You are sitting at the bar, waiting for me; you arrived a few minutes early and ordered a Malbec, which sits on the bar in front of you. You’re glancing at the door, watching new arrivals, wondering which is me. The last week has been intense, between the email flirting, your own day of admitted self-fulfillment, and the certain knowledge that you have disappointed me at least two evenings, if not three: We had planned to meet several times, but each time you broke the date. Finally, our night has arrived. You have arrived. All you need now is for me to arrive.

You don’t know that I was here before you, and that I’ve been watching you since you came through the door, taking you in, approving your dress, your posture, your bearing. You.

My hand on your shoulder makes you start; my voice — you know it is my voice, though you’ve never heard it — tells you to relax, enjoy your wine, and not turn around. You feel my breath in your ear, the tug at your earlobe, gentle lips on the back of your neck. You catch your breath as my hand travels your neck and my fingers catch your hair. You nod your assent as I ask, quietly but leaving no doubt about the answer, if you are ready to make it up to me. I know, from the way you hold yourself, from the way you breathe, from the way you strain to find my face in the mirror over the bar, that you are aroused, and that it’s increasing. I can almost smell it on you.

I sip my drink while one hand drops lazily around your shoulders, so that I clasp you from behind. I am there, my hand nearly touches your throat, but you cannot turn to see me. We drink — you quickly, impatiently; I, more slowly and leisurely, enjoying seeing you so off-balance. I whisper in your ear, softly, kissing your ear and neck again; I pay the bill, and we leave together.

The bar, like any bar, was not well-lit; the light on the street was dim and flickering. When we arrive at your door, you are finally able to see me clearly as we step inside and kiss, hungrily, greedily, finding each others lips, arms, bodies. Clothing is in disarray, but not yet shed, as we stumble towards the sofa. We don’t get that far; we fall instead to the floor, locked in a searing embrace.