Home Coming

At five fifteen the echo of your keys clanking against the marble side table announces your arrival. An ice-cold glass of tea in my hand, I step into the foyer to greet you. Our eyes meet with a crackle and I stop dead in my tracks, overpowered by the fire flashing at me. The top three buttons on your shirt are already open and your fingers struggle to loosen the fourth. Before I can inquire about your day, you forsake the buttons in favor of pulling me to you.  You wrestled the drink from my grip as you capture my lips in an urgent kiss. Amber liquid sloshes up and over the rim as you carelessly drop the glass on the table, returning your fingers to the important work of removing your shirt.

“Let me.” My voice, smooth and clear only moments ago, is now gravelly and thick. My unsteady fingers fly to their task, opening one, two, three more buttons, before I slide my hands to you shoulders. Tailored silk flutters to the ground and I’m lost to a vision of creamy white against black lace.

Say Yes

You walk through the door and sit in the booth farthest from the juke box. There is no thunder and lightning. I don’t think you even notice me. 

But I see you and suddenly I can’t breathe. There’s no air left in the room, certainly none left in my lungs. Then you look up and our eyes meet. Vacant disinterest. A total lack of recognition. Is that even possible?

The air whooshes back into my lungs and my feet are suddenly moving. I pick up a menu on my way past the cash register and drop it onto the table in front of you. I try to speak, tell you the special of the day. Nothing. My mouth is open, but no words are forthcoming.

“How are you, Jillian?” Your voice is soft, gentle, and so inviting. I revel in it.

I gulp air, trying to regain my voice, and nod at you. “I’m…” I clear my throat, trying to banish the raspy, squeaky tone my voice has adopted. “I’m okay. You?” I try to sound casual, disinterested. It doesn’t work. I’m so eager for you, your approval, your touch.

You run one lone finger over my hand – the hand I had placed with false casualness flat on the table. Moments ago, I complained to an employee about the chill in the air, that my hands were ice. Frozen. Now one is ice and the other is fire. A blaze shoots from your fingertip onto my skin and I’m betrayed. “I’ve missed you.” You say it in a hushed half-whisper, imploring me to accept you, accept what you have to offer.