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It feels kind of familiar—not passionate the way that it once was not too long ago, but warm and loving. I think that’s a good sign. I’m compelled to hug Margarita.
At least hold her tight and absorb…I don’t know.
She comes into my embrace fairly easily. Still clutching her own martini glass by the stem. She doesn’t wrap her arms back around me, but she leans in.
Okay…this is okay, right?
This is what it’s supposed to be about.
This is comfort.
Margarita’s not looking too comfortable after she backs away, though. She’s still studying the grains in the wood of our floor with a distressingly keen interest.
Now I need to win back her attention. And I don’t know if I have it in me.
Quick, think of something before you lose her for good.
“Hey!”
She looks up—that’s a start.
Now what?
Jesus fucking Christ.
The one thing I’ve fought for, since the moment I first caught this woman’s cloudy hazel eyes in the scarf section of Bergdorf’s, was to earn her attention and keep it.
And that script we seemed to be reading from, that easy way I could talk to her…I just lost it.
Quick, think of something else.
Maybe I can try to erase the damage by repeating that out-of-nowhere moment of shoulder-based intimacy.
Okay, take a deep breath, lean in nice and slow, take a good look at that pastel shawl she’s wearing. There’s a loose thread just above her shoulder. Bingo.
“Hey, mon cheri amour, you’ve just got a little something on your…allow me to get that for you.”
My eyes take a leisurely trip to find Margarita’s hazel bits of beauty, and my hand moves gently, smoothly towards the tiny strand by her shoulder, reaching delicately, almost grasping it…
And she jumps backwards.
“Ah! Ah! What are you doing? You startled me!”
The look we share in the next, tense moment is one of confusion, fading into a sort of understanding.
“Thomas, I-I’m…sorry. I’m just not used to you, out of nowhere, coming up to touch my clothes like that.”
“I’m not used to you trying to touch my clothes, either, oh dearest and loveliest one,” I say with a half-smile, trying to inject something light into this sad attempt at conversation.
Margarita shakes her head with just a touch of franticness.
“Okay, well, we won’t be trying that again, I guess.”
“I don’t see why not,” I shrug, “now that the shock has…”
“Fuuuuuuuuuuck!”
This time we both jump at the sudden, thunderous roar coming from the hallway.
