They say hindsight is 20/20, but I’m in no need of its accuracy. I’m aware that I’m in the throes of an obsession, one with dark eyes, full lips, and hands that make my resolve crumble. He is perpetually busy except for the occasional late night evening of which I’m certain to be available for. He has a small apartment, a soul depleting day job, a mind full of ambition to succeed, and an epic chip on his shoulder that he hasn’t. There is no room in his life for me. Well, I suppose there exists a miniscule amount of room he sometimes creates and I oblige, but with the clear ache of wanting more.
It is Thursday about noon. I will hope he asks to see me tomorrow. And if he does, I will say yes. I will smile when he texts, my heart will pitter pat when I see him, I will make the drive out to his place and accept he’d rather not take me out but stay in, I will tell him I miss his face, I will spend time thinking about him and how good he feels, I will long for him, I will hope he changes his mind about me, I will wish that maybe next time he’ll ask me to stay.
I will go to work looking forward to the end of the evening when I’ll see him. I’ll focus on the pile of papers strewn about my desk, pay absolute attention to my co-workers’ needs because being engrossed is the only way to make the time pass. I’ll drive home in heavy traffic and allow my mind to wander about what to wear later. I’ll be home and try to relax, clean a little to pass the time, and read more lines of a book without grasping the layers of meaning beneath.
Then I’ll get in the shower. I’ll scrub, I’ll shave, and I’ll wash. I’ll lotion, apply make-up, and curl my hair. I’ll give myself too many look-overs in the mirror to make sure I appear just right before leaving. Then I’ll listen to music on the drive and sing in the car. My spirits will be up.
I’ll arrive. He’ll be dressed down, offer me wine, and we’ll chat on his couch. Then he’ll kiss me. I’ll kiss him back. We’ll talk some more and have a second glass of wine. Before the conversation will exhaust itself he’ll kiss me with more demand and I’ll moan into his mouth. We’ll get off his couch and go to his bed. He’ll undress himself and then me in between urgent kisses. We’ll fuck. It’ll feel amazing. I may or may not cum.
We’ll stay naked in his bed, tired, out of breath. We’ll talk some more. Then he’ll fuck me again. He’ll ask me what I want and I won’t have any clue how to answer. I have extremely limited sexual experience, a disposition toward shyness, and the degree of that isn’t entirely clear to him. He’ll cum.
We’ll talk a little longer and then I’ll hope he’ll ask me to stay, but he won’t. So, my heart will sink a bit as I pick up my clothes strewn across his bedroom floor. I’ll dress and tell myself that it’s okay. I don’t need to stay the night. It doesn’t matter.
He’ll walk me to my car. I’ll kiss him one more time, my hands on his face, his hands on my waist. It’ll be about one in the morning. I’ll get home before two. I won’t be tired. I’ll be re-thinking the whole evening and wondering what I’m doing and when I’m going to stop.
End
Bio: Dorothy Kollat is the author of The Oasis Resort series and The Writer's Desire. She lives in California.