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Playing Out Ch. 01

By: cyanskye



I had just left the restaurant. An... eclectic sort of outside place. Good for a bite of something. An interesting people watching place. I was crossing the street when a car slowed to a stop in front of me.

"Did you just come out of there?" the driver wanted to know. "What sort of place is it?"

"Well, it's sort of Caribbean food..." What was with this guy? 

"Is it, like, eclectic? You know...'

"Well, that's a big word... Around here we only get funky and occasionally cool..." He was not the typical guy I would be interested in.

"Well, me and my buddies..." At that he motioned to the three preppy golfers in the car poking each other and laughing. "We were looking for somewhere interesting to eat."

"This would be the place then." I laughed and started to walk around the car. "I could show you around if you want..." 

Where did that come from? I was going home. He is not my type. Sandy brown hair. Tall. Big guy. Polo shirt, open at the neck. Probably perfectly pressed khaki pants and $300 leather loafers.

"Hey, that would be great." Hooting now from the back seat. What was I thinking?

He parks the car and they pile out. A herd of polo shirts and khaki pants. He has these startling blue eyes. A sweet smile. 

We find a table on the patio and order drinks. Inside a band is playing. The "boys" are checking out the menu and the bartender. He hands me my drink and says. "When does the tour begin?"

We get up from the table and walk through the courtyard. The party lights hanging from the trees are on and they are even prettier than I remembered. He touches my arm and points at the mannequin lounging by the fish pond. I lose my breath...for a second...what is going on.

We wander through the inner rooms. They are small and crowded. The band is tuning up and the electricity you feel when live music is beginning could be felt around everyone we passed. We stop at the stairs. They lead up to a loft with a wide open space to watch the band from above. 

He looks up the stairs then at me. There is a question there but he won't ask it. I smile and start up the stairs.

We stop at the rail and lean over. We have a perfect view of the singer and his red guitar. The bass player starts a line and I feel it shake through the room. We listen. Not talking, not touching.

The room is getting more and more crowded. It is loud and a little hazy from smoke. He is behind me now. Close. The atmosphere in the room has changed. It is heavy, warm. We are so close but still apart. Then he leans closer still. He exhales and I feel his warmth on the nape of my neck ... I can't breathe. The air has caught in my throat. Then slowly I inhale. 

That imperceptible shift is all he needs. I can feel his hands on my waist and his mouth against my neck where seconds ago his breath had been. The bass is louder now. But not loud...heavy. I can feel the vibration through my bones. I can hear nothing but his breath. 

I feel the strength in those arms wrapped around me. They are strong, restraining. The drummer starts a solo and the muscle fibers in his strong arms become tauter. I could not get away if I tried.

At that moment...he heard that thought....he relaxes. Just a small amount but it is enough. I turn in his arms and face him. I look directly into his eyes. The question is still there. Louder now than on the stairs. But he won't say it. 

I lean into him and feel the fullness of him press into me. His arms are once again strong around me. I lean in and very softly exhale...near his neck ...but it sounds like "yes".

He shifts a tiny bit and looks down at me. The very hint of a smile. His mouth is on me. Warm, wet. Unhurried. The music is building, the song is almost over. 

He takes my hand and leads me to a corner. It is dark...there is a curtain hanging halfway over a couch. The band has ended its song and the crowd is showing their appreciation. We can feel the applause and of course a hoot or two. He takes the curtain from its pull and the crowd is gone.

He moves me to the couch and with his strong, soft hands pushes me to a sit. I feel more than hear the red guitar quietly beginning. It is playing only for us. 

I let my arms slide down his torso. Soft, but still strong under the polo. I am a little surprised but the thought is gone because my hands have reached the waist band of the perfectly pressed khakis. They easily open the button and slide down the zipper. One finger brushes inside and feels the warmth of a pair of soft cotton boxers and then him. Again strong and now hard.

He exhales...slowly....a soft sigh ... it sounds like "yes".

I take him out of the boxers and let my fingers slowly wander over the length of him. I lean into him and take him in my mouth. I let my tongue wander around him as my fingers slide around his balls and touch the soft skin behind them. I feel him inhale. He can't get his breath.

I slide him out of my mouth and look up. His head is tilted back at a funky angle. Eyes are closed. His lips are open slightly, enough to let the warmth of his breath out. I want to feel those lips on me. I want to feel that mouth devour me.

I take his cock back into my mouth and let myself move in rhythm to the drum downstairs. My hands are on his ass, pushing him into me. I taste the saltiness of him as my tongue allows itself to be moved over and around him. I can feel the reverb through the floor into the couch through me and into him. He sighs again, soft still, in time to our movement, but like the bass he is building to crescendo.

The movement stops suddenly, urgently. He pulls his cock out of my mouth. It is thick and wet. If he had to wait another second it would be over. He reaches down with his hands and lets them slide over my body as he kneels down in front of me. I take his head in my hands and pull that mouth closer to mine.

His lips are soft and strong and what I want. His tongue is in my mouth and I know he tastes the moisture that was his seconds ago. His hands are moving down my shoulders over my arms and near my breasts now. He pulls away from the kiss and unbuttons my blouse. 

I have on one of those bras that is more art than function. It is just fine. I feel the release of breath as his fingers brush over my nipples. He reaches into the bra and slides my breast out in his hand. He leans into them and I feel his tongue move where it wants. His teeth dangerously near the tender skin. I do not care.

His hands are moving farther down over my body and are at my jeans now. He stops sucking me and looks down. They are not complicated jeans. One button and a zipper. This is a sharp guy.

He slides the jeans down but leaves my panties. They are my favorite pair. The palest pink. Against my skin they look almost like I have nothing on. The lace is soft and rough at the same time. I feel that breath again and know that these are indeed my favorite panties.

His fingers are sliding over the lace of the panties then between my legs. I feel him lean down and his breath is against me before his mouth is. He has slid the panties aside and his tongue is between me and in me. I fall back into the couch. 

I know that if he looked up at me he would see my eyes shut and my mouth open slightly. It can no longer contain my breath.

He lets his tongue move over me. His mouth does devour and I can no longer wait. As the band wraps up this loud rough song. I hear the crowd begin to roar. I am with them, moaning but it is not the end of the song that I am feeling. I feel the drum beat out the final rhythm as my entire body begins to shudder. I have no control. I do not want any. He continues to lick and suck me until he feels the shaking move to his part of my body. At this sensation he reaches up and grabs my hands. He holds me down and I am powerless.

He feels me melt into his restraint and lifts me up and throws me back on the couch. We hear the singer announce one more song in this set. "Don't forget to tip your waiters and waitresses" he says. We only hear that this must end soon.

He pulls my jeans and panties down. They are wrapped around an ankle. He moves the cotton of his briefs away to release his cock. It is harder than before. I want him in me and on me.

He leans over me and grabs my wrists. Pushes them over my head. His hands are no longer strong but once again restraining and I want them to hold me down as long as he can... I hear the beginning strains of a song that somewhere in my mind I know. I want it to go on forever.

He moves above me and puts his cock into me. I bring my hips up to meet him and I am rewarded with a strength that takes my breath away again. He is consumed with this movement. The singer hits a painful note and he joins in with a moan so deep and low that the harmonies seem natural to the tune. 

The movement is faster now but no less strong. Restraining. I begin to once again feel the pulse of the drum through the floor. I see movement out of the corner of my eye and my heart stops.

We are reflected in the broken shards of glass that make up the mosaic on the wall beside me. The sharp edges show hints of skin, breast, stomach, shoulder, ass. All moving in rhythm with the band, the pulsation of the crowd, the thrusting of his hips.

I feel him lean over me, his mouth near my neck. I feel his breath, hot against my skin and it sounds like "yes". Then his mouth is on mine again. It is smothering me, devouring me. I want to scream out with the crowd.

There is a slight release in the hold he has on my arms. I take the chance to bring them around him and hold him closer to me. I bring my legs up and wrap them around him. The release is no longer slight. It is strong and powerful and we are in rhythm with the crowd below us as they cheer the band for the wonderful set.

We cheer for them too.

We dress each other pulling clothes up and down and doing up buttons. The khakis are no longer perfectly pressed. I like them better that way.

We walk down the stairs and head for the door and the crowded patio. The herd of polos is still at the bar. They have gotten no farther with the bartender. At the door I stop.

"I need to make a quick visit..." I say nodding my head to the other room.

"You were right..."He says. "This is really more of a ....funky place." He knows I will not be coming back out to the patio.

I slip out the side door. I can't help but look back once more. I see him standing by the mannequin lounging by the pond. He gives the slightest little wave.

********************

It has been a while since I have been to this part of town. It sounded like a nice idea when my girlfriend called. We walk down the sidewalk and I watch the cars on the street. They slowly move through the intersection. They do not stop.

"I heard this band is pretty good" my girlfriend says as we peek through the window. The singer is tuning up his red guitar. He looks up and grins. He has heard that they are pretty good too.

We walk into the patio. It is crowded. There is a large group at the bar. We wander for a little while then find a table near the pond. We share it with the mannequin that lounges there.

The bass begins a line to a song. I do know the title of this one. It is one of my favorites. I look around. The crowd is moving here and there. One person stops and looks my way. He has on perfectly pressed khaki pants.

Playing Out Ch. 02



Chapter 2: Swing Set

It has been a while since I have been in this part of town. The fall air feels refreshing as my friend and I walk into the patio of this funky little place. We find a table near the pond where the mannequin now sports a stylish scarf to ward off the chill. The red lights glow warmly in the branches of the trees. My friend Gina goes to the bar to order our drinks. I settle in for an evening of music and remember the last time I was here. The guy, sweet smile, shocking blue eyes, his warm mouth on me, the shudder as we ... A chill goes down my spine. It is the air.

Gina returns with two cold beers and we each look over the patio for very different things. I know Gina is looking for her boyfriend. I am pretending to not look for anyone. I am enjoying the band, the beer, the fresh air, the crowd of people moving here and there. A woman leans into her companion and laughs, the fall air wisps by, he shifts his stance.

I feel the chill of the air on the back of my neck as I see soft brown leather loafers, perfectly pleated pants that are the same sandy color of his hair. He is here. Tonight the polo has been replaced by a crisp white button down and the deepest red silk tie whose stripes are the exact piercing blue of his eyes. My breath blows away with the breeze. 

I love a man in a shirt and tie.

I watch him put his lips to the rim of his beer. I can feel them on my neck, where that first button of my blouse starts. The breeze comes through again and he is gone, replaced by the chiseled figure of the man walking toward me.

Mark is an old friend. We have had our share of drinks and satisfying encounters. He grins his stupid lopsided grin and pulls a chair up along side me. His hand brushes the edge of my skirt and my body shudders a little with an old memory of him.

"God, you look good," Mark has a way with simple words. He also has a way of moving me to the exact place that he wants me. He grabs my hands and pulls me to the dance floor. We move to the rhythm of the music, the band doesn't disappoint.

I look into his big brown eyes. For a second the air feels warmer. I can see myself reflected briefly. Do I look that hungry or is it Mark? Our bodies mirror the rhythms of the music, of each other, of our past. I catch our movement in the mosaic on the wall and the memories move through my spine, memories of movement -- standing, kneeling and lying beneath him. He can do more than dance.

Thoughts of the red silk tie with the bright blue stripes drift away in the fall air.

We return to the table. Gina has found her boyfriend and they are off chatting up another group of couples. Mark leans in. I want to be kissed. He grins and I feel like he knows what I want. "How about another beer?" he asks. 

OK, I was wrong.

I watch him walk to the bar. I ponder Mark's sweet smile, his chocolate brown eyes. He is a t-shirt and denim man with a closet full of canvas shoes. I find that I am enjoying the hole in his jeans just below the pocket on his right hip. I know there is tight nylon running briefs under them. The breeze is getting warmer and it pushes desires around in my head as it clears my line of sight.

He is still at the bar. His tie is loosened and the collar of his white shirt is open. I hear the whine of a guitar and it reminds me of the shudders he sent through my being. Mark is standing beside him and I feel like the world has stopped; Mark's longish, messy brown hair next to his sharply trimmed, sandy blonde hair. They briefly touch shoulders and glance at each other. The "oh, sorry man" glance that only guys can manage passes between them. Do they realize they share so much more? I watch, unable to turn away. There is a look that they share. It shakes me to the core.

He turns in my direction. The breeze is gone replaced by the warmth of a flush in my cheeks. The crowd shifts and I can see nothing.

Mark returns to our table. We drink and talk. We catch up on life without really saying anything. I try not to look past him. He is doing everything he can to keep me with him. I laugh at a silly joke I have heard a hundred times and as I peer into his eyes I realize I have this man. He is here hoping that he can charm me into an evening of fun, sex, an escape from the boredom of everyday life.

The band starts up again and he takes my hand. He leans in and whispers "dance with me." We start to move on the floor again. I hear the strains of a Van Morrison song, one of my favorites. The breeze is warm again.

He spins me away from him and I feel the room move out of control. He pulls me back to him and stops. His arms are tight around me. I look into his eyes and see a longing in his face that the warm fall air can not move.

"Dance with ME." He repeats. Webster did not include this meaning in his dictionary. "Let's get out of here," the breeze whispers. 

We glide past Gina and her group. Her boyfriend gives Mark a thumbs up. Idiot. I turn to wave once more and I see the crisp white shirt and red silk tie looking my way. His eyes take in everything, Mark's arm around me, the flush in my cheek and the desire for something physical washing over my posture. He knows where I am going. He nods his head slightly. Then he is gone in the crowd the fall breeze blowing cool.

Mark pulls me close. His mouth is cool on my lips from his beer but his breath and his tongue are warm. So are the hands that have found my ass. He pulls me even closer and I feel the metal of his zipper and beneath it the thickness of his flesh presses into me. 

I let the fall breeze blow through me. It is moving me somewhere unexpected tonight. I have no choice but to let it.

We wander the sidewalk to Mark's gate. He has one of those fabulous old brownstones with the rickety fence. He opens the gate and I walk into a jungle. Trees, vines, flowering plants scent the fall air. A small brick patio offers a pit for a fire. The lush grass offers a place to start one.

He stops again and pulls me closer. He starts to say something then stops. I lean in to kiss him. I want him to know he has me, for tonight 

"How about a picnic," he asks with that goofy grin.

I nod and we run like two little kids to his back door. I go in and grab the wool blanket from its place. He tosses me the bottle of wine. He grabs two glasses and flips a switch on the way out. The yard is warmed by the glow of crazy parrot lights.

I spread the blanket and pour the wine while he starts up the CD player. I smile when Van Morrison begins to croon again.

He returns to me. We each take a sip of the wine. We have nothing to say. I look up to the fall sky. The breeze is slowly undressing the moon, modest behind some flimsy clouds. Mark sits the glasses on the step of the deck. The silence begins to feel heavy when the breeze returns to earth and his hands move to my neck. They slide down my shoulders and begin to undo the buttons on my blouse.

He pushes the fabric away and then looks up. I have on a red lace bra with the look of a corset. My breasts threaten to spill over the top. I was thinking a man might like this as I dressed tonight. His grin has changed into a leer.

"Wow, do your panties match?" He asks while his hands explore the fabric embracing and now exposing my breasts. 

"Wouldn't you like to know," I smile. He stands and pulls me to my feet. Van is singing about his wild nights.

Mark is sliding his hands up the outside of my thighs and under my skirt. He drops to his knees and disappears under the folds. "Wow" he exhales.

The panties do match.

I wait for the obvious move. I want to feel his breath and mouth warm against my skin. I am very aware of the lace against me and the beginning dampness I have no control over.

But instead he stands again and looks into my eyes. His hands are against my ass, pushing me close to his hips.

"That was him, wasn't it," He asks, "The guy at the bar with the white shirt and red striped tie? The guy that did you on the couch upstairs at the bar."

I silently curse Gina and her idiot boyfriend. I want to lie. I don't want anyone to know, but that isn't entirely true.

"Yes," I nod. The breeze feels cold again and a shiver moves over me but it started in Mark's hands.

"He is not your type you know," Mark looks down into my eyes and I begin to see where this could lead.

"What do you know about my type?" I try to sound belligerent.

"Educate me," Mark states. But he is way ahead of that. His hands have now slid under my bra. "What did his mouth taste like?"

So, this is our game, each of us trying to outdo the other with a fantasy of some sort. I remember playing it with Mark several times before. I guess we were too good at it. We finally decided to find that perfect person in our stories. The air washes over us and a leaf floats to the ground. Once more should be OK, but this is no fantasy.

"His mouth was so warm that I couldn't breathe when he kissed me. His tongue tasted sweet and soft....until it tasted like me." I look up into Mark's face as I state the last few words. They have the effect I hoped they would. His eyes close and I think I can see his lower lip tremble. He inhales sharply.

"What did his hands feel like on your skin?" Mark is moving his mouth down to my neck as he speaks. His lips are warm and explore the flesh behind my ear and down to where my shirt now falls open.

"His hands were soft, the fingers short and strong. He moved them over me without hesitating, pinching my nipples, squeezing..." I close my eyes. Mark's hands are imitating my words but his fingers are slender and long and his hands move roughly on my skin. They have been here before and know where they want to go.

"Sit down." He says, firmly. I sit. He pulls something out of his back pocket, the one without the hole under it. It is a silk tie, deep blue not red and it has no stripes. "It is all I have," he whispers. I smile my approval.

"Close your eyes," he breathes as he pulls the silk around my head. It falls over my eyelids and he tightens it behind my head. "Let's see if you can feel the difference between him and me."

I start to open my mouth but the reply is swallowed by his tongue as it moves into me. I know this is Mark and I lean myself onto the blanket as his weight settles into me.

"Think about his hands on you" he whispers as he moves away. I lie quietly and listen to the sounds around me, the leaves rustling in the trees, the cars moving down the street, an occasional engine dying and a door opening, a metal chink as Mark's gate rattles in the breeze. I let my mind drift back to that night at the bar and that other man's hands undressing me, his skin against mine.

Then I feel a weight return. He is sitting above my chest his back to me. I move my hands up his back and can feel his muscles strain against his shirt as he leans forward. His hands are moving up my thighs, pushing my skirt away as they move. I hold my breath as his fingers explore me. I exhale as I feel his breath down there and then his tongue against my skin. He moves around and over me. But this is not him -- this is Mark and Mark is now licking me in a place just above my clit. This is a place that only Mark has found and it quickly drives me into a frenzy.

But I don't want this to be over yet. I reach my arms up and around his torso. My hands find his zipper and rub against it before lowering it to a more out of the way place. My fingers pull his cock out of its wrapping and in response he moves his hips back so I can take him in my mouth.

I slide my tongue around him then up and down. I feel him quiver as the breeze blows over both of us. I pull the length of him into my mouth and he responds by moving his hips to the rhythm of my mouth. He stops what he is doing and I feel him fall to his elbows, his head resting on my abdomen his breath is so much warmer than the fall air. I pull him out of my mouth and let my tongue slide behind him and around his balls. I suck them against my teeth and pretend to nibble at them. His groan tells me he won't last much longer and I take him back into my mouth with the intent to empty him completely.

Mark has other ideas. He reaches back and stops me from continuing with my plan. He pulls his thick cock from my mouth and I feel the wetness of us both as he drops to my chest. He lifts his weight from me then grabs me and turns me to my stomach. "Get on your knees." he says harshly, but it is a breathless command.

I move like he tells me, the blindfold still in place. As Mark's weight shifts over me I try to conjure a memory of my mysterious man that has inspired this night but Mark has successfully removed him from my mind. I feel Mark's thickness behind my ass and it is his fingers seeking the wet warm skin where he wants to be.

He slides into me, slowly but completely and we both sigh as the breeze removes the last of the moon's cloudy cover. His hands grab my hips and pull my into him then he moves me to his rhythm and only his.

I will the blindfold to move from my eyes but I can not. I concentrate on the sounds around me again. I hear Mark breathing, his voice catching as he exhales. I hear the leaves rustling louder now and I think I hear footsteps on the sidewalk outside the gate but they stop and I realize what I hear is my own gasp as Mark pushes even deeper into me.

He stops then and leans his weight over me, reaching around to take my wrist. He pulls my hand up under our bodies and guides my fingers to the warm skin that he has invaded.

"Touch yourself," he breathes as he goes back to the rhythm that I remember from nights past. I do as I am told.

I rub the soft skin that is wet from him...and me. I push my body up and against him. My other hand moves instinctively to my forehead to wipe my hair away, moving my blindfold slightly as I do so.

We are moving faster, harder. Our breath more ragged. As I start to lose control I realize I can see. I feel my body turn cold in my skin. Barely lit by the silly parrot lights I see brown leather loafers inside Mark's slightly open gate. A dying leaf floats to the ground beside them.

It is too late and as Mark frantically releases himself into me I begin to cum. The waves blow through me with the breeze as I gasp with the release. Mark's moan seems to move the loafers away from the fence and the metal latch catches on the gate. I collapse.

Mark collapses on top of me. I can feel the warmth of his breath and then hear "I've missed you," float with the breeze into my ear.

In response I hear "I have to go," drift through the night with the clouds but it is my own voice giving these words life. I roll from under him and dress quickly as I hear him sigh. We have repeated many things tonight.

"This is whatever you want it to be...You know that right?" I hear his words following me to the fence.

"It never quite seems right though..."I whisper as I stop at the gate, straining to hear any sound on the street. I turn and glance over the yard before I go. The evidence of our night is everywhere.

A candle is burned nearly to the ground, its flame fighting back against the breeze. Our glasses sitting on the step to the deck, one has fallen over and the rich red wine is staining the grass. Mostly I see Mark. He is lying on his back on the blanket, one knee bent, and his arms up under his head, the moonlight shining on his naked form. He looks like sex. His muscles defined, his chest strong as it rises and falls with his breath. Any other time he is my fantasy. Not tonight. I am obsessed with a sound, the sight of a pair of shoes. 

I have always heard that sleeping under a full moon would make you insane. Does fucking beneath one do the same thing?

As I open the gate I look again. Mark is standing now, pulling his jeans on in the moonlight. He chuckles as he drapes the blue tie around his neck and starts to whistle as he picks up the glasses, finishing the last little bit in the one left standing. The moonlight has not affected him.

I start to make my way down the sidewalk to the street when the fall breeze blows a flash of red into my line of sight. I stop and see a red silk tie with bright blue stripes tied to the fence rail and tucked under it is a slip of paper.

I reach out with a trembling hand, the cool air blowing through me, causing the trembling to move through my body as I open the note. There in front of me, written in a bold hand are the words I never thought I would see.

"I liked it better when you 'danced' with me." For a second I can't see anything else then I notice there is a little more... " Alex"

The last was followed by a date and a time, also an address, a nice address. I walk to my car and as I climb in I realize I am humming. 

As I start my car a smile opens my lips as that favorite song begins to play.



Playing Out Ch. 03



Intermezzo

The morning has finally arrived, cooler than yesterday. The breeze is still there but all the wind on earth can not blow away the memories of last night. I am sitting on my balcony, my soft winter robe around me. The newspaper is anchored beneath a carafe of coffee. This is the best place to be on a Sunday morning.

I have a section of the paper on my lap but I am not reading. My mind can not let go of the past few hours... or most of the rest of the past for that matter. I have showered the smells of last night off of me but I can not remove the sensations.

I take a sip of the hot coffee and close my eyes. This only brings things back more quickly, Mark against me, in me, my eyes held closed by his tie, the site of those shoes when the blindfold slid down. I feel my heart stop again and my breath leaves my lungs and runs off with the breeze.

My eyes snap open. It is too late; I feel the shudder pass through my body like déjà vu. Only this was very real.

The phone rings and I am brought back to my balcony and today. I stand and walk inside to answer. As I pass my desk I see the note, the strong bold strokes; three lines on a scrap of paper lying on top of the red silk tie, the material things that kept me up all night. What had he seen? Would he really be there on the date he wrote at the bottom of the sheet?

I pick up the phone with a distant "Hello".

"You're drinking coffee, aren't you," it's Mark. His voice has that scratchy just rolled out of bed quality. He uses it to his advantage, always.

"Yeah," I refuse to offer more.

There is a pause, "It was good to ... see you last night." He is not used to working at this sort of thing.

"Yeah," I feel this is a gross understatement.

"You left in a hurry."

"Nothing I haven't done before. As I recall the last time I left your company you were making a date over the phone while I was in your shower." I feel a grin in spite of myself. There has been enough time and experience to make this a little humorous. Mark can be fun to aggravate.

"Oh....yeah..." he sounds a little humble. "Last night was all you though," and there is that smirking tone back in his voice. 

"Did you call for a reason or just to ruin my coffee?" I know he can hear the smile in my voice. We have done this many times.

You would think we would learn.

"I was hoping to meet you for an early dinner. I could be at Ibrik at 5pm"

I agree to the time, old habits being hard to break, and as I hang up the phone I again see the note lying on my desk. It is signed "Alex" in heavy bold print. I pick it up and study it closely. There is something about a man's handwriting that I find exciting. Alex writes in confident bold strokes, not unlike his hands on me. As I recall, Mark writes in a more fluid hand, unexpected, like last night.

I return to my balcony and refresh my coffee. The mug is warm in my hands. I sit down and breathe in the fall air. It is brisk and faintly smoky. It is reminiscent of change. I take a slow drink of the coffee. I feel the heat rise up and permeate my nostrils bringing with it the smoky, earthy aroma of the beans. The scent is deepened as the warm liquid runs down my throat. I close my eyes. Memories of Mark run through my head as warm and liquid as the caffeine I am sipping.

It was a warm spring day when I first met Mark. There was a spectacular fender bender in front of the gallery where I was working. Like all the other shop people I was standing in the doorway watching the flashing lights of the police cars and ambulances at the scene. But, while most of the eyes were glued to the victims in various stages of rescue I was enthralled by the movement of one of the paramedics.

Mark worked for the city Emergency Medical System at that time. He was medium height, thin in a healthy not skinny way. He sat on my curb, his back to me, filling out forms as his partner secured one of the drivers. I could see his strong shoulders underneath the uniform shirt. The dark blue cotton was snug and defining. I wanted to brush my hand against the soft brown hair that barely touched his collar.

He stood and I watched him and his dark blue uniform pants walk away. I wanted to follow. I wanted to let my hands slide down his hips and into the pockets. I wanted to call out "I need help" as he moved closer to the truck.

At the last second, as the feet of the victim slid into the ambulance on a back board he turned my way. At first his glance was distant, and then he slowly broke into a grin. He was very used to women admiring his uniform. He waved as he disappeared behind the ambulance doors. I could feel a blush rise up my neck as a warmth ran down the rest of my body. I might need medical care after all.

As the ambulance pulled away, lights revolving, a flash on the sidewalk caught my eye. A set of keys lay on the sidewalk where the paramedic had sat. I bent and picked them up as though they were a precious stone. The thought that I might see this guy again slowly formed as the lights faded away.

It was almost time to close up for the day when the door buzzed. I looked up from the review I was reading to see the paramedic peeking in. He was wearing jeans now and a white broadcloth shirt. His shoulders seemed broader and maybe a little tired. He grinned that slow grin and I felt my heart stop. Aren't these guys supposed to prevent that?

I opened the door and stood in the doorway. It was as if I couldn't let him in for fear of what would happen. 

"I think I left something on your curb," he spoke in a soft, even voice that was practiced at calming a volatile situation. He had his work cut out for him.

"Ah...." I smoothly sighed. I could not take my eyes off his grinning mouth. A mouth I wanted to taste.

"My keys?" he spoke a little stronger this time. His eyes met mine briefly then looked past me to the counter.

"Oh, of course, I found them on the sidewalk. I wasn't sure who to call." Then as an afterthought, "I hope those people were alright," I moved away from the door and tried to casually walk to the counter where his keys had laid like a trophy all afternoon. My legs felt weak as I imagined his eyes watching me move.

"City EMS. You know, like it was printed in large black letters on the truck. Medic 32, that's where you can find me," His rolling eyes did nothing to hide that grin. "Oh, the victims were fine. More of a lawsuit rescue than anything else. You know – backboards, neck collars, try to prevent suing the rescuer when they find out no one has insurance..." He smirked then looked down at his shoes. He was wearing white sneakers, canvas, more than a little worn. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. It's been a long day." He looked up at me then and his eyes captured mine. I could feel how much he wanted to be held, touched. He needed to be taken out of the place he was in. Rescued. It made my knees weak. 

It still does.

"Of course, city EMS. Here are your keys. How did you know you lost them here? I can't imagine this was your only call today." I wasn't ready to do the rescuing yet.

"Ah..." it was his turn to stammer. "I was hoping I had lost them here. My partner mentioned the cute girl in the gallery that seemed to like watching my ass work." He had rescued himself, now I was in trouble. He stood square in front of me with his hand out. I wasn't sure if he was reaching for the keys or preparing to reach out and grab me. I placed the keys it his hand. It was strong, the skin a little rough. "I want to thank you for these. Would you like to have dinner tonight?" He let the words tumble from his grinning lips as his fingers closed over the metal keys, barely brushing my fingers as he closed his fist. A tingle started in my fingers and found its way to a deeper and more intimate place. I wanted to take his hand and find just how strong that sensation would be if he actually touched me.

I agreed to dinner instead. 

Mark took a seat in the gallery while I closed up and went to the back to try to fix my makeup. I bent from the waist and ran my hands through my wild hair. As I stood and flipped my head back I felt a breath on my neck. I turned quickly, expecting Mark to be behind me, but it was only the breeze from the partially open door. I shook my head and returned to the mirror. I slid a pale pink gloss over my lips.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror, pale blue blouse, open three buttons down, tucked into a slightly tight navy pencil skirt that tastefully skimmed my knees. I had worn my blue pumps that day, a heel a little higher than might be considered professional but they made my legs look so good. Was this the same woman looking back? She smiled slowly and I heard her whisper in my head, "He's yours".

From the gallery I heard, "So, do people really buy this stuff?"

"Yes, some people do," and some just don't get contemporary art. I kept that last thought to myself. I reached up under my skirt to pull my shirt down and 'adjust'. "See anything you like?"

"Oh, yeah..." the words slid down my neck and I looked up again. In the mirror I could see him standing behind me, eyes studying my every move. I brought my hands into view and felt the blush begin to rise again. He must be very good for ambulance business.

A shout down the street brings me back to today and my coffee. I take another sip and sit the cup on the table. The warmth of the coffee moves deep into my body, or is it my memories. I feel a blush rise up again as I recall our dinner and as my mind wanders my hand slides into the open edge of my robe and expose my breasts. 

We drove to a small Middle Eastern place near where I live now. The food was unusual, the textures creamy, spicy.

I feel my hands scoop under my breasts; feel the firmness of them, and then squeeze gently, enjoying the soft contrast. I feel my nipples harden as the cool fall air blows across them. I close my eyes and see Mark sitting across from me at the table.

We ordered a variety of dishes. Sharing bites of rice and meat. 

I gasp quietly as my fingers find the tender flesh of a nipple and grasp it firmly, my hand placing a little more pressure on the fullness beneath it. A shiver begins somewhere in my abdomen. I let my hand tease as the memories continue and the shiver runs deeper.

Mark tore a piece of pita and wiped it across the oil on his salad plate. "Taste this" he whispered and I did. The oil was rich and a little bitter. It began to run down my chin and I reached up and wiped it off with a finger which slid without a thought into my mouth. It was Mark's turn to sigh.

My lips part a tiny bit at this thought as I take those fingers from my breast and slip them into my mouth. My lips suck as though the fingers are covered in oil, then I let them slide down my neck, past my breast and down my abdomen to the warm soft area between my legs. I sigh along with the memory of Mark and let my fingers go where they want.

He took those same fingers and scooped them into a dip on the table. Hummus; it felt a little gritty, cool. He moved my hand to his mouth and put my dipped fingers against his tongue. It felt soft, warm.

I can now feel softness, warmth. I let the fingers move in and around as I remember Mark's tongue as it licked the hummus from my skin, his mouth warm and wet. My fingers becoming wet and sticky as they continue to explore, I close my eyes; let them roll back in my head as deeper warmth washes over me.

We both felt the danger in the game we were playing and the suggestive flirting abated. He ordered Turkish coffee and baklava. The sweet, fragrant, hot liquid oozed into my mouth making the honey from the pastry melt. It was not the best choice to cool things down.

As I think of the honey and its stickiness, my fingers find a place just as sweet. I take a deep breath in. My fingers have memories of their own. Slowly at first they move against the tender flesh between my legs. I move my feet up onto the table and slide down into my chair. The fall air does its part to seduce me, again blowing cool over me. A spasm makes my clit tuck in and I feel my breath come quicker as my fingers move to the rhythm that my body wants. My other hand has continued to grasp and caress each breast, the fullness more pronounced the nipples hard.

We finished our dessert and walked out onto the street. We had nothing to say, we couldn't trust ourselves to speak. Mark took my hand and stopped me in my steps. I turned into him and he smiled a deliberate sticky smile. "God, I love that place..." he let the words drizzle from his lips like the honey. 

At this thought I feel a deeper heat start to build. My hands work at building this fire. The flesh begins to tingle with friction, tension. I have trouble getting my breath as my fingers move around that tiny spot that can make me forget anything or remember everything. My breath is ragged, almost caught in my lungs, barely able to escape.

I am not sure who moved first, Mark or me. We were suddenly as close to each other as our bodies would allow with our clothes on and traffic just a curb away. He leaned his mouth into mine and I closed my eyes. I felt the firmness of his lips as they pressed into mine, felt him ease open my mouth with his tongue. I could taste the honey and spices from our meal. I let my brain swim as I melted into the kiss. I felt dizzy.

My brain is beginning to swim now. Dizzy. My hand moves against my flesh, spurred on by my thoughts. My fingers tease more persistently now. They will get exactly what they want. I feel a tension begin deep in my pelvis. It builds quicker and quicker as my fingers move. I feel my nipples tense and my breath catches in my lungs again. The ripple of orgasm starts slowly, sweetly like Mark's kiss. It moves through my body making my flesh so electric that my fingers stop in their movement as the ripples swell over me. Muscles from deep inside undulate as I gasp a long deep gasp and sink back into my chair, my hands fall limply in their places.

I recall that I kissed Mark back.

"Ibrik" became our favorite restaurant. It is a fairly authentic Middle Eastern place. The strong smell of garlic mixed with sesame permeates everything. The walls are a deep maroon. Soft silk scarves cover patches of wall draping gracefully between copper hangings and pictures of sultan's surrounded by dancing girls. It was the first place we went together. 

Am I really going back there, again?



Playing Out Ch. 04



Second Set

It is later on Sunday. The hours have slid one past the next stretched with yoga, brushed in paint on a canvas formerly known as a dining room wall, an unsuccessful attempt to make time move quicker. Dinner tonight with Mark... Really, going there again?

An early dinner; with Mark that must mean something else in the works. A glance at the newspaper brings the realization that our home town team is in the playoffs. West Coast game means a later start time. Mark is a baseball fanatic. He'll be watching with his old crew at a dive they love. This means a choice, watching the game surrounded by stale beer and cigars with the risk of Mark and another home run or return home, alone. I have never been good at decisions.

I decide to leave early and do some window shopping. Ibrik is within walking distance of this time greedy apartment. I dress in a soft suede skirt and tuck in a white cotton blouse as crisp as the fall air. The skirt skims my hips and hugs my backside in just the right way. I pull on my favorite brown leather boots then decide to undo the bottom three buttons on the skirt. A little glimpse of leg is always a good thing.

There is a sudden twinge of guilt as I pass the desk and see the note from Alex. Guilt? Is dinner with a friend really cheating? What Alex and I did would hardly be considered a date. We have no relationship to cheat on.

I imagine the letter: 

"Dear Miss Manners,

I fucked a guy in the upstairs room of a restaurant. Is it wrong to see someone else?

Signed, 

Easy."

Her reply:

"Dear Easy, 

It is only cheating if you fuck him too."

Well, too late for that.

I shake my head in an attempt to clear this thought. I can not continue to obsess. In a deluded attempt to clear my head I grab the red tie, loosely knot it under the collar of my blouse and tuck in the tail. Maybe this will settle the guilt. It will certainly annoy Mark.

Passing the mirror my reflection presents a new obsession. Hmmm, red menswear tie, white shirt, soft suede skirt, naughty school girl meets Ralph Lauren. Every now and then I get it right.

The off button on the CD player chokes Randy Newman as he continues to tell me, unconvincingly, why he loves LA. I slip out of my apartment, down the stairs of my building and start to walk. The fall air is sweet and smoky. Warm, now that the sun is high in the sky but a chill underneath betrays the lovely rays. Gingko leaves float to the sidewalk. The neighborhood is known for these trees.

I pass the Farmers Market, closed now except on Saturdays, then a high priced, trendy boutique. Next is a laundry; a bum meditating on the bench by the front door. The shop has a single customer and her pitiful boyfriend inside. The laundry and the bum's expression are vacant. At least the laundry smells nice.

Turning the corner I stop to gaze into the window of a vintage clothing store and admire the lace blouse in the window and the shirtwaist dress on the mannequin. The dress reminds me of something Lauren Bacall would wear back when she was Betty and she was meeting Bogey for a drink in some smoky bar. I can see myself wearing this dress, if only I had Bogey waiting for me.

I contemplate the fantasy of Bogart, or perhaps Grant (Cary or Hugh), ordering me a drink. The well tailored, cuffed trousers, the stylish, thinly veiled suggestive conversation, the smoky whisky, and then my heart stops. There he is, walking out of the used bookstore.

Alex turns as the door closes and for a minute I hope that he has not seen me. He has, though. His expression is one of surprise then slowly dawning pleasure. He is not wearing tailored, cuffed trousers; or perfectly pleated khakis. He is wearing a pair of jeans, worn, tight in just the right places. A soft brown sweater exposes a white t-shirt in its v-neck. I want to slide my hands under the sweater, down the jeans... 

"Hi," his voice is deeper than I remember. It is not competing with the sounds of a bar band today. He extends a hand and states, business-like, "My name is Alex." His look is hopeful.

"Hi," I hesitate; the fantasy has never gone here before. I take a few seconds to take in my new acquaintance. He is tall, heavy, not fat but substantial, filled out, as they used to say. His sandy blonde hair is closely trimmed except for one lock that falls over his left eye; his piercingly blue left eye. "Kate, I'm Kate."

He grasps my hand but does not shake it holding it tight as though he does not wish to let it go again. He looks deep into my eyes and I know, like me, he is remembering our first meeting, the band, the guitar whining, our breathless groping the delicious release. I think I feel him shiver a tiny bit, but it might be the breeze.

His eyes slide over me and involuntarily I lick my lips as I feel his gaze on them. My lips tingle at the thought of his kiss. The lips that have tasted so much of me; devoured me, we have never just kissed. As his eyes skim my neck I feel a shiver in my spine, his red silk tie is loose around my neck and presses my blouse against my collar bone. His eyes pause briefly at the hollow of my throat; his lips part slightly. I close my eyes and pray for strength.

His gaze moves down to my breasts. He smiles a little. My breasts are rather full and the tight buttoned blouse accentuates this. That's why I like to wear it. He continues with his visual caress moving on to my waist, small, and my hips, rounder; pausing at the open edge of my skirt, my legs and boot top. I hear him inhale and I feel the desire to spin, so he can adjust his gaze to my ass. I know how good it looks in this skirt. 

I connect to his gaze, drawing him into my eyes and smile. It is a slow, sweet smile at first. Reaching its zenith there is only devilish mirth and desire there. It works. His knees buckle, just a tiny bit. A little knowledge; it is a dangerous thing.

His hand lets go its grasp and reaches upwards, towards my breasts. I can't breathe the thought of his touch drawing the air from my lungs. He takes the silk tie in his hand, slides the fabric between his fingers. "I used to have a tie like this," he states very matter-of-fact. "I wondered if I had lost it."

"You should take better care of your things," I try to sound calm but the warmth from his hand is so near my flesh. The images I am sure he saw the night he left the tie will not stop playing in my head. I refuse to be the one to start that discussion.

"You're right," his tone is quiet. He drops the tie and his hand moves away from me. He moves a step closer drawing me in with his breath and his gaze. "I would take better care of you." 

The air is suddenly heavy, the atmosphere closing in on us and all around the fall colors darken. A thunder crash rattles through my spine and I feel it somewhere even deeper before realizing that the barometric pressure is the real cause of this shift. Alex and I are held down by the heaviness, the storm clouds trying to reach a place that we have already been. 

It takes the first few large, heavy raindrops to break us out of our weighted state. Alex grasps my arm and pulls me to him then pushes me into the book store. I turn as I go over the threshold and find myself enveloped in his soft brown sweater, his strong chest just underneath. 

I have been in this store many times. The owner prides himself on the number of old editions he has; the many more he will acquire soon. The musty smell of paper and leather binding surround us. A jazz recording plays softly in harmony with the storm that is tuning up outside. The clouds thunder a moan as the fall air tries to coax their release. I feel it would barely take a breeze to take me there.

Alex takes my arm and guides me to the back of the shop. We pass a few browsers studying biographies and stop in the Eastern Philosophy section, surprisingly populated with grad students hoping to score the perfect quote.

"Come with me," I hear my voice and feel my feet begin to move toward the staircase and my favorite section. Alex maintains a grasp on my arm, letting me lead...this time.

We wander into the American classics. Fitzgerald and Hemingway peer down from their respective shelves. They would approve of our seamy tryst. Alex bumps a rack as we round a corner and a book falls to the floor with a sharp slap. The thunder answers in frustration and we both jump.

A laugh slowly escapes as I bend to pick up the book. Alex's laugh turns to a sigh as his eyes stop on my ass. I feel his hand softly caress me as I stand and turn back to him once again. A faint blush has washed over his face and his eyes are beginning to take on a hazy look. He smiles sheepishly.

"I've been thinking a lot about you..."he tries to begin. 

Trying to ignore this, I look at the paperback in my hand. "This is one of my favorites." I say, for want of anything else. "The Garden of Eden, Hemingway."

"You've read a lot of Hemingway?" the first real question he has put to me.

"Everything, almost; I love this, and The Sun Also Rises, I re-read them every couple of years." It feels nice to share a little of myself. 

"Hmmm... Maybe I should give this a try," He examines the book, flips through the pages in a haphazard way then sits it back on the shelf. "How did I find you here?"

The thunder crashes again and from the bookstore owners stereo, a trumpet blows a solo in response. 

"I live near here," then I think – what the hell, "I'm meeting someone for dinner." I watch for a change in his atmosphere. The front moves in quickly.

"Oh, are you meeting him?' is there a hint of fear? His bright smile has darkened a reflection of the demise of this sunny afternoon.

Saying nothing, I turn and walk to the end of the aisle, a recognition of the music drifting lightly through the storm interrupts my thought. The syncopated rhythm of "Time Out" wraps itself around my heart. My brain begins to reason in the same off kilter beat. 

"What exactly did you see?" my mouth it seems, has also disconnected from my head.

"I saw..." he looks down at his shoes then back up into my eyes. "I saw him kiss you, caress you. I saw you take him in your mouth. I saw him pound into you until I didn't think I could keep quiet anymore. I saw the same look of ecstasy on your face when you came that was there the first time I took you there."

"The first time...does that mean there will be others?" I can't help myself; damn Brubeck and his disconnected rhythm. I turn to face Alex as I speak. Thunder crashes outside and a bolt of lightening strikes my heart. 

He is standing square in the aisle. He is a big man and his shoulders seem to touch the shelves on either side. For a second I am almost afraid of what he will do. His face is dark, lips thin, hands clenched at each side. He strides the length of the aisle in steps punctuated by Brubeck's jazz and the thunder outside. Grasping me by the shoulders he pins me against the wall. His mouth is on mine before I can think to try to get away.

His kiss is strong, urgent, rough nearly frightening. I am breathless when he moves back. "Yes, there will be other times," he breathes the words into the air.

Before I can answer his mouth is on mine again. His lips are hard, demanding. I am kissing him back before I can think. The heat from our mouths encourages the rain and it washes over the roof. His hands start to move down my body, his fingers are a staccato of rhythm over my breasts, sliding down my side and washing over my abdomen to the buttons of my skirt. I try to mumble a dissent but the thunder crashes again and I hear the rain begin in earnest. I want it to wash over me but am willing to settle for the sensations that Alex has begun.

His hand slides under the fabric of my skirt and around my hips, pulling me into him. I break away and take a breath. "No..." the word barely slips from my lips.

"Yes..." he replies in a pleading question. He leans into me and kisses me again. It is nice to be kissed like this. Slow, his breath warm on my cheek. I can smell his skin, feel its heat, and feel my breath as it is deflected back to me. His mouth parted slightly, I feel his tongue gently explore my lips, tasting, moving into me. I feel it deeper than my mouth should allow.

He moves a fraction of a breath away from me. His voice is low, a rumble. "I can't get that night out of my mind...the way that guy took you, the words between you...I wanted to push open the gate and grab you away. No, that's not entirely true. I wanted to pull him away, take his place. Would you have left as quickly then?"

The sound of the rain on the roof of the old building gets louder as I try to think what to say. It has not occurred to me that he would feel even a little jealous of that night; after all, he didn't even know my name. 

"I couldn't make myself stop watching. It sounds a little sick to say it out loud, I guess," he grins that sheepish grin that guys seem to keep from childhood. "The way the two of you moved together, spoke to each other. God, You're not married to him are you?' 

A cloud sweeps past his face. This has just occurred to him. Would it really matter, considering how we got to this place? I take a breath, look directly into his eyes. They seem such a clear, bright blue, but somewhere deep in the center is a color that is darker, reflecting thoughts that are much deeper than I am sure I want to hear.

"No, I am not married to him," a relaxation eases into his entire body; the darker color in his eyes lightens. "We have known each other a long time, closer sometimes but usually just comfortably friends." I look into those eyes as I speak; the upbeat of the music is making its way into his face. "I'm not sure how I would have left if it had been you instead of him," I pause then say, "I am not sure I would have left at all."

That sentence does the work I hoped it would. His face lightens just as the clouds outside break up. The sun forces a pale, late afternoon ray through the dirty window and it hits our feet. The statement is not totally true, I know this is what he had hoped to hear and I convince myself that saying it out loud makes it somehow less of a lie. The real truth is I am not sure where I want this to go. I like the idea of annominity, no strings attached. Is it flattery to think I alone can decide where we go next? 

"I would have kept you there all night," he states this with a firmness that answers that last question and squelches one or two others. He pulls me closer then and his lips are on mine once again.

This time they are soft; gentle, slowly savoring the flavor of my skin, my tongue, my breath. He once again leans into me, his weight holding me to the wall. Feeling the firmness of him through his jeans as he pushes his hips into me, I don't care what happens. I am consumed by his breath, his scent. 

In response to the frantic beat of Blue Rondo, he slides me around the corner into the alcove of a little used closet. Metal shelves line the wall behind us. Stacks of webby magazines lay in haphazard piles. He presses me into the wall again, sliding my hands above my head, his mouth against my neck. I try to point out that it is getting late, the sun is out, someone might walk in...

What the hell, I give in to the realization that I want him to do this, the realization that I am beginning to like sex in public, the realization that Dave Brubeck and his Blue Rondo seems to be fueling us on.

Alex presses into me again. I try to slide a hand down to touch the firmness I can feel under his jeans. He grips my wrists tighter with his left hand. Moves his mouth away from the curve of my throat and grins. "No," he states this matter of fact as his right hand slides up my leg, moving my skirt out of the way to expose my bare skin and silky underwear.

I feel his hand on me and the sensation pins me to the wall tighter than his grasp. I lean my head back and take a breath. The horn section races from the speaker. The music is playing low but the tempo still rattles through us in a frenetic way. I am aware of my underwear sliding from my hips and out of his way. He hums a contented breath as he continues to touch the tender flesh of my now bare sex; his mouth nuzzled in the curve of my neck.

Staccato notes dance over me. I am not sure how much longer I can stand. If he lets go I am afraid I will slide to the floor and out into view of the oblivious bookstore patrons.

But, he does let go. Just long enough to loosen the zipper and free himself. I want to reach down and touch him, feel him move in response. I don't have the time. In tempo to the raucous song he moves into me. His cock pulses along with the off-beat sound of this distinctive song. I am pinned once again to the wall and find myself moving in syncopated time to his body and its rhythms. I bury my face in his chest and breathe in the warmth of the sweater, his skin. I slide my right leg up his left and hook around his hip, pulling him deeper into me.

His breath becomes more ragged as his thrusts drive us on. I want to cry out in exhilaration, jubilation, exasperation. This was not supposed to happen this way. But my free will has been replaced. Manifest destiny is the phrase for today. I feel lost; my will power has deserted me, my body has betrayed me. My mind is running in retreat. I scream out to them all.

Unfortunately, my voice is alive and well. It screams out as the notes crescendo around us. I am reconnected body and mind to the movement of Alex and myself as we beat our own rhythm against the wall. He feels the crashing too and lets out a sigh that makes me quiver, and then it is over. We melt into each other as the music and the storm end in unison, there is no sound but the torn breath we try to control. 

No sound, except for the questioning voice of a misplaced grad student..."Is everything alright in there...?" 

I bury my face in Alex's shoulder and try to muffle a laugh as he calmly states, "Oh yeah, everything's great. Foot went to sleep...that's all. You know what a rush that can be, when the feeling starts to come back..."

Looking into his face I see an expression of devilish delight before my vision is stopped by his mouth against mine again. The kiss is gentle and slow; almost teasing. I could stay here forever.

But, I can't. "I have to go..." trembling, I try to rearrange my clothes, my thoughts, and my willpower.

"I know," he answers quietly, straightening his sweater, adjusting his pants, "but I will see you again. We'll have a real date, dinner and conversation."

"And then?" I can't help myself. I look into his face and see the answer. A deep satisfied smile. Maybe, I have found my Bogey after all.

"Mmm..." answering his look, I don't say another word but turn and make my way out of the store. I am afraid to look back for fear this didn't happen, but the breeze between my bare legs and against my warm skin tells me it did. It also tells me that somewhere in the stacks is a pair of my underwear.

Mark is ordering a bottle of wine as I slide into my chair and try to look...like someone that hasn't just had sex in a bookstore. 

We talk about the weird storm, the game this evening. We do not talk about last night, or why my blouse is buttoned crooked. We order our favorite food. As the waiter leaves, I excuse myself and slip into the ladies room.

The face in the mirror is becoming more familiar. This woman is flushed, her eyes are sparkling and she can't seem to stop smiling. I reapply her lip gloss and smooth her hair. She returns to the table to finish a delicious meal before going home to re-explore the events of this afternoon.

My smile freezes as I arrive back at the table. My heart skips a beat. Mark is holding something in his hands; a puzzled look on his face. 

"The waiter brought this over. He said the guy told him you left it in the bookstore?"




Playing Out Ch. 04



My eyes are glued to the book in his hand. The Garden of Eden by Ernest Hemingway wrapped in a bow of red silk tie with bright blue stripes.