A Tale Not Yet Titled...

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Though the setting and some businesses are based actual places, names, characters, and events are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. I promise ; )

Thursday, June 20, 2013, 11:45pm

The night brings too many opportunities to think; too many thoughts to put into place. I sit here with my mind a mess and for what? What exactly happened tonight that I need to sit here, confused, and muddled, and completely a wreck, thinking?

The night is dense around me. I feel the weight like stones upon my head; eyes exhausted from crying and now my brain is screaming for relief. And again I ask myself, why? What exactly happened tonight?

***

Sitting in the Good Dog, I ran through all of today’s work tasks. I finished editing the final draft of Tanner’s series sequel and emailed it to Marna. Took me nearly a week but I finally reached the end of that marathon. Please God, let the young adult’s dystopian genre die out sooner rather than later.  I responded to Mr. Holland’s query letter with a gracious and grateful “no thank you.” I don’t know how many times we have to tell that man, “We don’t publish vampire fan-fic and DC Comic erotica.” Maybe one day he’ll get the damn idea.  I sent out office invites for the VP’s retirement party and emailed Marna the recent applications for his replacement submitted via Monster.com. Not that any of them look promising, but at least we are making an effort to acknowledge that damn site upon HR’s request.

“Another Sam Adams, Lina?” Ripping me from my reverie, Tia looks at my tablet like I’ve committed some kind of treacherous crime in having it on the bar. Hey honey, even when you punch that card at the end of the day, you have to get some work done after hours to stay ahead of the pack.

“Yes. Thanks, Tia.”

“Need a menu? Or are you waiting for Casey and Trent?”

“Yep, they should be here shortly.” I smile slightly to myself as I noticed the small hint of shame cross Tia’s face at the mentioning of Trent’s name. Don’t be too hurt, I think to myself. You’re not the first girl Trent has charmed into submission and left out to dry. He’s notorious. We tried to warn you.

I continue to swipe through my to-do list when the seat next to mine is violently rattled. I look up as my glasses run down the bridge of my nose and see a man attempting to sit on the stool on the other side of the one he disturbed. His eyes linger on me longer than polite society would approve of a sly smile creeping across his face. I return his with a quick and weary smile of my own, and set my attention back on the glowing screen below me. I don’t know how but I can still feel his eyes on my neck as I count the number of new submissions I have waiting in my email inbox.

“Excuse me?” Oh here it comes. “Are you a librarian?” The question just sounds odd. Are you a librarian? Is that your pick-up line? Who the heck aspires to be a librarian? He might as well just ask me if I’m a recluse, boring, and/or have an infatuation with cats.

As I turn my head to face him, a couple strands of my hair fall from my high ponytail into my eyes. My glasses fall from their perch yet again and I am forced to further his suspicion, and no doubt encourage his perverted sexy librarian fantasy, by tucking those strands back into place.

“No, I’m not.” I respond with a low tone. I try to fill it with disinterest and annoyance; hopefully he will get the hint and go back to watching the Phillies game. However, I get the feeling he’s not a sports fan.

“No? Well you have this intelligent air about you. It’s very sexy!” His grin is something out of a Lifetime movie. I see it and I see kidnapped teenage girls, hysterically crying mothers, and husbands pleading in court for their freedom against allegations of incestuous rape. His grey suit suggests he works in corporate America, no doubt a Market St troll that takes the speed line into work from Jersey. He probably kills time at one of many, if not all, the Starbucks near his office, staring at the tight skirt suits of unsuspecting business women exerting all that’s left of their energy, after caring for four kids and a man-child husband, into dragging themselves into work.

“Thank you.” I give him another smile and turn my shoulders away from him as I look back down at my tablet. I sip slowly from my beer and catch his gaze in the bar mirror. Fuck!

“So what do you do? If you don’t mind my asking?” his voice is low and his tone is deep. If I didn’t know any better I’d say he was altering his voice on purpose. Possibly something he adopted from a pick-up master guide book. “My name is Steve by the way. I work in insurance compliance over on Market.”

 He stands to move to the stool he assaulted earlier, I’m suspecting on purpose. I notice he’s fairly tall and lean. His hair is tousled with remnants of product lazily deposited on the tips. His eyes are green which actually compliments his dark hair and chiseled jaw line. A five o’clock shadow rolls over the dimples set in his cheeks; it suggests he’s not a supporter of hipster style men’s fashion.  I’m not mad at him. He’s not bad looking at all.

“I’m a copy editor and executive assistant at Quirk Books.” He makes a face that suggests that he’s impressed: lip folded in and eye brows raised.

“Very cool, how long have you been doing that?”

“About a year or so, I started as an associate publishing editor, filtering submissions to staff editors and copy editors; fetching coffee. Now I’m editing copy.” I punctuate my sentence with a flirtatious smile. He returns the gesture. “I’ve been there for about five years now.”

“Working your way up the ladder? How ambitious of you.” He takes a long pull of his Bud Light, a strike against him. He’s most definitely from Jersey. He looks down at me over the end of the bottle and I can see he’s very much interested. If only I could return that gesture.

My mind drifts for a moment. God this dude is alluring. I see him and a million emotions rush back to my mind: The thrill of flirting; the possibility of cuddling; how amazing it is to have someone look at you with adoration; the possibility of lust and desire. I wonder if he realizes that his eyes twinkle when he laughs or that he tends to run his fingers through his hair when he’s waiting for a response. That explains the tousled hair-doo. I think all these things and I remember why I cannot indulge in him. My aching heart rolls over in its shallow grave.

We chew over small talk for about twenty minutes more. How long have you lived in Philly? What did you study in school? Do you enjoy sports? My earlier suspicion about his disinterest in sports was correct. Do you visit this bar often? How the hell does a guy living with two females workout? Just as I was about to explain the dynamic of a non-sexual threesome living arrangement, said roommates walked through the door, coincidently followed by one of Steve’s Market St co-workers.

“Ahh looks like our respective parties have arrived.” I love the way he talks, so sophisticated.

“Seems that way,” I reply with a slow blink and a sensuous smile. I allow it to grow on my face like emerald ivy in an exotic garden: Long and lazy smiles of seduction.

“Look before we’re both deeply distracted, I want to give you one of my cards. I’d really like to hear from you. Maybe we could get a drink and get to know each other a little more.”

“Yea of course,” I take the business card from his long fingers and I reach in my purse to pull out a piece of stationary paper. I jot down my number under my name and professional title printed on the paper and hand it to him.  “Here is mine, just in case.” Just in case of what? Fire? Kill me!

“Adelina? Wow that’s beautiful. You should use your full name. Lina doesn’t do you justice.” His charm is pleasantly overwhelming and duly noted in the blushing burgundy of my cheeks.

“Thanks I’ll consider that.”  He smiles at me and I reconsider the Lifetime Movie comment I stated to myself earlier. It’s actually quite endearing and inviting. Which I guess if you really think about it could still qualify him as an abductor of teenage girls. Either way, it’s grown on me.

I join my roommates in a booth on the other side of the bar, just as Tia is tossing a menu down in front of Trent. It hits his chest more than it hits the table and appropriately bounces up and taps him on the chin. Score one for Tia. He holds his hands up inquisitively as she storms away in a huff; a smirk of arrogance and confusion pasted across his face.

“What the fuck did she do that for?” His sideways grin gives away his attempt at innocent ignorance. Not to mention he’s lying to the wrong females and he knows it.

“Don’t act like you don’t know why, you son-of-a-bitch!”  Casey barks as she wrestles her long blonde hair into a bun atop her head. She allows some strands to escape down into her face, framing her clear blue eyes as they pierce their way into Trent’s soul. She, of the both of us, is the most disapproving of our male roommate’s sex-capades and is aptly vocal about it. I on the other hand realize that boys will be boys if that’s what those boys choose to be. Having two older brothers I had to learn that lesson swiftly. Honestly, you think I would have learned better.

 “You charmed her, you lured her, you banged her, and you threw her away, knowing damn well we frequent this bar every fucking day after work like we eat here for free. Way to make shit awkward Trent!!!”

“You say that like you expected me to do anything to the contrary.”

“Correction! I say that because I expect you not to shit where we eat! Thank you! Lina and I happen to like this bar and would like to continue to show our patronage to it. Dick!”

“Look I can’t help that she snores and her feet are unnaturally large okay? If she wasn’t such a freak maybe I wouldn’t have dumped her.” I grab for the first thing I can find, a plastic bottle of ketchup should do the trick, and toss it at Trent’s head. It seems Casey has done the same with a crumpled piece of paper she retrieved from her purse. Our attempts to punish Trent are deterred as he swats away both objects. Damn hockey players. They hit the ground pitifully, resulting in a couple unsure glances from fellow bar patrons. Tia looks over disapprovingly and turns away noticeably distraught, shaking her head.

Casey and Trent banter back and forth while I pretend to look over a menu I practically have memorized. I steal side glances at Steve as he chats with his co-worker. He doesn’t look over once. My mind starts to race and wonder as anxiety begins to swell in my chest. Was he genuinely interested? Is he a member of the same misogynist fraternity as Trent and just wants to “hit it and quit” as Trent so poetically recited to us once? What if giving me his card and not proactively asking for mine, was a technique guys use to dodge a girl they initially thought was attractive, but after chatting her up realize, maybe not! Or maybe I’m just over thinking it.

“YO LINA!” Trent’s husky voice breaks me from my torturous internal dialogue and I realize Stella, our regular waitress, is standing in front of me waiting for my order. I shake my brain free, along with a couple deep brown curls, and rattle off my regular dish and another beer. Trent quickly adds three shots of Patron Silver to the order. I look over to him with a loving smile. How the hell does he always know?

***

My mind races with a bottomless sea of possibilities; both realistic and unrealistic; Expectations and assumptions: Does he really want to get to know me? Does he just want to get in my pants? Why does he want me to call him? Shouldn’t he be pursuing me? Shit! The swirl of Patron makes my brain pound. Why have you forsaken me, you enchanting Mexican liquor? Three shots with dinner, 5 beers, and a shot of fireball, Trent knew what I needed and he made sure I got it. A free flowing supply of booze to drown out whatever self doubt was rising in me. It must have been scrolled on my forehead in neon lights and flashing blubs. Its actions like these that lead me to believe he’s not the male chauvinist pig he moonlights as at bars and clubs. Casey just hasn’t seen his caring side yet.

The rushing feeling of vertigo subsides as if on cue, as my thoughts begin to drift to places I’d rather not be. I wonder what Wes is doing. I think about his full toothed grin and how similar it is to Steve’s toothy smile. How both of their light eyes glow beneath the dark tint of their hair. Wes doesn’t have dimples but he has full luscious lips that I loved to nibble on as we snuggled watching movies.

I wipe the tears from my eyes before they have a chance to become heavy enough to roll down my face. I don’t want them to smear the ink on the page as I write. Casey told me I should keep a journal. “It’s not healthy to keep those thoughts and emotions in your head,” she said to me one night as she held me, shoulders shaking and lungs gasping for air as I mourned the end of four years in love. 

God, I miss him so much. The way he held me was like nothing I’ve ever felt before, or felt since.

I lean my head back against my pillow as I hold my eyes shut tight, the pressure of tears cause my eyelids to ache. I close my journal and toss it on my night stand, shutting the lights off in one swift movement. I open my eyes just as fast, allowing the tears to roll down my cheekbones and behind my ears, moistening the hair that curls there. Wes used to love when I wore my hair down to bed. Anymore, I keep it up in a loose bun so I don’t pull it in my sleep. Or maybe I keep it up because he’s not there to get tangled in it.

Thinking of Wes again makes my body ache for him. My breathing gets heavy as I remember what it was like to feel his hard chest against my bare breast. I close my eyes and remember the sensation of his lips on the curve of my neck, his tongue teasing the skin there, one hand on my hip, pulling me closer to him, and one hand on my thigh, pressing me further open. He liked to go deep, hit the sweet spot deep inside me. He said I made the most delicious sounds when he lingered there.

I remembered how it felt when our bodies merged into one as I arched my back and pressed into him. He’d slip his thick arms around my body and bite down on my collar bones as he rotated his hips to the rhythm of my breathing. My fingers would automatically find themselves tangled in his ebony locks, pulling them tight, and pressing his mouth hard on top of mine. Sometimes he would open his beautiful sea green eyes and stare right into me. He knew it sent me over the edge. Like he was penetrating my souls at the same time he was thrusting into my pussy. It made me feel naughty and desired; beautiful and wanted.

Lying alone in my bed, I lost myself in these memories. My hands found their way beneath the cotton of my loose fitting blowout tank top, my fingers pinching tightly on my nipples, desperately trying to mimic the feeling of his teeth. My mouth agape, hungry for his, as my left hand traveled slowly down my stomach and past the waist band of my panties, searching for my swollen mound of sexual desire, peaking achingly from its hiding place. There you are! I moan quietly as I tease it and pinch it, trying to do as he once did. It’s just not the same.

Finally I allow my fingers to press inside me. I allow them to search for that ridge that makes my toes wrinkle with pleasure. My breath quickens as I push in and out of myself. I think of his face, his naked body, the way his ass, round and thick, looked in the mirror when I was lucky enough to catch a glimpse during sex. BOOM!  I groan just a little louder than I would have liked with Trent sleeping in the next room. I let my body lay heavy on my sheets, staring up at the ceiling and wishing for more. Cold tears trail down the creases of my eyes and past my ear lobes, gathering on the pillow case beneath my head.

I decide I’m done torturing myself for one night and roll toward the wall, forcing myself to sleep. The faint sound of vibrations echo from my nightstand, but I’m way too exhausted, emotionally more than physically, to reach for my phone. Whatever it is can wait until the morning

****