Tuesday, January 09, 2007
We'll meet again, some sunny day
It was unusual, her choice of music. It was Glenn Miller, which I found surprising in a thirtysomething-ish woman. I slowly walked her bookshelf, head cocked to the side listening to the clarinet and reading the titles of the books. You can tell something about a person by the library they keep. I was pleased to not see any of the Judith Krantz or Jude Devereaux hardbacks, nor was there a copy of Ms. or Modern Bride on her coffee table. Instead, the coffee table contained two remotes, an incense burner made of sandalwood with vague Indian sigils carved into it and a Discover magazine.
She spoke to me from the kitchen, her disembodied voice asking me if I wanted a drink and the clink of the ice in the glasses letting me know I was getting one no matter my answer. I continued my tour of the bookcase, and noted the movies mixed in on the bottom shelf. Again, no cloying cinema, no worn out copies of The English Patient or a host of Merchant Ivory pornography. The stereo was a bookshelf unit, one of the small ones that put out an astonishing amount of sound and again I wondered at the 1940's big band music.
Dinner had been a quiet affair, a small feast of quiet laughter and clever conversation. The restaurant had been slightly overpriced, but she was considerate enough to not order lobster tail and filet mignon. We shared an oversized dish of chicken with some odd sort of zesty chipotle sauce that made her eyes water. Our date had originally called for the dinner-and-a-movie script, but instead I took her to a small, privately owned bookstore where I knew the owner stayed open on Saturdays until 9 p.m. I did not want to sit next to her and not be able to speak for an hour and a half, so unless she insisted the movie part was not going to happen. She was delighted with this change in plan, and ended up purchasing a book on the great hurricane that devastated Galveston Island back in early September of 1900.
She pressed the drink into my hand, and sat next to me on the couch. She didn't sit directly next to me, she scrunched down at the end and removed her shoes to hug her knees to her stomach. However, she certainly held eye contact as we blathered on about what I cannot remember until I moved down to her end of the couch and gently touched her face with my hand. She immediately came into my arms and instead of the heavy kissing I had expected she pulled me to my feet and folded herself into me and murmured about dancing. This is something I knew how to do, and I gently led her about the living room while Bing Crosby reminded us that he would be seeing us in all the old familiar places. There was a sense of anticipation in our steps, and I loved the smell of her hair and the warm feel of the wool sweater under my hand at the small of her back. I spun her gently around and she laughed, and took me by both of my hands and pulled me towards the hallway.
There is an invisible barrier to a woman's bedroom, a force-field in the doorway that only men can feel. I breached this field with an almost imperceptible feeling of walking through a warm draft, and immediately felt the tension of being a stranger in an intimate setting. This was her space, her private area and while she held my hands I still felt like the proverbial bull, her smiling eyes wide and welcoming and me feeling clumsy and oversized. There were candles already lit, so I knew she had come in here while I was still at the bookcase. Her hands found the buttons on my shirt, and there was just enough fumbling to reassure me that this was not an overpracticed move on her part. Her mouth tasted of warmth and spices, the drink and her own unique flavor. There was a slight hesitation and a few bumped-nose kisses and then suddenly it was perfect, like we had practiced the movement a thousand times before. I held her auburn hair in my hands, and she ran both her hands up the back of my neck. I traced her collarbone with my lips into the sacred spot where it meets the base of her throat, and she moaned so low I felt it rather than heard it. She pulled the buckle on my belt, and I softly slid my hands down the outside of her thighs, her skirt half coming with the downward motion of my hands. She nudged her bedroom door half-closed, and Moonlight Serenade played on and on...
She spoke to me from the kitchen, her disembodied voice asking me if I wanted a drink and the clink of the ice in the glasses letting me know I was getting one no matter my answer. I continued my tour of the bookcase, and noted the movies mixed in on the bottom shelf. Again, no cloying cinema, no worn out copies of The English Patient or a host of Merchant Ivory pornography. The stereo was a bookshelf unit, one of the small ones that put out an astonishing amount of sound and again I wondered at the 1940's big band music.
Dinner had been a quiet affair, a small feast of quiet laughter and clever conversation. The restaurant had been slightly overpriced, but she was considerate enough to not order lobster tail and filet mignon. We shared an oversized dish of chicken with some odd sort of zesty chipotle sauce that made her eyes water. Our date had originally called for the dinner-and-a-movie script, but instead I took her to a small, privately owned bookstore where I knew the owner stayed open on Saturdays until 9 p.m. I did not want to sit next to her and not be able to speak for an hour and a half, so unless she insisted the movie part was not going to happen. She was delighted with this change in plan, and ended up purchasing a book on the great hurricane that devastated Galveston Island back in early September of 1900.
She pressed the drink into my hand, and sat next to me on the couch. She didn't sit directly next to me, she scrunched down at the end and removed her shoes to hug her knees to her stomach. However, she certainly held eye contact as we blathered on about what I cannot remember until I moved down to her end of the couch and gently touched her face with my hand. She immediately came into my arms and instead of the heavy kissing I had expected she pulled me to my feet and folded herself into me and murmured about dancing. This is something I knew how to do, and I gently led her about the living room while Bing Crosby reminded us that he would be seeing us in all the old familiar places. There was a sense of anticipation in our steps, and I loved the smell of her hair and the warm feel of the wool sweater under my hand at the small of her back. I spun her gently around and she laughed, and took me by both of my hands and pulled me towards the hallway.
There is an invisible barrier to a woman's bedroom, a force-field in the doorway that only men can feel. I breached this field with an almost imperceptible feeling of walking through a warm draft, and immediately felt the tension of being a stranger in an intimate setting. This was her space, her private area and while she held my hands I still felt like the proverbial bull, her smiling eyes wide and welcoming and me feeling clumsy and oversized. There were candles already lit, so I knew she had come in here while I was still at the bookcase. Her hands found the buttons on my shirt, and there was just enough fumbling to reassure me that this was not an overpracticed move on her part. Her mouth tasted of warmth and spices, the drink and her own unique flavor. There was a slight hesitation and a few bumped-nose kisses and then suddenly it was perfect, like we had practiced the movement a thousand times before. I held her auburn hair in my hands, and she ran both her hands up the back of my neck. I traced her collarbone with my lips into the sacred spot where it meets the base of her throat, and she moaned so low I felt it rather than heard it. She pulled the buckle on my belt, and I softly slid my hands down the outside of her thighs, her skirt half coming with the downward motion of my hands. She nudged her bedroom door half-closed, and Moonlight Serenade played on and on...
# posted by Crom @ 19:45 
