The Stranger by Kyra Davis

and I can see a cup of coffee and a small box of pastries sitting on a side table by the window, seemingly forgotten. And then I see him, at his desk, his head bent over some papers. Drops of water in his salt-and-pepper hair catch the light and hint at a recent shower.
    I stop a moment and picture that: Robert Dade standing naked in the shower, water washing over him, his eyes closed, lost in his own thoughts and the feeling of the warmth against his skin, quiet, vulnerable to the world. I imagine myself sneaking into the shower behind him, running my fingers through his hair as he tenses with surprise, then relaxes into my caress. I imagine sliding soap-covered hands down his back, to his ass, around his hips, and then stroking his cock until he’s clean and hard and perfect.
    The sharp inhale of breath is enough to bring his attention away from those papers before him. He looks up at me, sees the color of my cheeks, and smiles.
    I dig my fingernails into my palms and try to focus on the pain. I’ve had days to think this through. I’m not here to engage in fantasies. I’m here to end things. I’m here so I can make a clean break and be the woman I want to be. The signs in national parks tell us to stay on the path. If we wander off them, we may get lost; we might crush the very things that brought us to the park to begin with.
    I walk into the office, determined to stay on the path, even as I close the door behind me.
    Looking into his eyes I can read an encyclopedia’s worth of information. He wants me. He’s curious. Like me, he doesn’t know what to expect and he wants to know where the line is today, the line between pulling me in and pushing me away.
    “It’s going to stop,” I say.
    “ It? ” he asks from his seat.
    My voice is even and so much cooler than my warming cheeks. “No more transgressions, no more mistakes. It’s done. Dave and I . . . we’ve decided on a ring.”
    “Dave.” He says the name carefully as he rises and steps around his desk but not in front of it, still looking for that line in the sand. “That’s his name?”
    I nod in acknowledgment. “He’s a good man. Kind, considerate . . . he buys me white roses.” The words are shooting out of my mouth like arrows but I have no aim. Not one has come close to hitting its mark.
    “Then he doesn’t know you very well.”
    “He’s known me for six years—most of my adult life.”
    “Which means there’s no excuse for his ignorance.” He takes a step forward. “White roses are pretty but they have nothing to do with who you are. You’re more of an African violet. Have you ever seen an African violet?”
    I shake my head.
    “It’s a flower that often comes in the deepest of purples, the color of royalty.” He studies me, folding his arms casually across his broad chest. “Its petals are velvety; they actually seem to want to be touched. And at its center, it’s core, the very spot where the bees can coax out its nectar, it’s a vibrant gold. Its sensuality isn’t cartoonish like the Anthurium and it’s not as clichéd as the orchid, which is too fragile to be compared to you anyway. The African violet is strong, enticing, and its beauty can be seen, but to fully appreciate its depth, it needs to be touched. It’s a very intricate flower.”
    “No,” I say, “I like traditional roses. I don’t care if they’re common. They’re simple, elegant . . . sweet.” I straighten my back but don’t meet his eyes. “It has to stop,” I whisper. “No more mistakes.”
    “We haven’t made any mistakes. Everything we’ve done was considered and deliberate.”
    “No, I didn’t think it through. I was . . . overwhelmed.”
    He smiles again. I like his smile. I like the way it makes him look younger and mischievous. I like the way it heats the inside of my stomach . . . and other parts of me.
    “I didn’t carry you away from the blackjack table,” he says. “You walked with me. You ordered