My Second Writing Assignment--We Meet Again
We Meet Again
I would address him with a cool, 'hello there, handsome' as if it our meeting had been mere coincidence. It wasn't--I'd gone seeking for him and I wasn't ashamed to admit it.
Across the room he stood, in that familiar blue jacket--only slightly tattered and torn--the mere thought of touching it caused my skin to flinch and flutter. Like a moth to the flame I inched across the room ignoring the shouting inside my head : 'he's not the only fish in the sea--go find another!' My eyes focussed intently on the one 'fish' for me and I pushed forward.
We'd met years earlier: I was younger, less worldly, and oh so vanilla and he was anything but. He regaled me with tales of adventures (he liked to call them missions), travels to off-beat destinations, and tete at tetes with world leaders. I was heady on his words and he would grin as he teased me with a little 'ubiquitous' here and an 'avant-garde' there. Was it obvious the power he had over me or had he never known? My god, what if he'd never known?
As the distance between us grew smaller I couldn't help but notice that the years had been kind. He still stood tall, his spine ramrod straight, and the only hint of time passing was a little frost of white up top. Very soon, I'd reach the point of no return and, drunk on my desire, I would grab that jacket and tear it from his hard body...
And then I would plunk down in my favourite chair, with a cup of tea, and I would open up his pages and let his words carry me away.
I would address him with a cool, 'hello there, handsome' as if it our meeting had been mere coincidence. It wasn't--I'd gone seeking for him and I wasn't ashamed to admit it.
Across the room he stood, in that familiar blue jacket--only slightly tattered and torn--the mere thought of touching it caused my skin to flinch and flutter. Like a moth to the flame I inched across the room ignoring the shouting inside my head : 'he's not the only fish in the sea--go find another!' My eyes focussed intently on the one 'fish' for me and I pushed forward.
We'd met years earlier: I was younger, less worldly, and oh so vanilla and he was anything but. He regaled me with tales of adventures (he liked to call them missions), travels to off-beat destinations, and tete at tetes with world leaders. I was heady on his words and he would grin as he teased me with a little 'ubiquitous' here and an 'avant-garde' there. Was it obvious the power he had over me or had he never known? My god, what if he'd never known?
As the distance between us grew smaller I couldn't help but notice that the years had been kind. He still stood tall, his spine ramrod straight, and the only hint of time passing was a little frost of white up top. Very soon, I'd reach the point of no return and, drunk on my desire, I would grab that jacket and tear it from his hard body...
And then I would plunk down in my favourite chair, with a cup of tea, and I would open up his pages and let his words carry me away.
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