Eyeing the clock and its proximity to 7.45, I gently pushed her from my lap back onto the sofa and stood.
“Cab will be here shortly.”
Taking the two empty wine glasses and placing them on the sink, I could see the momentary expression of disappointment. Her tongue flicked over lips as she returned her black peep toe shoes to her feet.
Giggling to herself, she waggled her index finger in front of her mouth. “Babe, you’ve got ...”
Ducking to the bathroom, I took the washer and erased the cerise stain from my lips. Scooping up my keys and wallet from the bench and jacket from the partition, she slipped her lipstick back into her clutch with another demure smile. Sweeping her out the door, with my hand pressed gently into the small of her back, I lock the door once, but not twice. I struggle eternally with keys when intoxicated. If I lock only one, I know which key it is and don’t have to be fumbling around for the second key when all I want to do is pour myself into bed, hopefully with some company.
Kissing her forehead, I cannot resist complimenting her again. “You really do look gorgeous tonight.” She could have been wearing a wet paper bag and not washed for a week and I would have said exactly the same thing, but she exceeded even my wildest expectations.
By the time we got to the door, the cab had pulled up on the opposite side of the street. With a skyward glance, I grimaced as the gentle mizzle fell. Rain, rain, go away. Come again another day.
I opened the cab door for her and she scooted across the passenger seat. The driver, a Greek Cypriot, requested our destination. I mean, Fitzroy Street is probably only 10 minutes’ walk, but I don’t like rolling the dice when it comes to Melbourne’s changeable weather. Almost as an after-thought, I added my secure clearance numbers. For once, the firm can pick up the bill.
The mizzle became a drizzle by the time we reached Fitzroy Street. I signed the receipt for the cab driver before he bade us a good night and sped off to his next job. I folded my hand into hers as we entered the restaurant.
“Hi, We’ve got a booking for <insert my mother’s maiden name>.”
“Ah, yes, eight o’clock. Right this way.”
I always use my mother’s maiden name when making restaurant bookings, as I’ve got a difficult Teutonic surname, and I hate having to spell it out for people, especially over the phone.
Seated, the waitress brings the wine list. I do not recognise her at first, but she is the sister of a friend, who I have not seen in probably eighteen months. She smiles broadly.
“Hey! How are you?”
Wait, this is where you work! I pretend not to be shocked at seeing her, just as I pretend not to see her critically eyeing over my date. “Oh, Keely, hi.”
“That McWilliams shiraz you like is back in stock.”
I deferred her with polite declination. Ordering the salmon, I turned to my date as her index finger feathered across the back of my hand. I wanted to pull away. Three months ago the same small hands caressed my neck in the snow. Memories of that frozen night curl and lick at my conscious like flames.
“Cab will be here shortly.”
Taking the two empty wine glasses and placing them on the sink, I could see the momentary expression of disappointment. Her tongue flicked over lips as she returned her black peep toe shoes to her feet.
Giggling to herself, she waggled her index finger in front of her mouth. “Babe, you’ve got ...”
Ducking to the bathroom, I took the washer and erased the cerise stain from my lips. Scooping up my keys and wallet from the bench and jacket from the partition, she slipped her lipstick back into her clutch with another demure smile. Sweeping her out the door, with my hand pressed gently into the small of her back, I lock the door once, but not twice. I struggle eternally with keys when intoxicated. If I lock only one, I know which key it is and don’t have to be fumbling around for the second key when all I want to do is pour myself into bed, hopefully with some company.
Kissing her forehead, I cannot resist complimenting her again. “You really do look gorgeous tonight.” She could have been wearing a wet paper bag and not washed for a week and I would have said exactly the same thing, but she exceeded even my wildest expectations.
By the time we got to the door, the cab had pulled up on the opposite side of the street. With a skyward glance, I grimaced as the gentle mizzle fell. Rain, rain, go away. Come again another day.
I opened the cab door for her and she scooted across the passenger seat. The driver, a Greek Cypriot, requested our destination. I mean, Fitzroy Street is probably only 10 minutes’ walk, but I don’t like rolling the dice when it comes to Melbourne’s changeable weather. Almost as an after-thought, I added my secure clearance numbers. For once, the firm can pick up the bill.
The mizzle became a drizzle by the time we reached Fitzroy Street. I signed the receipt for the cab driver before he bade us a good night and sped off to his next job. I folded my hand into hers as we entered the restaurant.
“Hi, We’ve got a booking for <insert my mother’s maiden name>.”
“Ah, yes, eight o’clock. Right this way.”
I always use my mother’s maiden name when making restaurant bookings, as I’ve got a difficult Teutonic surname, and I hate having to spell it out for people, especially over the phone.
Seated, the waitress brings the wine list. I do not recognise her at first, but she is the sister of a friend, who I have not seen in probably eighteen months. She smiles broadly.
“Hey! How are you?”
Wait, this is where you work! I pretend not to be shocked at seeing her, just as I pretend not to see her critically eyeing over my date. “Oh, Keely, hi.”
“That McWilliams shiraz you like is back in stock.”
I deferred her with polite declination. Ordering the salmon, I turned to my date as her index finger feathered across the back of my hand. I wanted to pull away. Three months ago the same small hands caressed my neck in the snow. Memories of that frozen night curl and lick at my conscious like flames.