Scarlet Reading

SCARLET READING

I am in a strange, peculiar mood; I suffer a melancholy sense of detachment… everything and everyone seems to stir about me in silence.  Is it me, or is it the rest of the world that appears to move in slow motion?

It seems only moments ago I was in a club, weaving a path through an asylum of moist bodies and sweltering heat, seeking refuge in my brain from the power of sound surrounding me… and now I sit alone on the bed in the hollow silence of my hotel room.

Every hotel is the same.  The same dead, impersonal air, the same uncomfortable softness of fresh, starched sheets, and towels that are abnormally bright.  The same bed, firm with a vague sense of militant duty; the harsh fluorescent lights of the bathroom; the eerie empty hallways and silence down each corridor…

Travel accommodations were postponed until later in the morning.  I would have preferred to leave straight for the airport and fly right now, as planned.  Instead, I’m left with a great deal of time to entertain this eccentric, sullen mood, not yet tired enough to sleep.

Standing at the window, I draw aside the stiff heavy drapes.

Most cities look the same at three in the morning.  Vacant, but for the occasional wanderer, the occasional lost soul traveling through the darkness…
The streets of these societies leave little to the imagination, each always lined with the typical fast food joints, chain restaurants, monopolized gas stations and necessary supermarkets.  Perhaps larger urban sprawls might sport a whore in the shadows, maybe a fourteen-year-old runaway boy or an incoherent bum mumbling as he hurries down the pavement…  Modern civilization is accompanied with a sense of predictable human tragedy; there never seems enough fantasy in how we insist to live our realities.

This is what crosses my mind as I pull aside the drapes and peer into the darkened early morning.  Or does one consider it still night, if sleep hasn’t yet stolen one from day?

No matter, it’s darkness just the same.  The world outside this window is empty and still.  There are no offensive neon lights or signs, no beckoning 24-hour eatery, no runway of fluxing red, yellow and green circles dangling in the air as far as the eye can see…

Across the way is a two-story, red brick building that lines the block. The structure resembles old-style separated apartments, but the expansive windows on the first floor indicate individual businesses, closed, black and silent.

The corner of the building, situated at the intersection with a lone red traffic light, is a coffeehouse.  There is movement inside. The light from within, a wonderful golden glow, spills onto the pavement as the glass door opens and a couple emerges, arm in arm, before disappearing around the corner.
I am perplexed.  What sort of shop is open at such hours?

*

Stepping outside, the front door of the hotel shuts soundlessly behind me, leaving me feeling isolated where I stand on the sidewalk, alone.

I see now that the writing on the shop window reads, in curving black letters: ‘Paris Coffee and Books’. The small writing beneath indicates its accessibility 24 hours a day.

Interesting.

The light within is relaxed and inviting, casting the interior in a soft caramel hue. A man sits at the end of the serving counter; he leans forward as though talking with someone, but I can’t see with whom because a bookshelf there obstructs my view.

After crossing the empty street, I’m thankful there is no bell to disturb the silence and announce my arrival when I step across the threshold.

There is an invigorating aroma of freshly ground coffee, nuts and flavored syrup; soft, jazzy notes of a saxophone…  The air is heavy with thought, saturated and swirling, perhaps from books and long conversation.

It is small: a few shelves lined with reading material; a scattered array of cushioned sofas and seats; several square tables with two chairs each, and a long coffee counter on the far wall.

The man I had viewed from across the street is older, distinguished, with thin white hair and a handsome face. He wears a gray tailored suit; a sleek black cane rests against his knee.  He sips from a small ceramic cup before setting it down on a matching saucer. The man he talks with, who stands behind the counter, looks up and smiles.

I nod a greeting and he seems amused by my inquisitive expression.  He appears to be in his early thirties and wears jeans, a tee shirt, and a dark apron.

Moving toward them, the younger man stands up straight at my approach and asks, “How’s it going? Can I get you anything?”

Two seats from the older man I put my hands on the edge of the counter; it’s dark oak and so shiny I can almost see my distorted reflection in it.  Though I don’t really need or want anything, I worry it might be rude if I decline.  I reply, “Just a cup of regular.”

As he pours my request he asks, “Staying across the street?”

“Yeah,” I glance around. “This is interesting.”

He looks up with a grin as he finishes and sets the pot back on the burner behind him. “I like it.  I always wanted somewhere I could go in the night to read and have good conversation with a stranger.”

Nodding a complacent agreement, I take a sip of the hot liquid and sit on a stool. “I’ve never seen a place like this,” I say, looking around.

“Only had it a couple of years… took me a while to get the money for it.  Still struggle to make ends meet, but it’s definitely worth the investment.”

The older man swivels on his stool to face me.  His voice is soothing and even, his English pristine and perfect, “It is ingenious, don’t you agree?  Most people do their most profound thinking in the night; most read in the night.  This is a wonderful atmosphere to promote deep thought.” His look is almost mischievous and he takes another draw of his drink.

The owner leans forward on his elbows and asks, “You like to read?”

A sly smile reflects his – I adore a good story; I nod.  This seems to please him.  He offers, with earnest, “The books are for sale, but really are just for the people to read as they will.  Some fear the commitment of buying or taking one from the library… you know: having to read the whole thing or else risk wasting the money spent or the trouble or time of a time limit.  I promote reading, especially literature.”

I glance at two girls across the room immersed in their reading. “So you provide people with whatever they want to read, and they don’t have to buy it?”
“Whatever they want that I think is worth reading.  I maintain the selection… give or take a few suggestions, of course.”  He beams.

Over the counter he extends his hand, “Name’s Ben,” he motions to the older gentleman, “This is Mr. Brown.”

After shaking hands with both, I offer my name.

Ben says, “We’re just discussing the Essays of Aldous Huxley.  You read them?”

Although the men are friendly enough and I might otherwise be interested, tonight I prefer to be left to my own thoughts.  Respectfully I decline, sliding from my stool with coffee in hand, intent to examine the bookshelves.  They exchange theoretical ideas on the subject, animated and enthusiastic, but gradually their voices fade to the background…

I feel content here.  Many of the books are older.  There are journals and war diaries, fiction and memoirs.  Some appear well read and others look brand new.

After time, I inevitably glance around for the restroom.  Ben notices and pauses in his speech to nod toward the rear, past all the tables, saying, “In the hall by the stairs.”

“Thanks.” I make my way, passing the girls still absorbed on the sofa.  There is a small, narrow staircase in the back corner that ascends to the left and disappears to darkness.  The sign on the wall above reads, “MORE BOOKS.”  Laughing a little to myself, amused by this quaint little place, I continue down the corridor to the door that announces, “Restroom.”

*

Hesitating at the bottom of the steps, I look toward Ben and Mr. Brown and wonder if it might be more secluded upstairs; I don’t feel much like being with others.  It might be nice to venture from the eager conversation and perhaps disappear…

The climb is steep and a bit cramped.  Where the stairs turn in an L-shape, the light fades dramatically.  Carefully I feel for each step, pressing my hand against the wall until arriving on the landing in a soft amber light.  Pausing, I wait for my eyes to adjust.

Before me looms the intimidating shadow of a bookshelf, about eight feet high. The left wall is lined with low, cushy padded seats; dimly lit lamps dot the wood paneling.  There are probably a dozen shelves, equaling six horizontal rows, each brimming with intellectual and imaginative delights.  The ceiling is as high as the bookcases, which is really rather low and almost stifling.

The atmosphere is heavy, almost exotic; there is a sweet scent in the air.  The jazz music is more prominent in this confined space, which is warm and cozy, and seems more an opium den or the private library of an aristocrat than a bookstore.

I advance to the first row, between the initial two shelves.  There is a wooden block pillar in the middle with the same gently illuminated fixture, casting a mysterious, mellow light that is insufficient for browsing and throws many shadows.  There is a pause between selections in the music that resonates in the air, and in that pause I think I hear the turning of a page… then there is nothing but the brief reprieve of silence until the saxophone resumes its serenade.

I wander down each row; my eyes have become comfortable and don’t strain when scanning the letters on the bindings.  Some are faded and vague, but I don’t bother with those and move along, inadvertently swaying my head to the music, which is sultry and seductive.  Uncaring of what my eyes fall upon, I am more absorbed by the ambience and the sense of perfect isolation.

On the second to last row I discover a shelf of biographies.  The saxophone stops, and is replaced by beating drums.

Bending at the knees, I crouch down to look better at a book that has caught my eye on the second shelf from the floor.

Through the gap between books and paneling across from me, I notice movement.  My gaze travels the length of the back wall, over the seats, before spying shapely calves and bare feet sheathed in sheer black material, off the floor, resting on purple velvet fabric…

Shuffling to the side, I pass the taller books on the shelf closer to that back wall, in an effort to secure a more complete view.

Yes: the lower half of a female figure, knees loosely bent on the cushion of the divan she half-sits, half-leans on.  Small shapely waist, knee-length black skirt slit on the side, the fabric fallen forward, revealing the black lace top of her thigh highs.  A clarinet begins to play over the softly beating drums, and one black-sheathed foot begins to rub the other…

Straightening my legs enough to rise cautiously, silently, I watch at eye level through the space above the books.  All but her face I can see: slender white throat; arm leaning casually on the curved head of the divan clutching a book, the cover shadowed.  Pale blue button-down cardigan sweater, her free hand playing with the third pearly button, the soft white line of cleavage already exposed… brief, shining flash of deep red polished nails, chocolate colored hair falling over the rounded slope of her breast…

When I fully stand, her face is obstructed.  Rather than stepping aside, I remove the offending book from its place… and she is revealed.
Sharp intake of breath as adrenaline begins coursing through my blood.  The music in the air sounds louder in my ears, resounding through my head, and the saxophone sounds a little more passionate.

She is in her early twenties, perhaps.  Hair pulled smartly away from her pretty face, clasped at the nape of her neck and cascading down her back.  Smooth, pale, perfect skin; high cheekbones, flushed…  Simple silver oval glasses sliding toward the end of her nose as her eyes feverishly dart back and forth across the page.  Pouty lips, slightly parted, no definite color, but naturally chapped scarlet…

Her tongue wets her bottom lip; her top teeth gently bite at it as though in anticipation or excitement.

It feels suddenly warmer.  On the shelf closest to her there is a large gap of empty space opposite me, and I move down the row until I can look above the books to look on her entirely.  Although now standing at an angle, her feet are closest to me, providing an excellent view.

Her one hand ceases to play with the button and she moves it to her throat, holding it intently there, as though hurting for air.  She continues to gnaw the full bottom lip of her perfect, heart-shaped mouth.  Her hand moves slowly, deliberately, from her neck, over her collarbone and down her chest, before slipping inside the top of her cardigan and hovering there, as though an unconscious effort to sedate a pounding heart.  Her mouth curves upward in a small, kittenish grin, almost a smiling, playful pout.

Turning away from the book for a moment, she reaches for something on the other side of her, beside the reading lamp on the little table.  Even at this angle there is no denying the cover of the book now, with it’s large, black “O” against a puritanical background (the infamous ‘Story of O’).

The something she has reached for is a tall, blue-stemmed glass of dark liquid, the color of her fingernails... wine?  Her slender fingers caress the fragile glass as she brings it to her waiting lips.  When she sips, she closes her eyes as though it is the most divine taste.  I question how she has brought in such drink; perhaps she knows Ben, maybe she has brought in a bag?

When she pulls the glass away from her mouth, she doesn’t open her eyes, but rather, tilts her head back, that kittenish grin again playing on her face, as if savoring the flavor and feel of the liquid sliding down the inside of her throat, her head lolling to the seduction of the saxophone.

There is a passing instance of… guilt?  Because I might be invading her privacy?  It seems an intimate moment.  There is an argument in my head that this isn’t a private place; she simply chooses to believe that at this hour she has safe reign of the area.  Surely she realizes she could be interrupted at any moment?

Perhaps it is deceitful because I don’t make my presence known, and am deliberately stealthy and silent.  I can’t deny my instinctive interest and attraction: a beautiful, intellectual woman, so natural in her sensuality, innocent and unaware of my watching eyes traveling the curvaceous length of her female form…  Is it really so wrong just to watch how a woman might behave when she believes she’s alone?

She glances at the open page of the book before leaning over to set it on the floor.  Behind her glasses her eyes appear limpid and lazy.  She stretches in a sultry, luxuriant manner, holding the glass in a way that it might spill as she stretches her arm over the head of the divan.  One black-sheathed leg straight out and foot dangling over the edge, the other bent at the knee, her skirt in careless disarray, revealing the white flesh of her thighs above decadent lace…

Arching her back, she repositions herself from leaning on the head of the divan to resting her back against it.  She pulls both legs closer to her, bending them at the knees, and leans over to retrieve the book from the floor.  Such a perfect view: beneath her bent legs I can see the whiteness of her thighs that disappears to shadow between her legs…

Using her thighs as a sort of rest for the book, she finds her page and begins reading again.  The position has forced her skirt to fall to her waist.  With wide eyes I devour the delicious slope of the underside of her thighs, the milky smooth skin above her silk stockings that disappears to the cavern of her sex in a perfect pear shape…

Is it my heart that pounds harder and faster, or is it the drums in the music around me?

The movement of her arm bringing the glass to her wet, wine-stained lips distracts me and my attention is diverted to her face.  Her glasses have again slipped down the bridge of her nose; she sips carefully from the fragile stemware as her eyes flash with fervor across the page.  She holds the drink a few inches away; her mouth purses in a lascivious pout, her gaze is longing, salacious.  Her eyebrows furrow in the most seductive, suggestive manner.  Does she feel what the character in her story must be doing?

With a soft smile she finishes the remainder of her wine, as though in a rush to be free from tending to it and return hurriedly back to the book.  The glass is returned to the table.

Now she seems to settle.  Even in this romantically low light I notice the flush in her cheeks and down her throat.  She returns to reading, her now-free hand caressing the side of the leg closest to me, her red-painted fingertips playing casually with the lace of her stocking, slipping between the fabric and her skin.

I wonder of the time…  Perhaps I’ve only been watching for a few minutes, but it seems an eternity, as though I’ve stood here forever.  I pull at the front of my cotton shirt, which is heavy.  There seems a lack of oxygen in the room; I feel cramped, though I stand straight and have plenty of space around me.  I look from side to side as if to confirm I’m not enclosed, and maybe to reassure myself that no one else is browsing these aisles.  How much longer should I stay to look on her?  Should I maybe approach her, or leave her to her privacy?          

The thought vanishes when my gaze returns to her: she nibbles again on her bottom lip.  I can almost see the sparkle of excitement in her eyes, certainly in her face: anticipation.

Lust.  That’s what it is: lust.  Desire…

Her free hand nonchalantly caresses the underside of her thigh; she massages the flesh that creeps close to her backside and the shadow between her legs.

I decide to stay longer.  There is dissention in my loins, a tightening in my abdomen.  The blood rushing in my ears seems to soften the jazzy sounds in the air and displaces me.  I stand to the side, watching myself watch her, feeling powerless to move, as though I have no choice but to remain until allowed the will to walk away.

Her head and upper torso sway back and forth in time to the music, slow and provocative, as though kissed by the sounds… and still she reads on.  Her hand moves in liquid-like slow motion to reach behind her head and pull the clasp from her hair, pulling it away so fluid-like, leisurely and uncaring.  Long, luxurious dark hair cascades down the front of her sweater, over the voluptuous mound of her breasts, some strands slipping down the open front and resting against her bare skin.  She runs her hand through it as if it were silk or satin, again and again, before slipping down the front of her chest.  I see she applies greater pressure and isn’t quite so gentle…

My hands are clammy and I wipe them off on my pants.

She is intent, so involved, tugging at the front of her sweater as though it’s constrictive and hot.  For a moment she glances up from the book to survey the space around her.  She cocks her head a little to one side, maybe listening.  I stand still, praying she doesn’t notice the outline of my shape or hear the pounding of my heart beating so hard through my chest.

Satisfied, she resumes.  Her animal eyes again scroll back and forth over what she reads; her fingers begin to unfasten the remaining pearl buttons down the front of her top.  The first to be freed springs apart from its taut confine across her breasts.  She seems in no hurry, reading while releasing the buttons, slow, deliberately…

Her tits bulge in defiance from the restriction of her black lace bra; the front of the sweater falls rebelliously to either side.  She pushes her long hair behind her shoulder. Her hand moves over them roughly, pausing at her cleavage before traveling down the smooth, flat flesh of her abdomen, the blood-color of her pretty nails so stark in contrast to her skin.  Her fingertips draw patterned trails over her stomach, casual and unnoticing.  I see the heavy rise and fall of her chest that betrays her arousal, adrenaline pulsing through her body.

I am transfixed.  I experience a spiral back in time… to youth.  It is excitement, the combination of new experience and hunger.  Impact of arousal and the discovery of sex: adrenaline associated with the paranoia of being caught…

The expression on her beautiful face is now intense when she turns the page.  A finger falls to her mouth, plays across her lower lip in a sort of nervousness, her glasses still sitting far on the end of her nose.  Her tongue circles the tip of her finger, just between her teeth, her lips slightly parted… crawling over it in a most subtle and suggestive way.

The fire in her face becomes a burning, hurried look.  Her leg closest to me falls from the cushion and onto the floor, leaving her exposed.  Her panties must be black, for the crevice between her legs is dark in shadow: the whiteness of her thighs seems to just disappear.

Her eyes leave the page and she again looks around, primarily over her shoulder, her tongue still dancing over a polished tipped finger.  Though maybe a little nervous, she seems to feel secure against this far back wall, protected from view by the shelves. When she resumes her reading an almost devilish expression crosses her face: a mischievous, naughty look.

Her finger moves from her lips and descends to her bosom, pushing aside the lacy black fabric.  One breast springs forth, so pure and fresh in color but for the pink center, which her finger immediately begins to tend, circling her nipple with a rushed but delicate touch.  It needs little urging and becomes tough to her administrations.  I think I see her shiver.  She covers her breast with her entire hand, kneading it in the most sensual massage…

I can’t tear my gaze from her.  My eyes travel the curves of her body as one might examine a painting or a work of art.  How lovely she looks: so lascivious, so decadent! Her leg fallen to the floor provides her with a free, uninhibited sex appeal.  A dangerous, lusty appeal…  The excitement building in her face is contagious; I feel as though I read my own story!

She continues to caress her breast firmly, anxiously; she breathes quite hard, as though she might have suffered some sort emotional upset… but it is rather passionate, intense, the kind of breathing that can make one a bit dizzy.

When her hand moves to the knee of the leg now on the floor, her breast is exposed, thrust outward and flushed from her attention.  Her hand almost appears to have a life of its own, administering to her physical longings while the rest of her energy is devoted to the material incidentally providing that life.

Life that seems to love the feel of the leg sheathed by sheer stocking, her palm sliding up and down over the thin material, over her thigh, traveling upwards and closer to the junction between her legs before moving back down again, over the lace with wicked red nails: an image created from dreams, human decadence in the purest, most innocent form… an illusion painted of wishes.

I’ve become sensitized while watching her.  Everything is magnified, as though the vision before me provides the same effect as a powerful drug.  The music is intoxicating, absorbing; I imagine that the aroma of raspberries and vanilla must be the scent of her skin.  I notice every minute detail, every nuance of color and shape.  The nerve endings of my flesh tickle and tingle; I imagine what she might taste like.

Her free hand now rests on the little mound between her legs.  Her arms are tight against the sides of her body, pressing her voluptuous breasts together as she reads, though not so feverish anymore.  Her eyes have taken on a vertiginous, limpid look.  She bites her bottom lip and her head rolls to one side, as though she begins to tire.

My gaze travels down her throat, over her cleavage, along the smoothness of her belly and stops where her hand roves in small circles over her sex.  I catch my breath when she slips a finger past the fabric to probe the velvety softness that must hide beneath.  It’s impossible to see any detail, especially that her hand continues to rub, despite the disappeared finger.

I breathe quite heavy, though quietly; my mouth is dry.

Her hand releases the book and she doesn’t seem to care that she loses her place: it slides down her bent knee and comes to rest beside her foot.  Her head falls back against the curled rise of the purple divan, her hair scattered about her shoulders.  She shuts her eyes and heat spreads across her face; she doesn’t bother to remove her glasses.  The newly freed hand caresses the tender flesh of her breasts, both now heaving from the lacy lingerie, then travels upward to her throat and back down again…

This is how she looks: lost in a private delirium of desire, free of inhibition and wanton for pleasure.  Content to please herself, confident that she is so familiar with what brings her the simplest ecstasy.  I think I hear her rapid breath and see the tightening of her muscles.  Her touch becomes not so sensual, but rather rough and rushed and aching.

I imagine the lengthy time of subtle foreplay, the patient reading and the building excitement so evident when I first spied her.  Such apparent feeling in her reading, what flames must have been teasing her for all this time!  And so artful in her preparation: the ambience and atmosphere, so deliberate, so purposeful. The low lights, the soft, sexy music, and the book the fuel to feed the fire…

She’s in a different place, faraway in rapture…

It is damp beneath my arms; it’s so damned hot!

One hand is absorbed in the tending of her sex, massaging and probing, her exploring finger still hidden, but apparently aggressive in its purpose.  The other traces invisible patterns across her skin, exploring every nerve-ending of flesh, traveling quickly, almost in frustration, as though she can’t touch enough or reach every possible part of flesh.

Staring, my mouth falls open as hers has, slightly agape with an almost wonderment.

The music sounds faraway, in the distance.  I am sure she moans; her mouth is still a small, round, open circle.  There is a shine on her pretty face, almost a thin sheen of perspiration. (She is again biting her lower lip; she seems to be concentrating so hard!)

Her body becomes stressed, almost stiff, but for the movement of her hand on her sex.  I can’t see that she’s breathing; there is no rise and fall of her chest…

I hold my breath.

The suspense in the air is suffocating; the music has disappeared, replaced by the sound of my pounding heart and rushing blood like a broken dam in my ears…

And then, another sound: a small, female gasp that escapes her lips and fades away.  I see the quivering of her body, the tension sliding from her skin…
Dizziness… I’ve been holding my breath; I release it in a heavy, exhausted sigh that seems to echo around me.

She lies there, perfectly still, a contented smile on her pretty face, her hand cradling the place between her legs, the other resting on her chest that seems to struggle to relax.

It is so very, terribly hot; I’m sweating.

Reality creeps upon me just as sleep sometimes can.  The rushing water and pounding drums in my head recede, replaced by the jazzy sounds from hidden speakers. There is a brief moment of disheveled confusion; I’m unsure what I should do next.

The beauty has yet to open her eyes; she is still as death, but flushed with the warmth of life.

I shift my weight and discover an absence of feeling in my foot, which is quickly replaced by the agony of pins and needles.  This seems the true descent to the real world.

Immediately I am struck by the notion of her discovering me.  It seems a horror, the idea of being caught, especially as she removes her glasses and opens her eyes, although she only looks toward the ceiling.  She appears dazed and dream-like.

There is no release for my adrenaline just yet: not until I am successful in stealing away from this compromising position without being found.

She rolls her head in my direction, her eyes misted over and cloudy.

I fear to move any muscle at all.  My initial instinct is to cower to the floor, but logic dictates that such swift and sudden movement would surely give me away.

Relaxation has taken hold of her body.  She looks in my direction, but can she see me?  Does she know I stand here?

It’s too difficult to determine; it seems she looks at me, but through me.  I remain motionless; my breathing is shallow in an effort to be quiet.  My heart continues racing like the thundering hooves of wild horses.

She looks drugged, tired, contented.  Her head lolls in the other direction, and her hand moves from her sex and up her slender torso to meet the other and begin fastening the buttons of her baby blue sweater.

I step back, cautious, until my back is pressed to the shelf.  My eyes never leave her as I carefully make my escape…

When I reach the end of the row I can see only the back of her head, partially hidden by the curving crown of the divan.  Glancing quickly down the space toward the stair, I ensure my solitude before hurrying in that direction.  My footfalls are soundless on the soft carpeting.  I turn to look one last time before descending the steps; I see nothing but the rows of perfectly lined bookshelves reaching for the ceiling…

*

Again I must pause when I reach the hardwood floor to allow my eyes a moment to adjust.  The light in the coffee shop is bright in the most unnatural, artificial way; the air seems cooler and not so comfortable.  It is like a rude awakening from the most restful slumber, from a world of fantasy, crashing into the cold and mundane of reality.

The girls on the sofa have departed; only Ben and Mr. Brown remain.  I look down at my watch to see that only twenty minutes have passed.

Ben sits on the stool beside Mr. Brown, with his back to me.  The older gentleman notices my presence, which in turn incites Ben to swivel toward me.  He beams and I offer a small, weak smile in return as I start walking in their direction.  My legs feel leaden and I think that I must return to my hotel room; my mind is whirling and I know that to speak with them will be vacant and force of physical habit.

Ben asks, “See anything you like?”

His words strike me as peculiar and I imagine, in my paranoid guilt, that he must know.

I sit beside Mr. Brown and request a glass of water.  Ben rises from his seat and moves around the bar to retrieve my request.

“Is it hot up there?  You look flushed,” Ben observes, setting the drink before me.  I feel I haven’t had liquid for days, and down it in a hurry.  He pours more from the plastic pitcher and continues, “Anna’s up there.  She wasn’t bothering you, was she?”

I almost choke on the water that slides down my throat.  Coughing a little, as though clearing my throat (I hope), I smile and shake my head. “No, she seemed pretty intent on reading.”

I could swear he sees into my head when he answers, his voice low and suggestive, “Usually is.”

(Or is it my imagination that he sounds so sly?)

My heart, as though it could handle anything more, stops when I recognize footsteps falling carefully somewhere behind me.  Ben and Mr. Brown look over my shoulder.  I swivel on the stool in time to see her emerge from the small hallway, a black bag slung over her shoulder.

“Finish what you needed to?” Ben asks.

She is just as beautiful in the harsh light as she had been upstairs.  Her smile is sweet when she replies, “Always.”

My mouth is drier still as she approaches the counter, stands beside me and asks if she can have a sip of my water.  Something dangerous twinkles in her eyes. “Do you mind?  It’s so hot upstairs, don’t you think?”

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