broad back now to me. It doesn’t make any difference, however. I could no more read his face than I can his shoulder blades. They’re both a blank slate.
‘Then let me be very clear: I didn’t bring you here to do anything you don’t want.’
‘So what did you bring me here for?’
He glances over his shoulder at me, smile now as sharp as a shark’s.
‘To find out what you
do
want, of course.’
‘Don’t you already know?’
‘I told you. I’m not a mind-reader.’
He has a glass of what looks like Scotch in his hand when he turns, and for a moment I think he’s going to give it to me. Instead he simply sits down by the table in front of the window, free hand working the buttons on his jacket until the whole thing hangs loose. One big leg jutting in my direction, the other tucked back.
It’s neither a relaxed pose nor an aggressive one.
It just
is
. He’s just himself, utterly contained and totally compelling.
‘I suppose the other women are pretty clear.’
‘The
rules
of the
assignation
are pretty clear. We always know beforehand what particular game we might be playing, though we never see each other more than once. Everything relies on an unspoken understanding between participants. But you and I don’t have that understanding.’
‘So what do we do now, then?’
He rolls the liquid around inside the glass, but doesn’t drink.
He speaks instead.
‘We do it the old-fashioned way. I ask, and you tell me.’
‘Can’t you just guess?’
‘I could, but that would make it ever so easy on you.’
‘I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.’
‘Perhaps not.’ He sets the glass down on the table, and I know something’s coming. He’s gearing up to it, if he even needs to do anything like that – which I doubt. He seems to have two settings: bristling silence and sudden action. And I think I’m about to get some sudden action now. ‘Perhaps we could play that way for a little while.’
Oh, God, I should never have asked for guessing. I was wrong, I take it back. Guessing is for people who understand everything about themselves. I do not understand everything about myself. I don’t even understand why I jerk when he stands up, because he doesn’t do it in an aggressive way.
He doesn’t do
anything
in an aggressive way, really. His voice is soft; his movements are measured and precise. And when he starts circling me, he does it in such a slow, casual manner it’s almost like he’s not doing it at all.
I doubt I’d notice, if I wasn’t so completely tuned into him. My body hums the moment he gets close, and even after he’s stepped behind me I’m aware he’s still there. I’m almost leaning towards him, in fact, as though he’s a magnet and I’m made of metal.
And of course he notices.
‘I could, for example, intuit from the sway of your body that you like it when I draw close, and don’t when I step away. Am I correct?’
He’s so correct it’s painful. I think he’s starting to pull my fillings out.
‘Yes.’
‘And when I do this …’ he begins, but naturally he doesn’t have to finish. The back of his hand against my cheek is enough. It’s more than enough. It’s a sort of bliss I’ve never really known before. ‘I can tell how much you like it by the way you lean into it.’
He could say more and embarrass me, I think, because really I’m not just leaning. I’m almost sliding off my chair. If he were standing beside me now I’d slump into his side, and I’m not even sure I’d care. All that matters at the moment is how hard and high my heart is beating, how prickly my skin seems to be, how warm I am right at my centre.
I want to be my body and nothing else, for once.
And oh, it’s easy to be that way with him. He makes you forget without even really trying. He says one word and every frantic thought I’ve ever had just flies away.
‘Yes, you like that,’ he tells me, and I feel no need to say no. Saying no might make him stop, and,
‘Then let me be very clear: I didn’t bring you here to do anything you don’t want.’
‘So what did you bring me here for?’
He glances over his shoulder at me, smile now as sharp as a shark’s.
‘To find out what you
do
want, of course.’
‘Don’t you already know?’
‘I told you. I’m not a mind-reader.’
He has a glass of what looks like Scotch in his hand when he turns, and for a moment I think he’s going to give it to me. Instead he simply sits down by the table in front of the window, free hand working the buttons on his jacket until the whole thing hangs loose. One big leg jutting in my direction, the other tucked back.
It’s neither a relaxed pose nor an aggressive one.
It just
is
. He’s just himself, utterly contained and totally compelling.
‘I suppose the other women are pretty clear.’
‘The
rules
of the
assignation
are pretty clear. We always know beforehand what particular game we might be playing, though we never see each other more than once. Everything relies on an unspoken understanding between participants. But you and I don’t have that understanding.’
‘So what do we do now, then?’
He rolls the liquid around inside the glass, but doesn’t drink.
He speaks instead.
‘We do it the old-fashioned way. I ask, and you tell me.’
‘Can’t you just guess?’
‘I could, but that would make it ever so easy on you.’
‘I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.’
‘Perhaps not.’ He sets the glass down on the table, and I know something’s coming. He’s gearing up to it, if he even needs to do anything like that – which I doubt. He seems to have two settings: bristling silence and sudden action. And I think I’m about to get some sudden action now. ‘Perhaps we could play that way for a little while.’
Oh, God, I should never have asked for guessing. I was wrong, I take it back. Guessing is for people who understand everything about themselves. I do not understand everything about myself. I don’t even understand why I jerk when he stands up, because he doesn’t do it in an aggressive way.
He doesn’t do
anything
in an aggressive way, really. His voice is soft; his movements are measured and precise. And when he starts circling me, he does it in such a slow, casual manner it’s almost like he’s not doing it at all.
I doubt I’d notice, if I wasn’t so completely tuned into him. My body hums the moment he gets close, and even after he’s stepped behind me I’m aware he’s still there. I’m almost leaning towards him, in fact, as though he’s a magnet and I’m made of metal.
And of course he notices.
‘I could, for example, intuit from the sway of your body that you like it when I draw close, and don’t when I step away. Am I correct?’
He’s so correct it’s painful. I think he’s starting to pull my fillings out.
‘Yes.’
‘And when I do this …’ he begins, but naturally he doesn’t have to finish. The back of his hand against my cheek is enough. It’s more than enough. It’s a sort of bliss I’ve never really known before. ‘I can tell how much you like it by the way you lean into it.’
He could say more and embarrass me, I think, because really I’m not just leaning. I’m almost sliding off my chair. If he were standing beside me now I’d slump into his side, and I’m not even sure I’d care. All that matters at the moment is how hard and high my heart is beating, how prickly my skin seems to be, how warm I am right at my centre.
I want to be my body and nothing else, for once.
And oh, it’s easy to be that way with him. He makes you forget without even really trying. He says one word and every frantic thought I’ve ever had just flies away.
‘Yes, you like that,’ he tells me, and I feel no need to say no. Saying no might make him stop, and,
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