"How the hell did will and grace run so long?"
I say falling into an unfamiliar couch, my sport coat snagging on my elbows a bit with the sudden motion.
Damnable garment. I untuck the maroon shirt that I wore on the offchance I splatted a wine that I refused to drink anyway.
Stuff smelled like feet, but at least the company of elite youthful executive wannabes kept me entertained.
"I say buffy, but have you ever seen so many peasants so upset over the price of gas"
"I do say chip, whatever would we do if we were common? Starve ourselves by saving our pittances til we could afford an ounce of caviar and that greasey, stiffly creamy patte'?"
"How could we fuel our enormous urban assault vehicles on such pitiable wages?"
I wonder how many of them know how to make braunschweiger taste like foie gras. Or as I like to call it "faux gras" but I think some tempeh grower beat me to the punch.
I forget just how many liverwerst and braunschweiger recipes I came up with. Liver couscous was among my favorite.
Don't knock it til you've tried it.
My thoughts of something greasy turned to something sweet, as the hostess joined me at last unfastening her collar and plopping across me in her father's massive leather couch with alarming dismissal of her usual demure air.
Damn thing took up half a decent sized room, the other half was taken up by glass coffee tables, pretentious art-deco lamps, and matching love seat and armchair that looked more suited to sleep in than sit in. Either furniture makers were aware of our ever expanding american asses, or her father was a giant of a man.
Not the most comforting thought.
She must have received her delicate features, her fractureable porcelain skin, and well sculpted curves from her mother. Where that protective and distant cold came from, I'll never know- its like how I imagine the eastern shores, craggy like her impassable aloofness, salty like her sense of humor, rainy like those secret tears of both real and imagined injuries and fears.
I caught myself tracing that line again... down chinbones, through pulsing jugulars, over soft, sweeping clavicles all blanketed snugly by that smooth, sweet unglistening delicacy.
I at my canned coffee, she at her red foot swill. I had to engage her in conversation, before she turned her eyes from the ceiling, and noticed I had been staring for the last five minutes.
"A rousing success... who were those toolbags you invited?"
Does she even know I'm in love with her.
She chuckles into her glass. It's been one of those nights, the last two people on earth surrounded by posturing malfunctioning elitist robots stuck in loop.
And why had I been invited to this particular soiree?
The slaughtered conversational lamb?
The token single liberal-voting artist at the dinner party?
"Clarence III is a classmate, Theodore, my boss' son, and their prospective wives in training, they of course, have no names. Alfred... I have no idea who he was, but didn't he mesh well with the others? Maybe he was a country club gigalo, snooty conversationalist for hire?"
"Wouldn't surprise me in the least." I'm already out of coffee... that's the damnable thing about espresso, bitter, tastey, and gone much too soon.
She finishes her wine in silence. Something oddly comfortable about it though. Like this empty chit-chatlessness was welcome after the forced guffaws and alchohol inspired anecdotes of our long banished obligatory companions.
"I'd kill for some Rachmaninov about now," something to pierce the empty, while still giving us a good reason to keep this cozey, peaceful moment.
She stares at me blankly.
I guess that is fair. He is pretty obscure in our Red fearing history. Though he was a genius.
"He's a piano virtuoso and composer from Russia" I continue
"I gathered from the harsh slavic sounding name." she retorts. "Hang on a sec" a few minutes at the computer, and by the magic of an upper-middle class household, the whole room exploded with the crisp abyss of Rachmaninov.
Eleven strategically placed and mounted speakers and a footstool sized subwoofer pumped the bliss into every inch of the room. She dimmed the lights by a dial on the wall.
"God... what I'd give to have a house like this."
"Get a job!" she says cheekily.
I'd rather get published. But I smile anyway, and thank her for being my friend, always looking out for me, always pointing out my stupidity, whether it be about girls, careers or obstinance in general.
By the third movement I was in love again. But what could I do about it? What would I dare to endanger by making such an indecent proposal as smooth jazz and sweet but sweaty sex.
Two people.
Respect.
Friendship.
Interests.
Goals.
Like the perfection of a misty sunrise in the green hills. Fresh, calm, bright enough to awe, not enough to blind. Collected, condensed, and boiled into concentration, bottled in her perfect form, her intriguing mind, her cutting tongue. My perscription doesn't cover my needs with these meager doses.
Damn it...
why her? why here? why now?
Why not six years ago?
Why not... two years from now.
That's a hell of an idea.
Maybe after I've done something, I could demand she love me back. For now
the moment.
The peace.
The companion.
"I hope some day my life will be like this." She must have read my mind. I smile, and turn awkwardly to my empty can.
...a rustle, a sigh, a plop.
and there's a head of soft curly hair on my shoulder. An almost imperceptable sniff of my neck, the overpowering faintness of her scent.
It would all be so easy to just... reach into that billowing evening attire and wrap my fingers around paradise. Place those ruby red lips to my pink flesh. Close my eyes and breathe in ecstasy.
So easy... and yet so impossible.
Another sigh.
A hand phantomed firmly across my chest and resting on my arm.
Safety...
is that all I am?
Something real to hold onto?
And then it started.
Wet, invigorating, desperate kisses picking at my nervous neck and adrenaline saturated pulse.
Fuck it.
The glass of wine is flung to the white carpet, narrowly dodging the coffee table.
I can't protest if her mouth is covering mine.
I can't resist if my hand is running up the inside of her thigh within the confines of that intoxicating sheer black textile of a dress.
I can't stop with those thin tailored fingers pressed firmly behind my ears, pulling my eyes to the blissful pit of her passion-
Her onyx irises.
Though... I have to say... the rest of the scenery was quite nice as well.
Ticklish bare ivory to peach freckled madness.
Soft gasps, bites; self inflicted and lovingly injured.
A tangle of limbs and locks and sensational touch.
The first time I made love on a couch...
I expected to be a bit less satisfactory and dirty.
Less personal and involved.
And never on leather, with the woman of my dreams.
I stare into those silently welcoming, laughing eyes.
My face, I'm sure is the picture of grateful confusion.
"Dinner was lovely by the way."
