enjoy food a lot, especially good food. But he has already poached on and plundered this desire away and instead replaced it with a gnawing one, for him.
“So how was your day?” He is cutting into my head games.
“Good. I got a lot done. I needed to get a lot done in order to feel good about being here with you. I need to be productive in order to be frivolous later. I don’t do unbridled frivolous, only unbridled serious.” I am philosophically babbling now.
“Oh! So I am your unbridled frivolous today?” he asks cocking his head sideways as if to mock me. But then without warning he picks up my other hand that I have casually left on the table. He gives it the same attention as he gave my other hand, especially my palm. Except this one’s wetter.
I pull involuntarily. He refuses to let go instead leaning in to breathe onto my wet palm. The cold wet turns warm under his breath and all my nerve endings go into red alert. My vagina cannot stop contracting and I realize that I am in the throes of a mini-orgasm that actually doesn’t feel mini at all.
Shit!
I will not be the silent Indian Meg Ryan in an Indian restaurant.
I pull my hand away to wipe the wetness away on my salwar and then leave my hand where it is. It is dangerous to leave limbs lying around for him to poach on and play with. And then our food arrives. Thank, God Krishna!
Goodness! He has ordered the whole menu and the chef with it! The table is too small for this order. I shift the silverware around depositing the small candleholder to the far end of the table but away from the wall.
He waves at the food now littering the entire length and breadth of our table and says, “Ms. Sharma dig in.”
Okay, digging in. I am hungry so I help myself to some chicken Manchurian and egg fried rice. I debate about the green chilies in vinegar and the hot red sauce. I decide against either. I don’t think I can do any hotter right now. I need my food to be a little cold after what has transpired five minutes ago. I need some checks and balances here. I dig in. The food is a little cold like it has been sitting in the kitchen for more than five minutes. But seriously I don’t mind it right now. It is the right temperature for my palate. While stuffing my mouth with a good portion of the Manchurian, I take a peep at him.
He is not happy. Mr. hot thinks the food is a wee bit cold, does he? Awww! He motions to the waiter standing somewhere behind me. When he arrives two seconds later, he is asked to take away everything except my Manchurian and bring in fresh, hot plates instead. His voice is hard and his eyes are a little angry. The waiter’s eyes are downcast as he picks up the plates. His body language speaks his contriteness. I feel sorry for the man and for me because now I have to wait for his food. This means I have to now pay attention to him. I see him loosening his tie further. His top shirt button is now open. He runs his fingers through his hair but it is a slow tangled swipe. His matt of hair is too thick for an easy finger sift. His fingers stop midway as he looks down at his watch. And then he looks up rather suddenly pinning me with his still pissed gaze.
I squirm and our kneecaps sift back into place, mine resting in his as if it has returned home.
He is saying and I am trying to listen, “Sorry about that, hon’. I can’t do cold food and if I am paying for an experience then it better be excellent not just good.”
“I didn’t mind. I kind of like cold food.” I pout I think (most inappropriate thing to do, I agree but what is a girl to do when she is likes the guy and her body agrees with her enough to react as it should without permission).
“Why, Ms. Sharma, I don’t take you for a cold person at all. I think you are a very passionate person. You seem to radiate some gorgeous heat every time I am near you. It is very intoxicating. You have no idea how many times I have had to stop myself from reaching out to touch your
“So how was your day?” He is cutting into my head games.
“Good. I got a lot done. I needed to get a lot done in order to feel good about being here with you. I need to be productive in order to be frivolous later. I don’t do unbridled frivolous, only unbridled serious.” I am philosophically babbling now.
“Oh! So I am your unbridled frivolous today?” he asks cocking his head sideways as if to mock me. But then without warning he picks up my other hand that I have casually left on the table. He gives it the same attention as he gave my other hand, especially my palm. Except this one’s wetter.
I pull involuntarily. He refuses to let go instead leaning in to breathe onto my wet palm. The cold wet turns warm under his breath and all my nerve endings go into red alert. My vagina cannot stop contracting and I realize that I am in the throes of a mini-orgasm that actually doesn’t feel mini at all.
Shit!
I will not be the silent Indian Meg Ryan in an Indian restaurant.
I pull my hand away to wipe the wetness away on my salwar and then leave my hand where it is. It is dangerous to leave limbs lying around for him to poach on and play with. And then our food arrives. Thank, God Krishna!
Goodness! He has ordered the whole menu and the chef with it! The table is too small for this order. I shift the silverware around depositing the small candleholder to the far end of the table but away from the wall.
He waves at the food now littering the entire length and breadth of our table and says, “Ms. Sharma dig in.”
Okay, digging in. I am hungry so I help myself to some chicken Manchurian and egg fried rice. I debate about the green chilies in vinegar and the hot red sauce. I decide against either. I don’t think I can do any hotter right now. I need my food to be a little cold after what has transpired five minutes ago. I need some checks and balances here. I dig in. The food is a little cold like it has been sitting in the kitchen for more than five minutes. But seriously I don’t mind it right now. It is the right temperature for my palate. While stuffing my mouth with a good portion of the Manchurian, I take a peep at him.
He is not happy. Mr. hot thinks the food is a wee bit cold, does he? Awww! He motions to the waiter standing somewhere behind me. When he arrives two seconds later, he is asked to take away everything except my Manchurian and bring in fresh, hot plates instead. His voice is hard and his eyes are a little angry. The waiter’s eyes are downcast as he picks up the plates. His body language speaks his contriteness. I feel sorry for the man and for me because now I have to wait for his food. This means I have to now pay attention to him. I see him loosening his tie further. His top shirt button is now open. He runs his fingers through his hair but it is a slow tangled swipe. His matt of hair is too thick for an easy finger sift. His fingers stop midway as he looks down at his watch. And then he looks up rather suddenly pinning me with his still pissed gaze.
I squirm and our kneecaps sift back into place, mine resting in his as if it has returned home.
He is saying and I am trying to listen, “Sorry about that, hon’. I can’t do cold food and if I am paying for an experience then it better be excellent not just good.”
“I didn’t mind. I kind of like cold food.” I pout I think (most inappropriate thing to do, I agree but what is a girl to do when she is likes the guy and her body agrees with her enough to react as it should without permission).
“Why, Ms. Sharma, I don’t take you for a cold person at all. I think you are a very passionate person. You seem to radiate some gorgeous heat every time I am near you. It is very intoxicating. You have no idea how many times I have had to stop myself from reaching out to touch your
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