I’m standing in front of him a few feet away, looking at him, trying to look tough, or at least: blank.
“Come here, little girl.” He reaches out his hand to me “Come here baby, sit down over here, relax, don’t worry baby. It’s fiiiine. I take his hand, it’s smooth and firm and fits over mine really well. “It’s good baby. I gotcha, I promise ya. You’re doin’ great, I’m right here for you whatever you need, when you need it, I gotcha.”
I fold my body next to his on the divan. He puts his hand on my thigh and squeezes, and I feel we are together in this moment, we are next to each other. This is now, we are here. I relax against his arm, and love the corporeality of his muscles against my silk blouse.
“So here’s what we’re gonna do…" he announces, face turned towards mine, no more than six inches away, looking me straight in the eye.
"What are we gonna do?” I answer playing the little girl and a Femme Fatale in a 1950’s film all at once.
“We’re gonna eat a beautiful dinner, one that we make together. My famous Pasta Parlons and your most delectable dessert.”
What would that be? I think aloud. Images of luscious desserts filter through my mind.
He ducks his face towards mine and kisses my lower lip with a brief suction, as if sucking the juice out of a sweet cherry.
Pasta Parlons:
His pasta is delicious, fresh and tangy sweet, counterbalanced by sharp and creamy parm grace notes. He has something special here, I say as I breathe in a silky strand of spaghetti from the my plate past my lips.
“So let’s talk” he wipes his lips with his napkin “You’re in a jam, a pickle, in the sauce, but I can help you out of it. I will help you out of it if you want me to”
“I want you to” I answer instantly, like an involuntary sigh of relief.
“So then I will.”
We discuss details, I’m completely honest with him, well, mostly honest, I leave out some things that aren’t important, or are too difficult to verbalize just yet.
After I’m done, he says “We got two options” I love how he uses the pronoun “we”. “Pain or destruction? What’s your choice. I can also combine the two.”
I consider the choices for a moment or two and decide on pain. He outlines what’s going to happen next, what to expect, and exactly how it will be handled by him, and maybe another colleague (or two).
We are confident, we are certain, we are in it together. I place a small delicately etched crystal cocktail glass in front of him composed of layers of frothy fluffy white creme fraiche studded with dark magenta cherries, streaking it’s vibrant fuchsia syrup. “Sweet Cherry Creme Fraiche Parfait” I say by way of explanation.
“You’re not sweet enough?” He says flirtatiously as he tunnels his spoon into the concoction.
I sit next to him our shoulders touching, my back is right straight, I am alert to his presence, his energy is radiating from him all the way up my spine to the base of my skull, I feel warm and safe.
He puts his hand on the small of my back and I shudder a little against his cupped palm. “This. Is. Delicious”
