“That’s quite ambitious,” I reply playfully, meanwhile bubbling over with glee inside. “I’m not sure Susan will be happy with that arrangement. She might not take too kindly to your stealing her lunch date.”
“I don’t want to incur her wrath. Maybe we can plan for a more prolonged meeting. Say dinner tonight after work.”
I catch myself before resorting to my normal behavior of playing hard to get, and subsequently responding with an un-propitious no. I instead say, “Sure, but not tonight. Maybe this weekend?” I can’t abandon all my instincts on a whim. He caught me off guard, and I need time to prepare.
“That sounds like a date,” Jason says, with a wink. And as we step into the office, we each intuitively abandon any behavior that would suggest we are a couple.
15
Nirvana
Jason and I spent the remainder of the week doing our best to obscure any hint of our budding romance. With Jason in and out of meetings, we didn’t have much time alone, which turned out to be fortuitous scheduling. I needed all week to prepare myself. While mental and emotional preparations were indeed a priority, there were also far more superficial matters for which to attend. I realized that if I was to feel confident on our date, I needed to look my best. That meant that the bumpy, red, rash, that occasionally breaks out on my leg, the acne scars on my forehead and the sorry state of my neglected split ends required my undivided attention.
I spent each of my weeknights consumed with one beauty related treatment or another. By Friday even Susan observed, with suspicious eyes, my curiously lustrous hair and radiant skin. In typical Susan fashion, such an improvement in my appearance could not go without a pestering of intrusive questions. Am I seeing someone? Who is it? Is it that new guy in accounting? She saw him looking at me, and he seemed very interested in what he saw. Am I back with Blake? Is it a new mystery guy? I deflected her inquiries with the only topic she finds more interesting than my dating life — her wedding.
Meanwhile, the few short meetings that Jason and I had were dripping with sexual tension. There were moments when he accidentally brushed his hand against mine, sending chills down my spine. Then he’d shoot me a flirtatious glance, letting me know he felt something too. We didn’t talk about our undeniable chemistry. We simply carried on our charade of aloof and detached co-workers. It would take a discerning eye to guess we were anything other than what our actions suggested.
When Saturday finally arrived, my stomach was in knots. I planned everything from my hairstyle to my outfit; what I didn’t anticipate was how the wait would unnerve me. There was too much time to ponder my appearance. I decided on a pair of skinny black pants, a large knit sweater with an open lace back and black booties with a merciful one, and a half-inch kitten heel. I wanted to walk autonomously tonight, without having to rely on Jason as a crutch. Not wanting to fuss with my hair, I decided to wear it down.
Jason alleviated much of my anxiety when his BMW pulled up in front of my duplex. The moment I heard the gravel crunching under his tires, it hit me that this was really happening. I was going on a date with Jason, very possibility the sexiest man I’d ever laid eyes on. The best part came when I peeked through my blinds and saw him for the first time this evening. He's always managed to pull off the rakish style of a 1940s Hollywood actor. Everything from his gait, to the way he stood, with his jacket slung over his shoulder, had a debonair and sophisticated, man of the world, sex appeal.
I wanted to run out and greet him but, thankfully, I ignored that impulse and stayed put until the knock came on my door. I made him wait the mandatory 45 seconds, all the while sitting on my living room futon, watching the seconds tick by on my cat-shaped clock hanging on the wall, before answering the door. The last thing I wanted was for him to think I had nothing better to do than obsessively wait for him to show up at my door — even if that was, in fact, the case.
From the moment I stepped out of my duplex, Jason was the perfect gentleman. He opened his car door for me, which I can’t recall Blake ever doing. Once inside his car, he smiled at me with a twinkle in his eyes and told me I looked beautiful. There was such a sincerity to the way he said it that made me feel thoroughly appreciated.
I didn’t know where we were going; I assumed dinner. I was surprised when we arrived at a conservatory. The parking lot was practically barren; I presumed because botanical gardens drew more of a summer crowd. I wondered why Jason chose a conservatory of all places to take me. He must have seen the confusion masked beneath my smile.
“I wanted to add a little color to your day,” Jason said to me in a husky voice that melted my heart. I wasn’t sure if I was more shocked that he remembered my flowers in winter ramble, or that he was listening at all.
“You sound like a Hallmark card,” I joked.
We slowly strolled along the brick path in the Seasonal House. All the vibrant colors of winter flowers were on display, and we admired them with our arms entwined, like a real couple. It was exhilarating; I’d never felt so connected to another person. I’m sure my starry-eyed visage gave me away.
“I guess this kind of art is more to your liking,” Jason said.
“Much more to my liking,” I laughed. “It certainly beats lesbian, S&M porn.” I immediately glanced at Jason after making that comment, hoping I hadn’t gone too far in asserting my opinion — fortunately he didn’t seem bothered by my candor.
Then there was that moment. That amazingly, wonderfully, superlative moment, when something entirely unexpected happened — the kiss. It happened so suddenly that it took yet another moment before I was hit with the realization of what had occurred. Jason and I rounded a corner in the Palm House of the conservatory. And even though there wasn’t another soul in the room other than the two of us, Jason pulled me close to him, so we were entirely obscured by leafy palm trees and bushes. When his lips touched mine, I felt the story in them: it was one of longing and passion, midnight dances and strolls on the beach, staring into one another’s eyes and holding each other until our hearts beat in unison, it was a whisper of sweet nothings in my ear. It was love. And when our moment of fervor passed, we looked at each other and smiled, both of us knowing that something special was blossoming between us. Then, without saying a word of what had transpired, we moved on to the Fern House.
Jason surprised me again when he brought me to his apartment and cooked. He declined my offer to help. Instead, I sat on the bar stool watching him with his sleeves rolled up, busily chopping and slicing vegetables as I drank tea. He looked as delicious as the food tasted. He made a delectable Tuscan-style pasta with spinach, mushrooms, and tomatoes, coupled with a side salad and homemade dressing. I noticed one thing missing from this meal that was usually present when I ate with Blake.
“I’m surprised you don’t have a white wine to go with this,” I said casually, recalling Blake always had white wine with pasta. He made it sound like the idea of pasta, absent wine, was insane.
“I thought you don’t drink,” Jason said, giving me a confused look.
“Oh, I don’t, it’s okay if you do, though. It doesn’t bother me.” That wasn’t quite the truth, but Jason hadn't given me a reason to believe he’s a heavy drinker. He seemed like a wine and chardonnay kind of guy. I didn’t get the impression he was into bar hopping, one of Blake’s favorite weekend activities.
“I don’t drink alcohol either,” Jason said tersely, spearing his fork into his penne pasta.
My heart leapt for joy. Those words were music to my ears. Could we be any more perfect for each other? I’ve never been one to believe in fate, but everything about our serendipitous union feels like we are destined to be together. Perhaps, I only see what I want, but I don’t care. With Jason, I want to throw caution to the wind. What more do I need to know other than nothing has ever felt more right than the two of us together?
The events of the day run through my mind as I cuddle with Jason on his leather couch. Every second of every moment is sublimely perfect — but
perfection seems to be normal for Jason. And that kiss, oh that kiss — how is it that I could have gone my entire life without knowing a kiss could make me feel like that? Look at me, the hopeless romantic. Suffice it to say I feel properly courted.
Now we’re watching Elf. He even gets my humor! As I lay against his chest, the rhythm of its rise and fall soothes me, like a lullaby, and the light scent of his musky cologne lingers over me like a soft blanket.
“You falling asleep?” He asks, as he runs his fingers through my hair.
“No,” I reply lazily.
“Hey,” he says, causing me to stretch my neck and look up at him. He peers down at me, his eyes smoldering. He leans down, and I instinctively lean up until our lips brush together. I feel a jolt of electricity run through my body. Another heavenly kiss. How can his kisses be all at once so exhilarating yet familiar? When his lips touch mine, in their sweet and reverent way, I get a rush of emotion that wakes up every part of my body. Its intensity should frighten me, but I don’t want him to stop. What I feel could only be described as transcendent, why would I want it muted? That would be a great tragedy, I’m sure. His kisses deepen as his hands guide my face closer to his, and my feelings intensify to nirvana. Then his hand moves down my side, to my waist, and he suddenly stops. Why has Nirvana stopped?
“If we keep this up, we might get into trouble,” Jason says, huskily.
“I can do with a bit of trouble in my life,” I reply, with a playful smile.
And suddenly we fall into each other — our kisses filled with yearning. Everywhere his hands touch, my body screams for more. I barely recognize myself, caught in the midst of this wild, insatiable hunger Jason has awakened. It’s as though I’ve had nothing but mutton for years and I finally get a taste of something sweet and I want my fill of it. I want his hands all over me until I’m dizzy with pleasure.
Somehow we end up in his bedroom. I’m in such a daze that I’m practically dream walking. I push him on the bed so he’s laying on his back, knowing that if I think too extensively about what I’m doing, I’ll lose my nerve, so I refuse to think. I act on the visceral knowledge that I need to be closer to him. Without giving it a second thought, I pull off my sweater and toss it haphazardly beside the bed. My bra follows in quick succession.
He looks up at me, his eyes dancing, as though he’s watching his favorite scene in a movie unfold. With a deliberate hand, he slowly runs his fingers over my stomach and up my waist, caressing me, teasing me, whetting my appetite for more. A sudden eruption of boisterous tenacity has me feeling far more adventurous than usual. I want all of him, but my way. That means I’m in control. I playfully slap his hands away, so he knows it’s not his turn yet, then I begin unbuttoning his pants. My frenzy for him intensifying with every passing moment. I watch him, watching me, and relish in his evident pleasure at what he sees.
Just as I begin to take the reins of my newly found sexual prowess, we’re interrupted by the sound of his cell phone vibrating on the nightstand. At first, we ignore it, but the vibrations seem to become louder and more obnoxious with each passing moment, quitting, only to start again.
“Go ahead and answer it,” I finally say, not bothering to hide the tone of defeat from my voice. “No really, it’s okay,” I ensure Jason when he looks like he’s going to object. What a mood killer.
“Ok, don’t move,” he says, before answering his phone.
“Hey,” Jason says into the phone, without identifying the person on the other end of the line. I expect him to tell whoever is calling that he’s busy and will call him back. Of course, I’m hoping it’s a him. But with my luck, it’s probably an old girlfriend who needs his shoulder to cry on. As he speaks, I see his expression go from stern to grim.
Well, that’s my cue to leave. I look around the room, where in the world did I throw my bra? There it is, on his dresser. I grab it and locate my sweater. Jason looks up from the phone where he’s saying a lot of brusque mm-hmms, “Don’t go,” he mouths and holds up a finger to signify he’ll just be a minute.
I point to his living room and whisper, “I’ll be in there.” Once in the living room, I awkwardly dress myself. I can’t help but feel rejected; I want to crawl under a bed or hide in a hole. Having clothes on helps to cover my shame. Am I naive to think a naked woman would be far more appealing to a man than a stupid phone call? Blake certainly wouldn’t have stopped to answer his phone. If anything, he’d turn it off, or better yet, chuck it across the room so the battery falls out. Is it possible that I’m overestimating Jason’s attraction to me? That I’m falsely extrapolating from my experience with Blake’s seemingly insatiable sexual lust for me, only to make the erroneous presumption, that because Jason is willing to be intimate with me, he shares the same level of desire. It’s entirely possible that Jason views me as nothing more than an easy lay, a quick route to gratification. He wouldn’t be wrong in that assumption — a few amazing kisses, and he has me practically begging for sex.
For the first time in my life, I act as the sexual aggressor and it blows up in my face. I feel like a fool. I broke one of the cardinal rules of dating. Maybe it’s just easier to let the man do all the work. That way, at least I know he wants me, and I won’t be rejected when I’m in my most vulnerable state of undress. He’ll be so caught up in the throes of passion he wouldn’t be able to. It would be contrary to male DNA or something … I was never a science major.
I stretch my neck to see in his bedroom. He’s still on the phone. He’s talking so quietly I can’t make out anything he’s saying. His voice sounds cautious. Who might he be talking to, and why is he acting so secretive? He answered the phone with “Hey.” That rules out his parents or any close relative. But the call is important enough to take while he’s in the middle of, what many would call, the best part of a date. That could be a friend, maybe a girlfriend. The best case scenario is that it’s a sibling. Does Jason have any brothers or sisters? I have no idea.
Look at me, Detective Delaney. It finally dawns on me that I was about to sleep with a guy who I know almost nothing about, except that I am unapologetically attracted to him. Is that a good enough reason to put myself at risk of doing a walk of shame in the morning? I’m not in college anymore, and I’m too old for that.
I press play on the remote to continue watching Elf. One thing Blake taught me about men is that you can never rely on them to be quick about anything, except achieving an orgasm. He said one minute, well it’s been at least five. Who knows how long I’ll be out here, by myself, before Jason makes an appearance.
What started out as a magical evening has quickly taken a turn for the worse. I should’ve brought my car so I could leave. I might feel embarrassed if I didn’t think that somehow it made sense for the night to turn out this way; that it served me right. I had this silly idea of passion. I craved it, fantasized about it, and Jason was at the center of the entire delusion. But maybe that sort of thing isn’t for girls like me. I can’t get caught up in the moment. Or, perhaps I’m just not enchanting enough for a guy to get caught up in me.
Lost in thought, I don’t notice when Jason leans in from behind and kisses me on the cheek. And, in an instant, my heart melts again and all of my anxiety is, for the moment, forgotten.
“Hey,” he says, with a big grin on his face as he plops himself down next to me.
“Hey,” I reply, feeling a grin of equal magnitude growing across my lips.
“That was my friend Brent. He’s having a tough time right now. I wouldn’t have felt right just hanging up on him.”
I could feel the proverbial weight lifting off my shoulders. It was just his friend Brent. Not some girl. I worried for nothing. “No need to explain,” I lie. “I understand, I think it’s sweet that you're so helpful towards your friends.”
“Thanks,” he replies. “So … what do you say we pick up where we left off?”
He certainly isn’t one for sexual innuendos. With Blake, if sex was the topic, innuendoes were in play
. “I suppose we could,” I say, barely containing a laugh. “Although it won’t be very organic to start where we left off.”
“We could fast forward into the future and start fully nude if you’d like,” he says playfully.
“We could, or we could finish watching Elf.”
“I guess the phone call was a mood killer,” he says, his tone understanding.
“Kind of,” I agree. “But that’s not to say the flame has entirely dimmed.” He leans in to kiss me on the lips, and once again I’m caught up in his taste, his smell — nirvana! We resume our previous positions on the couch, cuddling with each other, and him stroking my hair.
Oh, who am I kidding? This is a last ditch effort to salvage some semblance of dignity and control. Part of me still feels rejected, and the idea of opening myself up to him again is terrifying. Perhaps it’s an irrational fear, but I want to play it safe. I need to slow down this thing between us. I want to feel free of danger with him, and not have an ounce of uncertainty that he wants me just as much as I want him. That way I won’t feel like such a fool when I turn into putty staring into his gorgeous eyes.
For now, it feels nice just to be close to him. To be in his arms and forget all my troubles, just sink into him. As I close my eyes and breathe softly against his chest, I realize I’ve never felt this intimate with another person before. Is this all in my obsessive mind, or is there a connection between us that I’ve never known until now? The thought leaves me just as easily as it came, as my eyelids grow heavy and I find myself drifting off to sleep.
16
Christmas Spirit Week
It’s the week before Christmas, and if decorations are any measure of holiday cheer, then our office would put Santa himself to shame. Everywhere there’s garland, lights, poinsettias, elves, deer and dancing trees. There are Santas of black, white, and Asian ethnicities. I even saw a Native American Santa, which was just a traditional Santa with a feather headdress — this is Seattle after all. Apparently, HR sent out an email encouraging people to bring Christmas decorations from home. If the decorations aren’t enough, it’s “Christmas Spirit week!” according to the mass email subject line sent to the entire office. Each day of the week there’s a new holiday theme that we have the option to coordinate with our work attire. Today is ugly sweater day. Since I’ve always had a rebellious streak when it comes to participating in organized group activities, I unsurprisingly chose to ignore Christmas spirit week and dress in my usual blouse and slacks. After observing the parades of red and green sweaters littered with novelty Christmas characters on virtually every co-worker, I am definitely the odd woman out.
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