Walking around the table, my back to the room, I am now facing the open bathroom door where I had, all too briefly, sought sanctuary earlier.
A wave of sorrow slowly begins to overtake me, but I force it aside. I can’t
let myself think about what will happen tonight, or even tomorrow when the man inevitably leaves me here. I need to live in the moment. Something I’ve been trying to do ever since my father’s sudden death, five years ago. Wanting to live life to the fullest is what persuaded me, along with James’ insistence that I go, to do a semester abroad in London, even if it took me longer to graduate, and it is what led me to the spontaneous— now disastrous—trip to Paris.
Acting the gentleman, the man tucks me against the table before placing a plate loaded with food and a set of silverware rolled up in a navy blue napkin in front of me. My stomach audibly grumbles as I inhale the delicious scents of fried food and red meat.
“Thank you,” I mumble, years of trained politeness taking over.
“You’re welcome, Princess,” he says, his voice light with amusement.
Ignoring his words, I quickly shake out the napkin and tuck it onto my lap before grabbing several fries. I dip them into the small container of ketchup, take a large bite, and close my eyes, moaning blissfully as the tastes of home hit my tongue.
I can almost imagine that I’m in my favorite diner. The one on Main Street,
with its red Naugahyde covered booths, stainless steel tabletops, and mini jukeboxes at every table. Where the waitresses wear poofy skirts and zip around on roller-skates.
For years, Dad and I would go there, just the two of us, for our bi-weekly father-daughter dinner. He traveled a lot for work, so every two weeks it would be just him and me, hamburgers, French-fries, and strawberry milkshakes. We would talk, laugh, and catch-up on what we missed in each other’s lives while we were apart. Dad would describe all the places he’d seen, and I’d regale him with the latest school gossip. I have not been able to bring myself to go back there since his death.
A low growl next to me forces me back into my grim reality. I shove the remaining handful of fries into my mouth, pushing back the overwhelming feelings of suffocation and loss, and focus on the satisfyingly familiar flavors.
“Good?” the man asks, pulling out the chair next to mine and sitting down.
So lost in the past, I had not noticed that he’d arranged the rest of the table with drinks and his own overloaded plate.
I nod and swallow thickly, adding wistfully, “All I need is a strawberry milkshake.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He tosses his napkin back onto the table and moves to stand up. “I would’ve ordered you one.”
“No. It’s fine. Don’t.” I reach out and grab his wrist, firmly ignoring the spark of comfortable warmth that passes through me. The last thing I want is to owe this man anything.
“Whatever my princess wants, she gets,” he states firmly, pulling out of my
grasp and moving toward the phone.
“I want to go home,” I mutter under my breath, staring down at my plate and
trying to control the sudden tidal wave of emotions—helplessness, fear, and loneliness. Not wanting to cry, I grab the burger and take a large bite, trying to push everything out of my mind, especially the man’s words.
My princess.
I don’t want to think about how many times he’s called me that, or the way
he utters the words. Behind me, I hear him grab the phone and speak in clipped, annoyed tones. So very different than the growly caress the man uses when he says those two words: my princess.
“It should be here shortly,” he states firmly. I feel the brush of his pants against my leg and his solid warmth as he settles himself back into the chair next to mine.
Focusing on the food in front of me, I ignore the conflicting emotions this man is creating within me. Fear. And desire.
“Did they make it medium-well, as I ordered?”
I look up to see him scowling down at his own plate, his dark eyebrows scrunched up and his mouth thin. I have the sudden urge to kiss away his annoyance. Shaking myself from the thought, I give him a small smile and nod.
“Good.” He picks up his burger and takes a large bite. I watch the thick cords of his neck strain and flex as he swallows. The insane desire to lean over, kiss his pulse, and breathe in his warmth overcomes me. Ignoring my own insanity, I grab more fries and attempt to focus on their wonderful salty, greasy, crunchiness. I can’t help but stare transfixed as the man’s tongue peaks out when he licks his lips, cleaning them. He grabs his beer.
“God, this is fucking awful,” the man says, putting his beer bottle back on the table with a thud and glaring at it in disgust. “I don’t know what that is, but it isn’t beer. Tastes like piss.”
“You’ve drunk urine?” I find myself asking in between bites.
“Urotherapy is supposed to have many health benefits, including curing cancer,” he states, lifting his water glass and gulping down a third of it.
Eww!
If this man really has drunk urine, I’m seriously going to rethink finding him attractive. He must see the look of revulsion on my face because he grins.
Leaning over, he takes his napkin and wipes ketchup off the corner of my mouth before admitting the truth. “Don’t worry; I’ve never actually drunk piss.
Not even during a drunken game of dare at university.”
I smile and return to my perfectly cooked hamburger. We eat in comfortable
silence for several minutes until a knock on the door startles me again. The man stands up and places a gentle, calming hand on my shoulder. But when I look up, he’s staring down at me with a dark expression.
I watch as he yanks open the door, grabs the silver tray from the waiter, and then slams the door shut in the waiter’s face. When he turns back around, his face is clear of emotion—a placid mask.
The pendulum swing of his emotions leaves me feeling unmoored and
insecure. Even though none of his anger seems to be directed at me personally, it’s unsettling to witness. After watching him this entire evening, one thing seems to be clear: he has no desire to be here. Then why is he?
