Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Chapter 03: The Road to Ruin
The ride to the restaurant is an ordeal. You try two or three times to initiate conversation, but I don’t bite. I’ve never been anything but wide eyed and thrilled to be near you – everything fun, everything light, everything you say charming and funny. So my silent treatment comes across as deadly serious. A challenge to our orthodoxy. You stop trying and change the station to classic rock. I stare out the window trying to calm down. To tame the urge to get the hell out of this car at the next light. To get far, far away from you and your insane ideas, inspirations and tortures. To get far, far away from my desire to follow you blindly anywhere. Problem is that I while I can outrun you, I can’t ever outrun me. Instead, I just get angrier.
The valet opens my door, and I beeline for the restaurant lobby. The maitre d’ looks up at me pleasantly and registers my scowl with a practiced smile.
“Reynolds, party of two.” I hiss at him through my teeth and feel immediately guilty.
He scans his book and puts a red line neatly through your name. I watch you in the polished metal ornament above his head. Out on the curb, you are looking down, turning the valet stub over and over in your hand like it’s a puzzle box. Lost in thought. I don’t wait for you and follow the maitre d’ to our table: a high backed, red leather booth along the elevated back wall. It is both private and on display – the very essence of your personality. I’m underdressed, my skirt and baby tee better suited for one of the casual eateries along the shore. And I’m not wearing a bra, which in the air conditioning is painfully obvious. I can only imagine how bad my hair looks given the mauling it’s taken. The maitre d’ pulls the table out three feet so I can slide in with minimum effort. I thank him, and he presents two menus and a wine list. I admire his professionalism – this scowling, windblown girl gives him attitude and he still treats her like a princess and not the whore she is.
I pretend to look at the menu, while I try and find a comfortable sitting position. I have to sit with my back arched and my butt out or the plug catches on the leather cushioned banquet and presses in on me. Of course that means I have to stick my chest out, which is a little awkward. So it’s a toss up. I wish I hadn’t worn a baby tee, and I wish it was a little loose…like I own anything loose. And where the hell are you?
You’re standing over at the bar. This place is a warren of mirrors and reflective surfaces so I can see you around the corner. To the casual observer you look perfectly composed and at ease, but your left ring finger is tapping on the bar top. I don’t know how to interpret it, only that it can’t be good. You are so maddeningly hard to read and give away nothing. My anger moves over to share space with a growing nervousness. I order a drink from the waiter, and offer him my ID. Apparently this isn’t an under twenty-one kind of place because he waves me off. It’s a little disappointing bostancı escort because I am cursed with looking much younger than I am. Finally I’m legal, and no one wants to card me. I tuck it back in my purse and resist the urge to fidget.
My Grey Goose and tonic comes. I order a second as he serves the first. I crush my lime into it, and jab at it viciously with my stirrer. It’s gone much too fast and I wait impatiently for the waiter to come back. The nearby tables are filling up. I am the youngest person in the restaurant by at least a decade. You haven’t budged from the corner of the bar. I don’t understand why you get to be angry. Or why I suddenly feel like I’ve fucked up. How do you do that? Why do I want to get up and go and plead with you to sit down? The waiter brings my drink, and you’re standing behind him when he leaves. Do I smell a whiff of brimstone?
You sit without comment. Side by side. Our conversation is terse, and you won’t look at me. Instead you page through the menu aggressively – too fast to actually read it. You already know what you want.
“Do you want me to take you home? Because I’ll be happy to.”
“No.” I say too quickly and I stifle my natural impulse to elaborate. That he’s willing to take me home stings, and it stings that it stings.
“Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?”
The answer to that is complex, but my answer is simple. “No.”
“Is this different than you expected? Than what you’ve fantasized about?”
No it isn’t, and I know that.
“Then what?” For the first time irritation creeps into your voice, and that spurs my anger.
I lean in sharply. “You let him fuck me.” I stumble over the word ‘fuck’; funny since it’s one of my favorites ordinarily, and I’ve had a lot of practice saying it. I try to make eye contact but the waiter appears with uncanny timing to take our order. You order the rib eye medium rare, and the potato leak soup as a starter. I have no idea what I want. The waiter makes several suggestions each worse than the last. You snatch the menu from me.
“She’ll have the foie gras and the quail,” you snap.
The waiter cannot get away from us fast enough.
“No, what I said was you weren’t too good to fuck him. You let him fuck you. You did. For shoes. Men’s shoes to be precise. I was in the car, or have you forgotten?” You look at me for the first time in what feels like years. I can’t meet your eyes, and stare intently at my vast empire of forks. “I know this is what you wanted. Or are you just all talk?”
I shake my head.
“So what is it? You just want to be loved, and cuddled and watch reruns of The West Wing? And get briefly fucked missionary on Saturday night while you secretly dream your sordid dreams? You’re much too smart to think this ‘I’m a good girl, no I’m a bad girl, no I’m a good girl routine’ is really going to save you. You’re not even fooling yourself. Or do you really have that little self-respect?”
I’m kadıköy escort mute. Chastised. I’ve never seen you this angry. Your neck is red although you haven’t raised your voice a notch. You drink your drink. The appetizers come. You eat. I play with my food, my head down, my eyes down. The silence stretches out between us. I want to speak but can’t will my mouth to move…there is literally a first time for everything, I guess. It’s not until the entrees arrive that you resume your thought. You stare at me hard. I don’t move, and I don’t say anything. My face flush. I can feel your next words coming down like a hammer.
“I think it best if we end this now.” So much finality in your tone.
You smile at me warmly but all I see is condescension. I feel the pressure of tears behind my eyes. I can’t breathe.
“Why?” I plead.
“Angeline. I’m not trying to be cruel, and I suspect most people would say I am a cruel man. I am for once trying to do the right thing here. For you. Go away from me. Far away. Turn your back on this now. Some people can dabble, not you. It’s exactly why I want you. But I don’t know if I can live with the things I find myself wanting to do to you. It’s for the best.”
You look sad as you say all this. Your hand slips over mine. I want to crawl into your arms.
“Eat your dinner. It’s getting cold.”
“Please.” I whisper.
“Please, what?” You ask genuinely.
“Please don’t leave me.”
You place your fork on plate, deliberately, tines down.
“I’m not the man for you, Angie. We’ve had some fun and we’ve played a little game, but this is no longer a game. I am the road to ruin.”
“Then ruin me.” I answer forcefully.
You look startled. “Do you know what you’re asking?”
“Ruin me. Ruin me. Ruin me.” The words come out a jumble. I feel like I’m begging for my life. I can’t loose the only man that begins to understand me. No matter the price. It’s a weak cowardly decision but in the moment it feels like no decision at all.
I want to be sick.
The waiter approaches. You squeeze my hand hard, mashing my fingers together painfully. I stifle a reaction.
“How is everything?”
“Perfect,” you say.
“And Miss? How is the quail?”
As I begin to reply, your grip on my hand triples. You crush my fingers together. My voice hiccups with surprise at the pain, but otherwise I don’t break. The only word I can think of is yours. “Perfect,” I parrot.
When the waiter departs, I exhale deeply. You don’t release my hand. Instead you draw closer to me, and whisper in my ear. “I will. Ruin you. Don’t say things you think I want to hear just to put off the inevitable for another six months. I am thirty six years old. I’m on a clock. My looks will fade; a girl like you won’t be interested in me in another ten years. I look at you, and I think I see my masterpiece, but if you aren’t it then better I know it now before you waste another year of my life.”
“Masterpiece?” kartal escort
“Masterpiece, Angeline. You, Angeline are my masterpiece. Smart, well educated, independent. And you know better than to go with me. So much better. Because you know where I’m leading you, what it means and what it will do to you, but you can’t help yourself. Against all your better judgments. I won’t have to do a thing: no tricks, no deception, no coercion. You’ll come because you’re called. To a man like me that is the most erotic thing in the world. For you to fuck that old man today…that was nothing compared to what it’s doing to you now. All your hurt and confusion and doubt about today – that’s what I crave. To watch it eat away at you. To hear you try and intellectualize your way out of your depravity, and always you wind up back at zero whimpering for more. It makes me delirious.” You sigh. “Don’t you realize how bad I am for you?”
I nod.
“How is your hand?”
“It kills. How do you think it is?”
“Do you want me to let go?”
“Yes, badly.”
“So why aren’t you pulling it away? Why aren’t you saying anything?”
You stump me there.
“Why?” You ask again.
“Because,” I begin. “Because. Because, I need you.”
“Need me…?”
“To ruin me?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?” Your grip tightens causing me to lean forward in pain.
“Telling.”
“Be very sure, Angeline. Whisper in my ear.”
I lean my body against yours, my head on your shoulder craned up to your ear. “I want you to ruin me. I want to be with you. No matter what. No matter what you want. I want you to take me with you. I don’t want you to leave. I can’t go back. I’m sorry for earlier. I was wrong. Please, you’re breaking my hand. Please. I love you.” Of course I don’t love you, but I know you want to hear me say it.
I catch the eye of a middle aged woman at the next table. Her spoon hovers halfway between her bowl and her mouth. She’s wondering if she should call the police. How do I explain to her that you are my police?
“And if I want to take you back to the cobbler and let him fuck you again, is that alright with you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to be my good girl?”
“Yes…please…my hand.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m your good girl.”
You release me and slide back to your dinner. I cradle my hand in my lap until the pain fades. When it does, and I’m certain I’m not going to cry I look up. You’re staring at me with a sad, oddly compassionate look on your face.
“What?” I ask.
“Why, Angie?”
And I realize you don’t know why. You don’t know how it is to be me. To be like me. I’m essentially a mystery to you. You know the what, and the how, and the how hard – of all that you are a master. But you don’t know the why, and your confusion is so endearing to me. I think it is better that you not know. Why spoil things for you?
“Because you make me feel.” Is my simple answer and it seems to satisfy you.
“Eat your dinner, it’s getting cold,” you say tenderly.
“I don’t think I’m hungry anymore.”
“Eat your dinner, Angeline,” tenderly gone in the blink of an eye.
I pick up my knife and fork, and nod. You watch me take the first bite before returning to your steak.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32