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He seems consumed with something, and it’s hard to tell what it is. At times, I think I spot a shred of sadness in his eyes.
But that’s the thing. His eyes are often hard to read.
If that’s the case, all this makes no sense, and what happened in the morning surely made no sense.
How can he imagine that all of us can go back to that place of hedonistic pleasure after these wild twenty-four hours?
How can he expect me to be on board with feeling his touch on me again when he was full of anger and revenge after I’d pulled away from him?
I don’t know if I can touch him. Or if he wants to touch me again.
And for the first time ever, I wonder if he is ready to check himself out. Leave our arrangement.
If he is, I don’t know how I feel about that.
I’d probably be heartbroken. Briefly, I’d feel bereft and grieve. It would make the entire experience bittersweet.
But I will survive.
I am a fighter, after all. And he, as fascinating as he is, is a man who knows his path better than I do.
It’s unfortunate, but one of the unwritten rules––I think––says there won’t be any relationships once the agreement ends.
So whoever gets to the point where leaving makes more sense than staying will also have to make adjustments.
As the other group members will have to do, too.
“So…” he says, tipping his drink against his lips. “Do you think it’s a good place?”
He insists.
He insists on hearing it from me.
He doesn’t use sarcasm or irony to make a point. He wants to get a feel of me as much as I want to get a feel of him and know precisely what he thinks about it.
If I am to judge based on what he’s shown me so far, he’s put a lot of thought into how he wants us to spend the evening.
The place is great for anything.
Stargazing, drinking wine, dancing, and making love.
I can see myself sleeping, taking a bath, drinking coffee on the terrace in the morning, and living here alone.
I like that scenario with no men at all.
And then, it’s also a great place to seek and share pleasure. I could kiss them, touch them, and make them go crazy over me before they’d kiss me, touch me, and make me go crazy over them.
There are so many possibilities, and yet, I don’t answer because I can’t.
I’m too mesmerized by his dark, sad, bitter smile. My throat clenches shut, and I can’t swallow my wine, my heart beating loudly in my chest. Like a war drum.
He straightens and brings his eyes to me, and I feel their energy again flowing over my skin.
I’m surprised I’m still standing, not staggering, and breathing. Miraculously, not falling.
My hand is so tense around the stem that I put my drink down, afraid I might break the glass.
He sets his drink down too, slightly to the side, pivots to me, and presses his hip into the handrail while I cautiously rest my hand on top of it.
