I’ve heard your voice. And I’ve basked in it, really.
I’ve seen your digitally, lovingly captured lips. And I’ve imagined many journeys for them.
But experiencing them both at the same time is turning out to be a little more distracting than I expected.
Distracting isn’t the right word.
I mean, the hostess noticed the chemistry.
So did the waiter.
I think one of the kitschy statues even gave me a wink as we walked by, on our way to the outdoor patio.
You’re explaining why you picked this place. But you’re speaking so quickly. I’m gladly riding the waves of decibel and excitement changes.
You start to tell the story about how you and your roommate met the former chef here, but you suddenly realize that your willingness to share might not mesh well with what I want to hear.
So you stop.
You stare more when you’re quiet.
You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
You lean on your hands.
You’re sizing me up.
I involuntary make sure my shoulders are back and my posture is good.
I tap my finger on the table, to the music coming from inside.
You head dance a little.
“Tell me something,” you command.
“Hmm… Waiting to see if awkwardness will occur is actually pretty awkward.”
You nod. “Right?”
You shuffle in your seat.
I furrow my brow.
“I was just–” you start.
“What? Shut up!”
“It’s okay. It happens,” I assure you.
“I was slipping my shoes off!”
You pick up the laminated, colourful menu, even though you know it by heart.
“Plus I’d need to actually be wearing something for wedging to occur,” you offer, without looking up from the appetizers list.
“Water!” I fakeyell to a nonexistent waiter.
A breeze blows up. Our candle flickers. But it stays lit.
You explain your favourite dish. You tell how it perfectly mixes acids with… something and has a fresh and pure flavour with local ingredients.
Honestly? I can’t stop watching you rub your shoulder. It is moving the spaghetti strap from your sundress. The strap gets to the edge of your pretty shoulder. (Yes, shoulders can be pretty!)
You tell me how this restaurant was on an episode of something or other on The Food Network.
Your strap falls off of your shoulder.
You accuse me of only watching cooking shows that involve Giada.
I have to ask you to repeat yourself.
I add that I also like Claire Robinson.
“I am not sure I would have pegged her as your type,” you reply, while genuinely giving it some thought.
“A fast-talking beauty? What’s not to like?”
“That’s a good point,” you smirk.
The waiter arrives. You place your order. I take too long, so you place mine too.
“Bossy,” I tease.
“You didn’t know what you wanted!”
“I know what I wanted.”
“And what did you want?” you ask, biting your bottom lip gently.
“I wanted… to know. I wanted to see if your essence is as tangible as I expected it to be. I wanted to see if your eyes would disarm me. If your hair would beg for my hand to run through it. If your smile would warm me. If your curves would entice me so… fucking… completely. I wanted… to be in your presence. Finally. Finally. I wanted… I needed to see if I could be with you. If you’d let me. I needed to feel you. Against me. On top of me. Underneath me, with your back arching. Wrapped around me against a wall. I need to experience you. All of you. Every part. Every way. Everywhere. I need… to take you wildly. Deeply. Passionately. Completely. Affectionately. Then wildly again. Teeth. Nails. Slap marks. I fucking need to take you in an all-consuming, breath-catching, control-losing way that makes friends jealous and neighbours angry. I want to finish together with such intensity that we both fear and invite injury. Then I want to spoon you, and read you poetry while kissing your neck, until you fall gently asleep. And then I need to wake up in the middle of the night and sleepily start it all again. But with more intensity.”
You stare for a few moments, without blinking.
You raise your hand to our nonexistent waiter.