“'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.
