Mocha Latte

Mocha Latte

1

Dim lights. Interior setting with low sofas and scattered rugs. A velvet blanket spread out carefully on the floor in front of a cold fireplace. The soft glow coming from the heavily covered windows sheds a pale lavender sheen on a small square of the mahogany floor.

Actors, read as if there is a tension between them. These two are struggling to express hatred for each other. The scent in the room is a heady feel of deep sexual desire, a strong undercurrent of disregard for each other’s boundaries.

~~~~

She dresses slowly. Her body aches already from the violence of his caressing hands. There is a creak of the floorboards as he reenters the room.

“Are you ok?”

His stare settles on the enticing curve of her lower spine. The cream of her skin melts into the vanilla velvet spread on the floor under her. His eyes linger on each millimeter of her luscious skin as she envelops herself deeper into the sensual warmth of the velvet.

“May I have some juice? Grape maybe?”

~~~~

She was twelve when there was a moment with the next-door neighbor. He was much older, maybe twenty. She passed him in the piss-scented hallway, he catcalled after her. She blushed, enjoying the attention. She passed quickly. He attempted to grab her ass. Missed. Days later he succeeded. Weeks passed with her as cat, him as mouse. She provided her body to his wanting hand, casually. He invited her to his apartment. At first it was nothing, grape juice or sugar cookie. Summer paled, so did his intrigue of their silly game. Through the fear, she slowly warmed to his advances. He moved before Christmas, to where she never knew. There was a feeling of loss at first. The sense of relief was stronger.

~~~~

“There is Merlot.”
“Grape juice, please.”

Crouching, he leans past her, brushing his breath against her heady warmth. He retrieves her pale cotton t-shirt, thrusts it at her.

“There is no grape juice.”

She clutches the velvet against her, as she fumbles into the familiar cotton. Searching nearby, her jeans emerge, like a river splitting two snow-covered embankments.

“I’ll call the car for you.”
“When can I see you again?”
“Are you going right home?”
“Will you be in town on Friday?”

2

The waitress brings him his steaming mocha latte. Nodding in thanks he recognizes her. He checks his watch again. 8:30 am. Any minute, she will walk through that door on her way to class. Nervously, he clinks his spoon on the soiled rim of the mug. He sips slowly so as not to burn himself on the steaming liquid. The first sight of her spills over him. She pours herself into an overstuffed brown velvet chair near the door. Her image burns deep into his unconscious. A still frame seared into the insides of his eyelids. She is perfection. The lushness of her fringed, mocha bangs settling against the creaminess of her forehead. Accidentally flowing like a latte spilt into a mocha java. Separate but swirling into a mess of rich strands of browns. Flowing constantly out from her brow. Dripping over onto the untouched perfection of caramel, dipping slightly into the dark chocolate of her eyes. Her eyes, a burnt well of chocolate melting and swirling, angrily bubbling over the edges, fade into the blackness of her pupils,. The perfect mixture of cream and mocha creates the caramel pulled taut over her malleable cheeks. The luscious dulce de leche stretched perfectly from brow to brow gliding deliciously down the gentle slope of her nose. Her lips formed exquisitely with the perfect touch of black cherry stain.

3

Same scenery as before. Actor begins seated gracefully in chair set center stage. Very few other pieces are evident. Several doors lead off into the other parts of the house. There is a single door ajar and a small amount of light shines from deep within.

~~~~

A knock at the door. He rises from his burgundy, velvet wingback. Answering the door he silently steps aside. She enters. Fumbles her gloves from one hand to the next. Waiting patiently for him to direct her.

Her clothes grace her small frame in such a way as to belie her insecurities. Her gloves tremble as they pass from hand to hand. Tension in her neck and jaw quiver with the heightened sense of self. He is staring, watching, waiting for her to move. Waiting for her to do what he bids.

She waits, watches as he stares at her. He takes her all in, every inch as if she is a masterpiece to be viewed and appreciated but not touched. The electric air between them is filled with murderous thoughts. The muscles under her jaw twitch with frustration and pent up rage at the woman standing in front of him.
Why is she still here? Has she not learned?

She comes and waits. Waiting for his instructions when she knows quite well what she is to do, where she is to go.

~~~~

She stares at him. There is a deep disturbing quality about him. He sits in a chair near the door waiting for her to react.

He watches her for the slightest flinch, waiting for movement. Nothing stirs. His legs cramping from the tension coursing through his veins. There is a definite overture in the room.

* * *

He opens the door and stands aside. She enters and fidgets, waits. He glances out the door seeing nothing, he closes it silently. He grabs her in an embrace so tight, she feels as if she may break. Never quite releasing her, he begins to walk into the other room. She stumbles backwards fumbling slightly from the lack of room to coordinate efficiently. He begins tugging at her shirt, undoing her pants, mauling every inch of her flesh. He sits down in a chair, pulls her on top of him. They move as one body slightly clumsy but fluid. They sit in a chair; he molests each inch of her skin with his eyes, his hands, never his mouth.

* * *

There was a creak. Loud and resonating through out the room. Her eyes flew open. Adjusting ever so slowly she glances around blinking into the darkness. A mass to her left shifts. She feels comfort, fear. Mistakes the mass for her other then realizes it isn’t him. Wrong scent, wrong shape, wrong room. She adjusts stiffly in the bed. New bed, new place, new night.

* * *

He is strecthed out beside her. Laying there with one arm cocked under his head, the other wrapped tightly around her waist.

Her eyes are closed too tightly for her to be asleep. His fingers trace her bare rib cage, she relishes the tiny shivers he elicits.

“Sleeping?”, the noise barely audible.

She raises her head slightly proping it up on one hand. Soft curls drift down in front of her closed eyes, a lazy grin creeps slowly across her lips.