They haven’t been seeing each other all that long. Two dates. Maybe three if coffee counts. Three dates… does that count as dating? It’s hard to tell. Who knows….
Two dates. Maybe three. Some kissing. No sex. But the kissing is good — really, really good. Quick tongues. Swollen lips. Nails on his neck. Then he says goodnight, like he’s closing a door. It makes her feel cautious and light on her feet.
They have their third (maybe fourth?) date on the hottest night of the year. Dinner and drinks. Maybe dancing after. They both like dancing. They talk about dancing a lot. It’s a useful metaphor.
Do you dance? Where? What do you like?
Oh, you know…depends on my mood.
She wishes they’d just have sex. Sex is her looking glass. It lets her see who a person is, (or rather who they are with her). It lets her see who she is with them. She wants that view more than she wants to get off. She wants to see if they fit. Normally, it doesn’t matter so much – sex has told her a lot and it’s not always good. But she wants to see with him.
They have dinner and drinks. They talk. A lot. But she can’t stop watching his mouth. Good conversation. Great wine. Killer food. Enjoy the evening for this. She addresses herself in the ladies room but she knows it won’t do any good.
He pays the check (he insists, which is lovely), but dancing is a no. Early morning, he says. Brunch, work-out, weekend routine…. Sure. She has one too. They head off down the street.
The night is brown and murky with a filthy, electrical buzz. The grid is overtaxed and the city’s power is low. No air conditioners. Sluggish fans. People tumble around the street — it’s too hot to be inside.
They’d parked their cars several blocks away in a tall, glass monolith. As they walk, their knuckles brush, comfortable and easy, but he doesn’t take her hand. That would maybe be too much. After a while, she pulls her phone out of her bag so it has something less awkward to do.
The parking lot is deserted. He hits the button and they wait. The elevator takes ages and their easiness drains away. A thick, gray silence expands and takes its place. It’s not a sexy or promising silence. It’s dense and pre-emptively sad.
Cool sheets, breakfast, dancing, fucking… she imagines these things while the elevator drifts… slow, slow, slow… considering the universe at every floor. For one irrational moment, she wishes they’d never met.
The elevator arrives. It’s steel and glass and disturbingly hot inside. Like a greenhouse, she thinks, which would make them the plants. It’s a weirdly appealing thought. She swipes her hair off her forehead and hits the button for level six.
“I’m on six too,” he says.
She smiles. “That’s good.”
“That’s good” is not what she’d meant to say. She’d meant to say something clever but she’s tired and hot. Her grid is overtaxed too.
Flickering lights. The elevator stops. It jerks and she stumbles. He reaches out – reaches out but doesn’t touch her, as if he’d brace her with the Force.
“Power outage,” he says.
She feels heat coming off him. The nape of her neck is salty and wet, and her c*nt is a swollen ache. He’s close. Too close… and not close enough. She’s stupidly wound up and now they’re stuck in a small, glass box.
“Fuck, me,” she mutters.
“Sorry, what,” he says.
She watches his fingers skim over the phone. Blunt tipped. Strong. Decisive.
Fuck it. She wants to see.
“I said, fuck me.”
He looks up. Her cultivated, quippy, clever voice has dropped into her chest. She sounds like a woman again. Not a placeholder or a diplomat. She sounds like the woman she is.
He puts his phone away.
“Hello,” he says.
His teeth catch her bottom lip.
She leans in and bites him back.
A generator kicks in and the elevator fills with a dim, green glow, but it’s still dark down on the street. People wander around, checking their phones, waiting for the light.
“Someone could see,” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” she says. “I know.”
They lean back into the glass. If anyone looked up they’d see him lifting her skirt. She smiles and tilts her hips.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
It’s a breath against her neck. She’s wearing nothing underneath. No knickers. No bra. Just the dress and her favorite heels. Maybe she’d hoped a bit….
Sweat drips between her breasts as he crushes her close. He’s stronger than she thought. Then his hand is on her warm, bare hip and his mouth is hard on hers. Her legs want to spread. She kisses him back and turns to face the street.
The glass is soft beneath her palms. She’s wet, so wet she can barely feel his fingers until they’re deep inside her. Little sighs. Little moans. Her hips begin to thrust. She’s hoping, hoping someone will look up. Then he’s in her, fucking her and she’s fucking him back. Their eyes meet in the glass. Intense, happy… she likes the view. She had a feeling that she would.