I have seen the look of want in your eyes and so i took you to my room last night where i dreamed up dreams of devouring consequences. We were out to dinner. You in a suit. Me in a vintage cocktail dress, heels with straps around my ankles. You ordered french wine for the table because you recalled that I lived in France back in the eighties. Cliche. But polite.
It was mention of the fact that you knew tiger lilies could be eaten that undid me.
I suddenly saw you in a new light. Not that deadpan, emotionless, punctured soul you come off as being, day by day, in the drabness of your conventional life. But a sensual man. Unafraid of the world and the knowledge that we are all so delicate.
Besides, your eyes screamed: I am lonely. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal since last December when she left me for that fuck.
We didn’t go out dancing. Or see a movie. We ate and talked and talked and talked, sitting across the table from one another. I watched your lips, mostly, glide across a set of perfect teeth. I measured the possibility of your kiss.
And when there was that moment, late into the night, sitting in your car listening to Grace Jones’s La Vie en Rose, parked outside my house, the burden of newness no longer upon us. When we arrived at that place that comes instinctually between new lovers, to kiss or say good night, I reached out the tips of my fingers and drew an imaginary line toward the door, and said, come in.