You Don’t Know Me

“You don’t know me,” she said.

Anyone listening in on our conversation would have thought the words said in a voice, smooth as honey, held jest to them. I wasn’t so sure.

My gaze drifted from her glossy, cherry-red, lips, upward. I looked at her through my mascara covered lashes. Her dark brown eyes locked with my pale blues ones. The mischievous twinkle that had first caught my attention had been replaced by a carefully held blank expression. There was an unexpected ferocity to it. A side of her I hadn’t seen yet. Then again we had only met the night before.

My heart twisted in my chest.

We stared at each other as the seconds ticked by. I felt like I was teetering on the edge of something. From the corner of my vision, I could see shadows dance along her slender neck, the pattern changing with each heartbeat. I imagined what it would be like to lean forward, tangle my hands in her long black hair and kiss the spot just below her right ear lobe before trailing kisses down toward her collarbone. I’d nip the skin at the base of her neck as I gently skimmed my nails over the delicate, bronze skin of her wrist and inner arm, careful not to catch the rose gold friendship bracelet she wore. I wouldn’t stop until she looked at me the way she had the night before.

The sound of someone clearing his throat intruded the space we had claimed in the cafe. Our mutual gaze flicked up to see a lanky waiter in a gray apron with red suspenders. His hooded, sleepy eyes that would have left other women melting flicked from my face to hers and back again. Her serious expression mirrored in my own. Uncertainty clouded his expression before he took two slow steps backward before turning to retreat through the kitchen’s swinging black doors, leaving the slight scent of chili peppers in his wake.

We looked back at each other, the spell broken.

She raised an eyebrow at me, her expression otherwise unchanging.

I looked down at my beat up converse with black fishnet socks peeking out resting next to her electric blue suitcase, an ugly reminder. I struggled for words.

“You’re right. I don’t know you.”

Somewhere behind me came the sound of glass breaking.

“But I’d like to.” I whispered.

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