Coffee with Mr. X

“'I will have tea, ginger tea if you have it. And a slice of vanilla cake.” I say to the plumb and tired-looking girl who comes to wait on our table.

“The same please.” He quips quickly.

I know he prefers black coffee, but he always had this habit of ordering the same things I did. He somehow always believed that I had great taste. That the food served on my plate was more delicious, that my sip added flavour to a blunt drink. As though my breathe purified the air around us. Clearly that hadn’t changed.

Well, it has been only three weeks. But something has changed in him. That he has found his manners now for instance. Today he said ‘please’ when he placed his order

I smile at his politeness, slowly taking in his features, and sizing him up. He is wearing the same shirt and jeans he had on the last time we went out. I remember remarking how that shade of blue complemented his skin. My smile broadens now as I think that that must be the reason he chose to wear them today. I lean back on my chair to peep at his feet; he has sneakers on, new ones.

Instinctively, he reaches out for my hands to hold them in his. His hands are unusually warm. He must have been rubbing them nervously as he waited for me. I like the thought that he’d been anxious about meeting me. He seems genuinely pleased that I showed up, and that I‘m smiling at him and letting him hold my hands in his.

I instantly feel a warm sensation run through me. It’s been long since I felt any excitement with him. I had begun to think that I’ve become sensually immune to him. He softly rubs the back of my palms and the sensation is somewhat arousing. It makes my skin yearn for his caresses. I’m forced to muse over the times we shared. I remember a time when there had been undeniable chemistry between us. I am reminded of the magic those manly hands worked on me. Oh, his hands! They made me warm, they gave me security. Those hands were always tender with me. Many are the times his hands aroused me. And brought me to orgasm. Those hands had an affair with my breasts. An affair so sweet it may well have been illicit.

I feel his stare on my face and suddenly I am aware of my reaction. Of the way my face must be shamelessly betraying my lust. So I pull my hands from his and fold them at my bosom as I try to bring my thoughts back to the present. I turn away as soon as I see the soft lines of his charred lips slowly form into a smile. He has definitely noticed the effect his touch has on me. And he is greatly flattered.

He mouths my name in that beguiling bass that he knows I can't resist. I turn my head to meet his eyes but a heat wave of desire almost blinds me. He doesn’t make this easy on me. He laughs, this time loudly, throwing back his head and letting his shoulders shake so vigorously that he attracts the attention of other patrons in the café.

I feel naked, stripped. As though they can all see me blush. As though they all see how flush with desire my body is.

**********************************

We do not have much of a conversation the rest of the evening. He talks, I listen. Obviously he has thought this through. I can sense he had prepared to plead, beseech and implore me to return to him. But my reaction to his touch has reawakened his ego, he will not beg. I regret that.  He now seems to remember that we have not broken up, at least not officially. So now he pretends to be oblivious of our last meeting. He has decided to forget that we had argued and I’d stormed away.

I quickly resolve that I am hungry and that I should have a proper meal. I gesture to the waitress and ask for garnished rice and marinated chicken stew. I also instruct her to pack my cake, I will have it later. I do not want tea anymore. It will only mask my appetite. He remains silent.