Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Between Us, A Girl (Part 1 of 3)
She’s younger than you led me to believe.
Kristy arrives at the restaurant in the kind of exuberant rush that only comes from one’s twenties. Her face is a little flushed and she is having trouble deciding whether to put her extra large bag down before shaking our hands, or to shake our hands first, or perhaps even give us a hug and a kiss with the bag a less welcome fourth party. As you and I get up, she turns and the black leather bag strikes me firmly in the thigh. “Oops! Shit. Are you OK?” After a laughing apology, she puts the bag down, shakes my hand, and gives you a hug. She then plops down on the seat as if all the wind she has saved up for this occasion has been spent.
“What are we drinking?” she asks, patting you on the hand as the two of you scoot into the booth next to one another.
“Chardonnay,” I answer, sitting back down. The server brings over another wine glass, fills it, and is gone before any of us notice that we aren’t talking.
Silence. Awkward silence.
“Look! I brought a toothbrush!” Kristy says suddenly , pulling a red toothbrush from her bag. We all laugh, breaking the spell. Maybe now I can relax.
You raise your wine glass and propose a toast. “Here’s to new friends and new experiences!”
“And to things that go bump in the night!” adds Kristy, smiling.
Not to be outdone, I counter, “And to things that come in threes!”
“Threes? You mean like triplets?”
Everyone smiles and we drink. But then…
“Shortcakes. Or is that six?”
“Wise men.”
“Pawnbrokers’ balls!”
Over our salads, Kristy launches into a lengthy description of her position on Internet censorship, which touches on everything from her email habits to Renoir nudes on the Louvre web site to nude modeling for college art classes when she was still in school to playing with the libidos of the people in the class by walking over to them fully naked between poses and commenting on their work… and finally back to meeting you on the Net. She talks for what must be 15 minutes without stopping, moving from one topic to the next with an ease and rapidity that makes it all seem to make sense at the time. I look over at you and we both open our eyes wide as if to say, “Wow.” We smile and you reach across the table to hold my hand.
And so the dinner goes. We talk, laugh, drink more wine. We are sitting in one of those semi-circular booths where the seat wraps around the table. I am sitting on one end; you’re sitting on the other end; and Kristy is sitting back behind the table and between the two of us. There are plants and mirrors along the wall. There is just enough light for me to be able to tell that the tablecloth on our table is mint green.
For much of dinner, I feel as if I’ve split into two people. There’s the me that’s continuing to participate in the conversations we’re having — the current one that you started having something to do with movies. But then there’s this other me that’s watching, studying all three of us from some place away from the table. Some part of me is looking at all of us as actors in a play and it’s an odd feeling. What would that other me say about the two of you? I know you bought this deep blue dress especially for tonight. You wouldn’t let me see it until tonight. When I saw you in the restaurant lobby before dinner, it stopped me in my tracks. The dress isn’t overly dressy, but it shows off your legs and your beautiful shoulders. And the color is so nice with your auburn hair. What earrings are you wearing? The red glass ones from last summer’s arts festival. Poor man’s rubies.
And then there’s Kristy. She arrived wearing a short cotton slip dress, white with small flowers, and a denim jacket. On her feet are white socks and a pair of clunky black shoes. Her hair is short and dark. In this light, I can’t tell what color her eyes are. Her earrings are silver, with one extra loop passing through an extra hole in one ear. But she’s not such a rebel that she doesn’t shave her legs and pits. She’s not as curvy as you, but she’s definitely not boyish either. Before she sat down, I could tell she had nice round hips and in silhouette her breasts seem full and large for her frame. The two of you make an interesting pair.
“Can I have a bite of that?” Kristy asks you during the main course. “I love trout almondine.” But really, I think to myself, what she wants to do is play with your space. She scoots over next to you as you get a piece of fish and some sauce onto your fork. You don’t have to reach the fork out to her, as Kristy leans across the left side of your body toward the fork in your right hand. This move puts her head inches from your face— her hair close enough to smell, her cheek close to your lips— and her upper right arm just brushing your left breast. I take a sip of wine and study your face. Kristy looks up to see that I am watching her and winks.
By dessert, the two of you are shoulder-to-shoulder and exchanging conspiratorial whispers and forkfuls of chocolate cake. At one point, one of you rubs her shoeless foot on my ankle and up into the cloth of my pants leg. A little later, another foot, or perhaps the same one, startles me by poking at my knee, then resting on the seat between my legs, running toes maybe an inch from my crotch. You both look at me, expecting a reaction, but my reaction is best gauged by the toes at hand… er, crotch. Whatever.
The two of you hold hands. Kristy’s hand is on top of yours and your’s is resting on the table. I see her squeeze your hand to let you know to come along and she pulls both your hands under the table. I sip my coffee, unable to see what is happening beneath the table and the mint green cloth. Has she put your hand on her leg? Has she put her hand on your leg? Are her fingertips touching and circling the skin just above your knee, inside your upper thigh… higher? Your eyelids widen a little, then close a little. You two minxes aren’t waiting at all, are you?
You look somewhat lost in the glow of the wine and the touch of Kristy’s hand beneath the table. So it’s up to me to say it. “There’s champagne chilling at our house. We should pay the bill and go.” Kristy smiles. “We were coming from two different places in town, so neither of us drove. We should try to get a taxi.”
Your eyes regain some focus. I can tell that you’re grateful. Kristy pulls car keys from her bag. “I drove,” she says, pressing the keys into my palm. “Why don’t you drive?” Her eyes are blue. They sparkle.
You’ve regained your composure by now. “Of course you’ll drive. And Kristy and I will get in the backseat and pretend that you’re our chauffeur, Grimsby. Kristy, you should know that we can have our way with Grimsby when we get home. His parents were circus performers and they sold him to my family from the back of their caravan when he was only four.”
The two of you laugh. I smile and say, “Whatever you say, Madam.”
The clock on the bank building says that it’s nearly 10 o’clock. It’s a 20 minute drive from the restaurant back to our house. After the first ten minutes, we turn off the main streets with their harsh lights and into residential streets where even the streetlights are muted by the trees. I can’t see the two of you in the rearview mirror, but I know that you are sitting together in the middle of the seat. Kristy’s little Honda is loud and I can’t make out what the two of you are talking about… or even if you are talking sometimes.
“Is everything satisfactory back there?” I finally ask.
You lean forward. “Absolutely.” Laughter. “Here, Grimsby. Taste this and tell me whose it is.”
And there, in the darkness of a Honda hurtling through suburbia, you stick a finger to my lips. It’s wet and slick. I open my mouth and let you slip your finger inside. I suck on it for a second or two before you take it out. “Well?” you ask.
“It sort of tastes like apples. And you usually taste more like vanilla, or vanilla and cinnamon. So I think it’s Kristy.”
“Very good, Grimsby!” you laugh, falling back into the darkness of the backseat.
“Give that man a raise!” Kristy shouts as we pull into our driveway.
“Oh, no. I don’t pay Grimsby. We work things out in other ways.”
“Oh” Kristy says softly. There’s a slight pause as I hear seatbelts unbuckle. “Then maybe we can give him some cinnamon apples,” I turn off the engine. “Grimsby, do you have any ideas how we could make you some cinnamon apples?”
“I’ll go open the champagne,” I say opening the car doors and escorting the two of you inside…
Comments:
I like your writing alot......this is my first exposure to it......i’ll look forward to parts two and three
Posted by rick on 04/16/08 at 04:14 PM
Thanks, Rick. Part 2 is coming within the week. I’ve been fiddling with it the last couple of nights and think it’s about ready to post.
Posted by Prospero on 04/28/08 at 11:35 PM
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