by John Calvin Hughes
(01/16/08)
Abbie stared at the shiny beads of moisture in his pubic hair. The bedside lamp cast a less than honorable hue in the room. Propped on one elbow, she twisted her finger in the coarse patch of hair and thought about how easy it had been. And how good. She had always believed good lovemaking required a certain knowledge about your partner. And though she had invested nothing more than a smile and a lingering glance at the bar, she let him take her to his room anyway.
It had been simple really. His tight trousers and steady, longing gaze had won her. He came over and offered to buy her a drink. She went back with him to his table. He had a battered, sunfaded briefcase on the table and papers scattered everywhere. When he said his office was being painted, she understood immediately that he had no office and probably worked out of his car. For some reason which she decided not to think about, his lie endeared him to her more than a month of flower deliveries and phone calls. She did not adjust her skirt when she sat down. Her stockings sighed when she crossed her legs. If his eyes are iron, she thought, there must be a magnet in my panties.
He had bourbon on the rocks and she had a kahlua and cream. He raised his eyebrows when she ordered, but to his credit he said nothing. Neither of them touched their drinks when they arrived. It's like we're having a staring contest, she thought, except there's no competition, no strain. She swiveled toward him, and their knees touched. Hers, almost involuntarily, parted. It was very warm in the bar. His knees were now well insider hers, and she could feel the warmth of his skin through his pants on her thighs. A couple in the corner were watching them. She tried to imagine what they saw: his knees between hers, pushing her legs open, her legs straining against the tight fabric of her skirt. She arched her back and reached her hands behind her head, pulling her long brown hair up off her neck, in what she knew was a very sensual gesture. She wasn't sure if she was posing for him or for the couple in the corner.
He reached out and nearly took hold of her breasts before he caught himself and looked around the bar sheepishly. He took hold of her hand instead, and lead her out of the bar through the lobby to the bank of elevators. God, she thought, I hope there's no one on this elevator.
It was empty. As the doors closed, he pulled her to him and she let herself be kissed. She closed her eyes and leaned, dramatically she hoped, against the wall of the car. Suddenly it seemed his hands were everywhere on her. Her breasts, her behind, whisking up and down her legs. But she didn't open her eyes. No, not even when she could have sworn he kissed her panties.
His room was dark and cool. They literally ran to the bed. The sex was good. As good as strangers can make it, she thought. She watched him sleep. She looked at his sleeping body with the guilty curiosity of looking through the medicine cabinet at someone's party.
But now she wanted to leave. She dressed quietly, then stood at the foot of the bed and thought maybe she should cover him up. God, he was beautiful. She walked to the door. Is this just too melodramatic, she wondered, to leave without saying goodbye, or call me sometime? Or what's your last name? As her hand touched the door, she heard him shift. Even without turning around, she could see him rising up on his elbows. She stepped out into the hall. The walls were a terrible institutional green. It was dimly lit and sad. She was having trouble pulling the door shut.
