Monday, December 10, 2012

Where the line is

The breathing helps, slowly in and out, which is good because I’m pretty sure what I want out of this evening is not to vomit into my half-finished bowl of crab bisque.  I look down at my hands and realize I’m squeezing them, one clasped around a spoon, one choking the life out of a crust of buttered baguette.  You’re telling a story about work.  I’ve got butter all over my fingers.  I lift them to my mouth without a second’s thought until I notice you watching me.  I change directions and slide them through my hair in what I hope approximates a confident, casual grooming gesture.  This is not how I wanted this to go down.  In my mind I was perfection, a vision of lithe coolness as I slid the key across the table to you, casually inviting you up to my room.  In my mind you were all too eager to go, drawn to me like a magnet’s pole, dying to touch your midsection with my midsection, complete.  In my mind your warm hand covered mine and you took the card key as your eyes burned a message into my retinas composed of a thousand ways to say yes yes, more please.  But now your eyes are the coldest stone, your mouth pulled into a thin line, extinguished.  Now I’ve got butter in my hair and the crab bisque is churning into jelly in my stomach.  The key feels like a hammer in my pocket, so much heavy potential if only someone would wield it.  I can already tell it won’t be me.