPod.
Suddenly Waikiki receded, the sounds of the busy city muted, and, as if watching a movie play before my eyes, I saw . .
a darkened alley . . .
I lead her by the hand down the alley, stop suddenly and spin her back to the wall, my fingers reaching for the hem of her skirt. There is no resistance other than a feeble "Security . . . what about . . ." She gasps as I drop to my knee in front of her, lifting her skirt to her waist and burying my face between her thighs inhaling deeply. An involuntary little cry escapes her lips as my tongue laps at the wetness soaking through the black lace panties she is wearing. My hands slide between her thighs to cup her ass, spreading her open against my mouth as I suck the juice from her hot, wet core, my lips and teeth teasing her clit through the lace . . . ."
A siren wailed in the distance breaking the spell. As the image faded, a wistful thought crossed my mind that all my daydreams should be that vivid and so entertaining. I glanced into the store, noting that the line had shortened considerably
"A vente Mocha with whipped cream, make it a triple shot please." I'll indulge myself, I thought, although in the back of my mind I was appalled by how many calories were in the damn thing. Still I needed the caffeine shot, it had been a long day, awake long before dawn to catch the first flight to Oahu.
I tried to reconstruct the fleeting erotic image, but it was no use. "Mocha for Andrew" called the barista. A taste . . . perfect, and I headed for the door.
Carlos Libedinsky started playing on my iPod, from the album Narcotango. One of my favorite tracks, it took me by surprise as I had forgotten it was on this playlist. At the door I stumbled, trying to juggle my coffee, purse, adjust the iPod volume, open the door and keep the newspaper from sliding out from underneath my arm. I could have recovered were it not for a sudden shudder, an earthquake? No, it was too short, almost instantaneous, no-else appeared to have noticed anything.
Unfortunately she was trying to enter at the same time. In a hurry; no, not in a hurry but obviously distracted. It seemed like she was in a different time zone. I tried to do the gentlemanly thing and hold the door for her, but disaster struck. I lost my grip on the coffee and half my Mocha spilt on her white blouse! She was definitely back in this time zone now. I was mortified, wishing the ground would split open and swallow me whole. As I began to stammer out an apology she appeared on the edge of tears. A dizzying rush of different naked emotions flitted across her face in rapid succession before she collected herself. For a moment I was stunned at what I just witnessed. What was that?
"God, I'm so sorry" I stammered, offering a handkerchief in a feeble attempt to undo the damage. "OK, it was an accident" she said avoiding my eyes.
How could she be so gracious? I would probably be on the edge of a meltdown. She appeared more embarrassed than I was. "I wasn't looking where I was going" she added. She's trying to put ME at ease? Huh?
I took a closer look at the blouse, and surveyed the mess. It was worse than I thought, exquisite lace, almost certainly antique and irreplaceable, likely to be permanently stained if the damn coffee and chocolate were allowed to dry out.
The same thought occurred to her at the same time, and the tears began to well up in her eyes. "It was my grandmother's," she whispered, as much to herself as to me.
"Look, you don't know me from Adam, but you have to trust me" I blurted the words out. "If that's not rinsed and washed immediately, it's going to be ruined. My hotel is just down the block, I know they have a laundry facility. Let's take care of it immediately."
Her eyes dropped to the ground.
"That is, if you're not in rush to get somewhere" I went on uncertainly. She was drifting again, her eyes on Diamond Head, but her mind obviously somewhere else.
"The evening's already a disaster" she murmured. "Bastard"
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing – what did you say. Oh yes." She looked directly into my eyes for the first time. Her examination was piercing, searching, analytical, I felt that nothing was hidden from her, as if she was looking into my very soul. The eye contact was held a beat too long for comfort when a decision was made and she visibly relaxed. "Where are you staying?"
"Queen Kapiolani, it's just down . ."
"I know where it is." She turned abruptly and started walking briskly down Kapahulu. Perhaps she was anxious to get moving before she changed her mind? I had to jog a couple of steps to catch up with her.
I stole sideways glances at her as we covered the few yards to the hotel steps, but she studiously avoided eye contact. "We'll go to my room first, I'll lend you one of my shirts while we're washing your blouse." She nodded. "The elevators are over there" I point out. "They're always slow." The elevator doors opened immediately to prove me a liar. Sunburned tourists crowded in with us, sparing us the awkwardness of elevator conversation in an otherwise empty car.
The elevator doors opened at my floor to an empty corridor. She hesitated, suddenly vulnerable and uncertain. "You're not a weirdo?" She tried to make a joke out of it, but she was clearly apprehensive.
I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile, put my hand over my heart "a perfect gentleman I swear."
I ushered her in to my room. "The bathroom is over there, I suggest you rinse out as much as you can before we wash it. There's some Dr. Brenner's in there, you can use that for washing anything." I found a shirt for her to wear, and she disappeared with it into the bathroom.
Behind the half closed door I heard the sound of running water, and what I was sure was muffled sobbing. I slipped the iPod into its cradle and frantically scanning for appropriate music for the occasion. Nothing came to mind, so I settled on Michael Franks. Jazzy, mellow . . . that'll have to do.
"I'll have to wash these slacks too" she called, "do you have some pants I can wear."
"Just some sweats. I'm traveling light." I was just here for a couple of days of business, and not prepared for dressing damsels in distress.
"That'll do." She accepted the proffered garment.
When she came out of the bathroom and I had to suppress a giggle. The shirt looked kinda sexy on her, but the sweats were comical. "I'm sorry, there's no way I can let you appear in public looking like that. Let me take your clothes down and put them in the washing machine. You just relax here, I'll be back in a few minutes. Anything I can get you while I'm downstairs."
"No thanks, let's just get these clothes clean." She was drifting off again. Where did she go?
I pondered the enigma of this woman as I made my way to the laundry. Her perfume hung provocatively on her clothing and I could not resist lifting the blouse to my nose and inhaling deeply. It was intoxicating; literally intoxicating, as if some highly potent designer pheromone had suddenly scrambled multiple neurotransmitters in my brain. I felt high and every sense was immediately more acute. I examined the slacks more carefully, now aware of a tactile quality of the fabric unlike anything I had previously encountered. The label was unfamiliar, as was the language. The workmanship of the garment was curious, with supple rolled seams, as if welded rather than sewn. My mind rejected the oddities as I started the load and returned to the room, now more intrigued by mystery waiting there. She obviously had a lot on her mind, and "tonight was already a disaster", what did that mean?
I hesitated at the door, for a moment apprehensive, before slipping the card into the lock and opening the door. Walking into the room I was struck with a palpable feeling of dislocation, like a tremor in the fabric of space-time itself. She was sitting at the table examining the iPod but something strange was happening. Then I realized. It was not playing Michael Franks anymore! Instead "Esta Noche", Carlos Libedinsky, this was so freaking weird, it just couldn't be. But it was, the same track that was playing when our worlds collided.
As I stepped into the room it felt as if an invisible force field momentarily resisted my movement. I pushed and felt it give way, but the room began to spin slowly. Suddenly I experienced a sensation of the floor giving way – as if the entire room were an elevator car in a bottomless elevator suddenly dropping in free fall. The room dimmed and was silent. All I could hear was my heart pounding and the blood rushing in my ears. A jolt brought me back to reality. What the hell?
I looked at her again and she seemed somehow different, taller and softer. Until this moment I hadn't the opportunity to really SEE her, so distracted was I by my embarrassment and the urgent need to rescue the garment. I would have sworn she was shorter, the hair a different shade and longer, the face more angular. That doesn't make sense, I told myself, you're imagining things.
"What was that, did you feel it?"
"What do you mean?" I lied, unable to make sense of or even articulate what had just happened.
"There's a disturbance in the force, Luke" she said in a poor imitation of Alec Guinness. She shivered. "Just my imagination" favoring me with a winsome smile before turning back to the iPod.
"I hope you don't mind I changed the playlist. I was curious to see what you had in here. It's one of my many quirks. You can tell a lot about people from their books and music collections. You dance Argentine tango" a statement not a question. She was still peering intently at the iPod.
I was still stunned by the coincidence of the music and a quickly fading feeling of unreality, and could barely get the words out. "Yes, but still a novice. Please don't think for one moment that the extent my collection of tango music on that thing in any way correlates with my abilities." She laughed pleasantly and turned towards me. The cabeceo was unmistakable, the tilt, the eyes, the nod. A non-verbal "shall we."
I stepped toward her, stopping an appropriate step or so away from her. "Go on" her eyes encouraged and I offered my hand. She rose and stepped into me, her left arm slipping smoothly around my neck into a close embrace. A moment of panic but I completed the hold.
