Friday, May 8, 2009

A man with hands, a woman with a scar, Part II

This is Part II of a 4 part mini-series.  Please read the original part here before continuing.  It's very important to start at the top.  Please don't link to any post in this series or email anyone.

7:25 PM
Stace is silent for the first time ever, after we order.  She's watching me, trying to catch my eyes elsewhere.  My eyes are locked on hers but I notice a waiter bobble a platter, I notice woman peripherally adjust her stocking with her husband away (or they're cheating because they both have rings).  I notice that Stace's hands are a bit fidgety and her thumb slides to a finger, looking for a ring.  Stace had been engaged before.

Finally she asks me if I'm watching her or reading her.  Why does every woman I talk to think I am reading their minds?  I ask her what she means and she says exactly that.  "Are you reading my mind?"  Of course not.  "What am I thinking?"  I have no idea, but I tell her that she probably was engaged once.  Her mouth opens to speak, then closes.  She waits 10 seconds and says "I was.  How did you know?"  I explain it to her and she's shocked that I picked up on her nervous habit.  "It was a long time ago, I was young, small town, that stuff.  Whenever I was curious about something, I played with that ring."  I'm sure.  "What else?"  I tell her that she's getting curious about me but uncertain where to begin the questions.  "You're scaring me."  I'm sorry.  Once you understand people, it's shocking how easy it is to become comfortable with what they are doing.  It's not that we're all alike, we just have similar reactions when we think, when we process.

I don't want her to be scared.  "Scared isn't the right word, you're just too perceptive.  It's unnerving but so amazing, too."  I've always been a good listener because I can follow people as fast as they change their mind or the discussion.  "You do listen well.  Do you ever talk?"  Of course.  Through my writing.  "What do you write?"  I tell her I had a few things printed but they're not too significant.  I also write online at a number of blogs.  "What kind of writing?"  I tell her about my job as a female erotica writer.  "You write as a woman?"  That's what they pay me for.  "Does anyone know?"  A small handful of friends I told about, and one friend who actually never knew about it but emailed me that she knew it was me.  "Will you share it with me?"  No.  I will share my online personalities when I am ready to, but not yet.  I didn't want her to take offense.  "I won't."

Then I told her about this site.  "You write every detail on everything?"  No, only what I think I need to remember.  "Do you write about women?"  Yes.  But I want to start focusing on my business relationships and family struggles and all that.  "Do your friends or family know?"  Some do.  Only those I trust not to go and blurt it out to the world.  "Do you write about sex or just relationships?"  Both.  "In detail?" Definitely.  Details are what get to the heart of the emotion of what can otherwise be an uncomfortable and unsettling situation.

"Can I read it?"  If you want, but understand that it won't change my mind about what I write.  "Have you written about me?"  Yes, but I changed your name.  "To what?"  Stace.  "That's pretty close to my real name, what if my friends or family read it?"  They won't.  And if they didn't they'd have no idea it was you.  I change enough minor facts that so far even those I write about still consider it in the third person.

"What do you want from me?"  A friend.  Maybe more.  She swallows, "a lover? what maybe more?"  I don't take claim to knowing what the future will bring.  Maybe more than a friend.   We've only gone out this one time really.  The last time we met, you met me while drinking.  It's an unfair approach to understanding people.  "I don't like to meet guys when I drink.  This is the most you've said to me ever."  It's probably the most I've said to anyone in a long time.

"Are you an introvert?"  No, I'm the life of the party, but I wear a completely different personality when it is me and a huge group of people I know.  Her face looked amazed.  Her mouth was open.  "Oh, that's embarassing."  I smile and our food arrives.

We eat, her talking abou ther past with little prompting from me.  She had the fiancé, she had Ralph.  She doesn't discuss much beyond that other than her high school sweetheart.  "There have been others of course, but nothing significant.  How about you?"  I don't really talk about past relationships like that.  "How many, then?"  More than I want, less than you'd think.  "Can I guess?"  If you want, but it's not important.  It's just a number, and each one was at a different place in my life.  She says a number, and I tell her it's way too high.  "Wow.  Ok, how about..." No, still too high.  "What are you including?"  Penetration of some kind, or the attempt to penetrate.  "Attempt?"  I hate talking about my dick, so I shrug it off, leaving her perplexed physically.

I give her one last try.  Still high.  "Wow.  You are so, I don't know, masculine and confident.  Why not more?"  They didn't interest me.  "Do I?"  Interesting people always interest me.  "That's not an answer."  I wouldn't be here if you weren't interesting.  "You're playing with me, you know.  And it's working."  I don't play games, I don't read minds, I can't see into your soul, and I have no idea what the future will bring for anyone, not even me.  "My soul?  I was just thinking that."  I'm sorry, it was a lucky guess.  I don't want you to be creeped out.  "I'm not.  Do people get creeped out by you?"  Sometimes.  It's just a knack, many people have it.  "Have you met any?"  No.

My last word out of my mouth was no.  I was going to say that I wanted to, but licked my lips and kept silent.  She watched my eyes and then my mouth for over a minute.  "You interest me, you know that?"  I don't do that on purpose.  I stay affixed on her eye but notice the waiter notice me.  Dinner is done so I place my fork and knife at the 11 o'clock position.  She notices and mimics me.  "Can you control minds?" I laugh.  "Again, no real answer."  No new words have left my mouth, but my laugh is loud.  The lady adjusting her stockings notices me.

She talks some more and I listen.  I grab the check on the table and she puts her hand on mine "You don't have to pay."  I smile and grab the check, letting her hand slide off and onto the table.  Her thumb goes for her ring finger again, but she actually notices and stops.  She then looks at my face and I'm putting my debit card on the tray but I'm smiling more than I want to.  "How do you notice these things?"  It's just who I am.  "Are you a spy?"  No.  I'm a writer.  "I know, you said that."  She asked me that question to get me to say something.  "Again you read my mind."  No, I just know the ploy when it happens.  She laughs out loud, causing Mrs. Stocking Adjuster to look again.

My card returns and I put it in my very thin wallet.  "You have the smallest wallet I've ever seen."  I smile, thinking about how few people know that the wallet set me back almost $2000.  I don't have a lot of things.  "No toys, no extra garbage?"  I travel lightly.  "Just like Jason Bourne."  Who?  "The guy from the Bourne movies."  Oh.  Matt Damon.  Good character.  "Do you have more than one passport?"  A few.  She shakes her head like she's shaking a thought out of her.  She continues with her previous stories.

I ask if she's ready to go.  It's been less than 2 hours.  "Are you tired?"  I nod my head no.  "Want to get drinks?"  Drinks, or a show at Cobra Lounge?  "What kind of music."  Loud, screeching punk.  "Not my thing.  Drinks is good."  See?  Two options.  Always works.  For some reason, I think about Liz right now.  Why do I compare women like this?  Not to see who is better or who is worse, who is prettier or who is weaker in looks.  Liz and Celine and Kerry and Stace are all completely different women.  They all intrigue me immensely.  The have similar stories, but different enough that I soak them up like a sponge, even though I forgot so much in just a few days.  I really want to see Stace naked, to see where her buttons are.  To hear what her orgasm sounds like.  To see if she'll say no to my requests, or make me do things I may not be 100% comfortable.  "You're thinking about sex."  Now who is the mind reader?  This girl will break me tonight.

"Do you lie?"  Yes.  "Have you lied to me?"  No.  Lying is for business and contracts and bragging between boys.  Men don't lie to women.  "Ever?"  No.  "Where do you want to get drinks?"  I was thinking either Margaritas or a wine bar.  "I prefer Margaritas.  You knew that, though."  I did.  "But I'd rather go somewhere dark."  I pick a few bars nowhere near her place and give her two options.  She picks one.  "I always wanted to go there."  She goes on about bars she likes, drinks she likes, beers she likes.  She tells me that she doesn't meet guys at bars but usually through friends.  I'm a rare situation.  I smile as she gets in my car.

We drive to a bar and it's pretty quiet.  I know two people there out of the 20 or so that are sitting at the bar or at the tables.  Mostly 3 or 4-somes.  She says a guy is familar but she doesn't know him.  She mostly goes to bars in her area.  "I like Green Eye a lot.  It's simple and my friends go there a lot."

Smoke break.  More coming.