He sat in a corner with a cup of coffee and a cigarette dangling from his lips.
I switched on the light and asked him what turned him on
He laughed. A slow deep laugh that crossed the room in waves and caressed my cheek.
Clearly not my anklets that jangle and make heads turn, I say as I sit and pout
He blows a circle of smoke and watches me through it.
I imagine how I must look to him through that haze, maybe like the multitude of black and white photographs his room is strewn with.
Entwined limbs. Deep kisses caught midway, a forlorn distant look and a lock of hair on a face. Deep soulful eyes.
I take a sip from his coffee. That mix of cigarette smoke and the strong smell of coffee beaten just right make for a heady experience.
He looks at the cup where I sipped from and traces a finger on it. I feel like I have been touched. I wonder if he even notices what he does to me
He talks to me about the books I love, I talk to him about the tattoos I have. He wants a closer look at the one on my ankle.
I put my feet forward. In a magical, fluid, nonchalant way he takes off my anklet and I mentally admonish myself and not self combust
The question about what turns him on has long since been forgotten it seems. He has been in deep thought ever since.
And then suddenly he looks up from my feet and asks me in a slow drawl if I would take a long walk with him.
And then I know.
He could see her walking by the door’s thin slit…every time a faint cloud of her fragrance seeped in and filled the silence of the room a little more, making the room a little warmer