She had a plan.
It was still chilly at night, even the spring already flirted with the city, tinting branches with her Mona Lisa smile. But still, it was too early.
She called him, and now she was standing in front of his apartment building, among the dark, weirdly quiet streets, chilled inside, even a little bit shivering. too cold. she thought, such a cold spring. The moment he opened the door, she could not help her chills. "I need hot tea, I am freezing."
Rachael was a tea person. She collected teas whenever she traveled, received gifts from her friends, her clients, her business partners. But none from this guy. He did not even bother to get a water kettle. Every time she drunk the hot tea boiled from an iron pot, she felt a slight taste of something else, maybe the iron, maybe yesterday's tomato soup. "Don't be a drama," he murmured, with a tilted-up ending sound. always made her smile.
There were cookies on the table and the shelf. Handmade, heavily floured, harsh textured, heavenly sweet. He talked about how he baked them, struggling with particular terms that he could not find a proper English word, so he murmured the Italian words twice. she did not get the Italian names, so she took a small one trying to avoid carrying the conversation. "be careful, " he said, "I lost part of a tooth because of it," "what?!" "yes! when I tried to bite it." She was amused, extending her arm and fingers to pinch his chin, "show me."
The thing that fascinated Rachael was that he was extremely stubborn and extremely soft. Most of the time he was a lost dog, from eyes to hands, following her everywhere, except the moments when he felt being asked for commitments. His stubborn, dead silence hit her bluntly like that harsh cookie, knocking off pieces of her heart, pride, and herself. It made her really want to hurt him back.
But she did not, not a single time. A professional trait, she sometimes thought. Rachael is a consultant. She has a small group of stable clients, who appreciate her even mind and tender heart, and sometimes, mysterious sadness. She is a master of distance, never aggressive, or close. In her cozy office facing the river, she sits in an armchair, slightly rotating her body, like a lullaby, like a tree-hole, people begin to talk. She listens.
She had a sip of tea, listened to his low voice talking about the cookie making, and began to title her head, squinted at him, with something sparkling in her eyes. In their earlier call, she said she wanted to drop by for a cup of tea, and had some relaxing time. He got the signal, said, "if you want, but let's talk first."
She reached out to him, with her icy-cold fingers surrounding his neck, "no drama, but completely frozen." His neck is so warm, so are his arms. He looked at her, then said. "I am sorry that I cannot invite you for the night, because, you know..."
she knew. that was their talk. and that was not her plan.
"I cannot stay with you either," she heard herself talking, in a calm tone, like the stream in a summer cave, "but," she smiled," it does not mean we cannot have a fling." she almost fooled herself too.
he frowned, "fling? what is a fling?." her icy fingers began to trace his outer ear, "well, something wild?" he finally stopped avoiding and looking into her eyes, and then at her breast.
she realized that her whole body was actually freezing when she snuggled up to his naked body. his hot skin almost burned her cold body. "is it because he is hairy?" she stopped thinking more.
there are people who are good at sex: the techniques, the relaxing attitude, the hot passion. and, there are people, like him, just natural with it.
Rachael held him, let his weight on her. His soft kisses covered her breast, his legs squeezed her waist, and his hands already in her. His warm, hairy, and hot skin gradually melt her.
"oh Lorenzo..." the word was lost.
the tea was unfinished, but the plan was not.