by Anne X.
(11/01/06)

fait ac·com·pli (ftä-kô-pl, ftä-) n. pl. faits ac·com·plis (ftä-kô-pl, -plz, ftä-) An accomplished, presumably irreversible deed or fact.

[French : fait, fact + accompli, accomplished.]

It's one of those nights when living in New York City is like living in a tea kettle. It's a lamentable fact that the heaven-high cement and steel buildings of Manhattan hold the humidity in trust between the sidewalk and the sky. But no one cares at two a.m. in The City that Never Sleeps, which, by the way, is living up to its name. People spill out of bars and nightclubs half-dressed, and it doesn't matter.

Sweat and heat don't matter because they're going home, wherever home is. Home to smoke a cigarette. To finish getting drunk. To fuck.

Nothing anyone does matters much, now, because by morning it will all be forgotten. And that's just the way the city is.

The Crosstown Express makes its way through the tunnels under the city every early morning at 2:30. Two hours, four stops. It's nearly always nearly empty, and tonight is no exception. The most populated car is the last car, in fact, and contains only three people after the first stop: two elderly women who sit near the front and look tired and worn and old, who know each other but don't speak, and a twenty-something man sitting near the back who just might be interesting.

The man is handsome in a quiet kind of way, scholarly, his skin pale as though the dark world under the city is his only habitat. The pallor of his face is underscored by thick jet black hair, a little too long, a little too unkempt, his frame a little too thin. The state of him, his worn eyes and clothes, the threadbare trench coat he wears despite the heat, can easily be explained by the notebook in which he is scribbling, furiously. With the notebook, the long ink stained fingers, the lean and hungry look upon his face, he can be nothing but a writer, underemployed and underpaid.

He looks at the elderly women at the front of the car, examines them clinically with piercing hazel eyes. He runs a delicate hand through dark wavy hair, he chews on his pen. He writes. His name is David. The Crosstown Express speeds like a bullet towards its second stop.

Fait is waiting at this second stop. She's been waiting, actually, for a full fifteen minutes. She's a native, from this Godforsaken city, but she never gets tired of it. She stands in the middle of an empty station at 2:45 a.m. in one of the most dangerous cities in the world, but she isn't afraid. She's not a normal girl. She's not pretty, but when she walks into a room, men take notice. Her heavy-lidded eyes are green, and her long hair is an indefinable color, poised somewhere between honey blonde and brunette. White skin, full lips, and a succulently fit-and-flared body. All this and still she isn't beautiful. She looks, to put it bluntly, like sex. She knows it.

She waits. She taps her small white foot in its dangerous heel, shifts her weight from leg to leg. She looks at her watch. She tosses her hair and sighs and licks her lips and smiles a dazzling smile, feeling the vibrations of the Crosstown Express, five minutes late. The train pulls up. She enters the last car. She is the only one who gets on.

The two elderly women at the front of the car notice her as she makes her way towards the back. They both take an instant irrational dislike to her. Tart, they're thinking. Whore. To their antiquated minds she looks too...fast. Fait feels them staring, knows their thoughts. She doesn't mind. She is fast. But never, she hopes, too fast.

The old women look at each other, exchange a thin-lipped glare of righteous disapproval, fold their hands primly in their laps and stare ahead.

Fait sits down across from David. David glances up from his notebook. David freezes.

Oh my God.

His eyes are locked into hers. Her eyes are speaking to him, glowing warm with an invitation. He blushes, from the roots of his hair to his toes. She smiles somehow without smiling, without showing her teeth, just a quirk of her wet bee-stung lips.

David stares as she tosses her sleek hair over her shoulder. She smiles slightly, knows he's watching her. He swallows hard as he follows a bead of her sweat. It rolls in slow motion from behind her ear, down the graceful pale curve of her neck to rest in the hollow at the base of her throat. It hovers there briefly, and then tumbles from its position, languidly down her chest, between her full breasts and inside the V-neck of her shirt. He lets out a strangled noise that he prays she can't hear. Oh my god.

Fait is not smiling. She's looking at him seriously, her jadeite eyes measuring him.

He looks at his notebook in front of him, from his hands to the floor of the car, from the floor of the car to her feet, follows the line of her ivory calf up, up...She uncrosses her legs, shifts in her seat, crosses them again, the opposite way. David closes his eyes and tries to control his anatomy. Fait is not wearing any underwear.

He opens his eyes and focuses on her lips. She bites them, he closes his eyes once more. She laughs. The message is clear: I'm seducing you. Give in.

David considers. He wants to give in, very very badly. He can't stop himself from reacting to her, and he likes being out of control. He's not inexperienced, but he's never felt this attraction before.

Equations run through his mind, involving him plus her, minus the clothing, locked in all kinds of passionate embraces. It takes only a split second for him to come to a decision. Even with his eyes closed, he feels her pulling at him, feels her eyes stroking him with an almost palpable touch. Oh my God. He opens his eyes.

She's standing now, in the corner of the car, back up against the wall, arm braced by a vertical pole. The arch of her body is designed to be seductive, and he devours her with his stare, the straight golden hair hanging to her small waist, the soft swell of her full breasts, the flare of her hips. She looks soft and warm and ready.

She's waiting for him. They both know it.

David stands and faces her. She reaches out to him, but he pauses.

"Who are you?" he asks, his voice not daring to rise above a whisper.

She shakes her head. Her hands come to rest on his shoulders, and she pulls him to her. She wraps her arms around his waist under his trench coat, pulling it up and around her. Her back is to the wall, and his back is to the rest of the car, and their activities are completely concealed. The knowledge that the slightest move, the slightest noise, could betray them makes David even harder, if that's possible.

She runs her fingers along his sides, and he feels the electric shock of her touch through his shirt, and her hand burns itself into his skin. David bends his head to claim her mouth with his. He can feel her breath on his face as he closes his eyes and their lips meet. Oh my God.

Her lips are as soft as they look, softer maybe, and his tremble slightly as they touch. Her hand moves from his shoulder up his neck, and she runs her fingers through his soft black hair. She smiles against his mouth. A little frisson of electricity shoots through David's body as Fait parts her lips to his tongue.

David runs his tongue along the inside of her mouth, tasting her. He deepens the kiss, she sighs, and her hands slip from his hair, from his shoulder, to his waist. He wraps his arms around her waist as well, pulling her closer. She gasps at the sudden heat of their bodies meeting, at the feel of his erection against her thigh. He presses her harder against the wall of the car.

His hands drift up to cup her breasts and rub her nipples between his thumb and forefinger. She gasps again, and again the sound is silenced by his kiss. He runs a finger along her jaw line and down her neck, and follows it with his warm mouth. She sighs and shudders slightly as his lips trail across the flesh her neckline exposes, and she barely manages to stifle a cry when his tongue dips ever-so-slightly below the fabric.

He stops at that, doesn't tug her top down as she hopes he will, and returns his mouth to hers. She grinds against him in frustration and excitement. Frustration because she wants him, all of him, and excitement because she knows they're not alone, they're in a subway car for chrissake, and she can't have what she wants. He's thinking the same things.

In this moment of heat, Fait allows her small hands to drift down, down from David's belt to his fly. Deftly, she undoes the button and pulls the zipper down. David's eyes go wide, and she reaches under the waistband of his boxers and pulls them down just enough to grasp him, to feel him. He curses gently in her ear as she strokes him, her warm hands torturing him to insanity.

He breathes heavily in her ear and she shivers. She continues caressing him, teasing the head with one finger, then moving down the shaft to grip him harder. David moans a little, burying his face in her hair. A slight clink of metal on metal startles them both as one of Fait's earrings falls to the floor of the subway car.

With a glint in her green eyes, Fait bends to retrieve it. As she does so, she leans forward nonchalantly and licks David's erection slowly, tantalizingly, retaining full eye contact. David groans and places one pale hand behind her head, holding her still as he moves his hips, sliding himself deeper into her mouth and throat. He almost loses control when he feels gentle suction on his entire cock, but he has bigger plans for the evening. He withdraws himself slowly, feeling her slick mouth and tongue slide along his shaft and across his head.

Before he can pull her up, Fait begins licking him again, then sucking gently, then not so gently. David's hands tighten convulsively in her hair. He can feel her lips touching the base of his cock, until he can feel himself touch the back of her throat. She groans, and the vibrations add another dimension to the pleasure David already feels.

Then suddenly, inexplicably, she rises. David's eyes, clouded and hazy with ecstasy, search for hers in the dimly lighted car. The floor hums and sways, and she sways, and he sways too, though more unsteadily. His legs feel weak, and he wraps his arm tighter around the pole to keep from stumbling.

Fait wraps her arm tighter around his waist, and the motion of the car brings her closer to him beneath his heavy coat. He pulls her against him with his free arm, and runs his finger along her stomach, under her shirt. Her skin is soft in every way: smooth to the touch and not hard, not solid, but utterly feminine.

Her breast is heavy and firm and fills his hand completely, and he squeezes gently before pinching her nipple, rolling it and swallowing with difficulty as he feels it tighten. She groans deep in her throat and pushes against him, one hand drifting down to grab at her skirt, lifting it slowly. The other hand moves involuntarily to her mouth, and their eyes lock as she slowly sucks on her own two fingers.

David lets go of the bar, leaning against it instead and pulling her to him until he can feel every inch of her, every curve. He moves his hand across her stomach and to her skirt, bunching it up around her waist impatiently. Without preamble, he puts one finger inside of her, then two. She lifts her head and kisses him on the lips, her mouth hot and open. He moves his fingers inside of her, reveling in the feel of her tight, wet heat as his fingers slide in and out. She grinds her hips against his hand, forcing him deeper.

Fait's eyes, which had drifted closed, open and bore into his. "Please..."

David withdraws his fingers, then uses them to tease at her clit.

"Please what? What do you want?"

With a small smile she leans into him and whispers, "You."

Oh my God.

David pushes her against the metal wall of the subway car. He puts one hand at her waist and one hand on her shoulder. He positions himself between her legs and she lifts her hips, moves forward slowly, until his head is just inside of her. Fait seems to be content to take her time, but David is impatient. He flattens his hand against her shoulder, pinning her in place, then lifts her hips with his other hand. He glides all the way inside of her in one smooth stroke, and she arches against him. She bites her lower lip, buries her head in his neck, licks and sucks and bites his flesh there. Anything, anything to keep from crying out, from screaming, from giving in to the pleasure and moaning his name. If she knew his name.

He begins to move inside of her, slowly at first, using the wall as leverage. She lifts one leg around his hip, allowing him to move deeper, and he does. She's very tight and very wet, so warm, so hungry. He holds her body against him and drives himself as far in as possible.

David struggles for control, body taut, listens to the staccato sounds of her breathing. She runs her tongue along his ear, bites down gently on his earlobe, then continues panting, sending shock waves throughout his entire body. He increases his pace, hoping to drive her over the edge before he surrenders.

Just as he feels he can take no more, and almost as though she can hear his thoughts, as though she knows how many times he's thought the same words, Fait whispers, "Oh my God."

Her breath catches, her body tenses, and David can feel her gripping him hard inside. Her body shudders around his, making him pound himself harder and harder into her. She convulses in his arms, and he explodes inside of her. He bites his lip, and she digs her nails into his shoulders, and they both cry out at once, moaning, cursing, ecstatic tears in their eyes.

Finally, spent, they lean against each other in the corner of the nearly empty subway car. Their breathing returns to normal. Their heartbeats slow.

They look each other in the eye and grin. They want to laugh. But then they turn, slowly, to face the two old ladies, the only other occupants. The women are incredulous, slack-jawed.

There is no doubt in their minds as to what David and Fiat were doing in the back of the subway car, in the dim light of the corner. Disgusting! At the same time, there is a glint of satisfaction. Whore. Slut. Fait recognizes it and the urge to laugh is almost overpowering. Maybe, she thinks.

One woman opens her mouth to speak, to deliver what will surely be a spectacular lecture overflowing with righteous indignation. But there is a jolt to the car as the brakes are put on, and the Crosstown Express slows as it pulls into its first-to-last-stop.

David speaks, eyebrow raised, enjoying the pun he's about to make.

"Well, ladies, this is where we get off."

Fait speaks through her smile. "I usually go all the way, but all things considered..."

They clasp hands, laugh like children and dash out of the car. The sliding doors close on the two old women. Then the train pulls out of the station, taking the women and their morality and starch to the end of the line.

They watch the train as it disappears, standing close enough to feel each other's heat but not close enough to touch. As one, they relax their grips, their hands slide damply against each other, and they are separate again. David looks at her and wonders what exactly just happened, how something so mundane as a late night ride home could possibly have turned into...this. He wonders how he could have thought his life was that way, mundane, preordained, endless routine. A life like that could never contain this experience, could never contain the reality of her.

She smiles at him, laughing and glowing, and thinks to herself that he looks the way she feels. She thinks to herself that he looks happy. And she thinks to herself that he should. Satisfied, she leans into him, presses her cheek to his and whispers "You're welcome."

And then, before he knows her intent, she's walking away. He wants to say something to stop her, though he knows it won't matter. Maybe his life is preordained, and maybe he knows it, because she is not meant to be more to him than this and he feels it with certainty. And he wishes it could be otherwise though he knows it cannot.

"I'm David," he calls after her, because he has to say something, can't let her leave without feeling part of him belongs to her, even if only his name.

She stops and looks back at him, smiling again. He feels that something beautiful has happened to him and knows that when he arrives home, he will write it all down and read the words to himself whenever he stops believing that she is somewhere in the world, perhaps thinking of him and remembering his name.

"I'm Fait," she responds.

Of course you are, he thinks. But in his mind, the echo of her voice is "Goodbye."

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