May 13, 2015
Tonight you’re mine, completely.
She looks thirsty.
This is my first thought when I lay my eyes on you from across the bar. Your hair is a meticulous mess, like you just got out of the world’s most royal bed, and your body should consider a career in public speaking. Your eyes though, they’re dirty liars, darting back and forth like drunken pendulums, judging, moderating, gauging.
What are you looking for? Your friends? Potential suitors? I’m not worried. I’d wager a bet that we’ll end up together before the night is through — probably sooner, and I always play my cards right. Has anyone ever told you that you have a useless pokerface? Gorgeous, but about as predictable as tomorrow’s hangover.
I feel your presence now, stronger as you gravitate closer to the bar, a wandering star. You still aren’t looking at me but I can tell you want me by the way you lick your lips. A man approaches you; he looks lost; maybe it’s just the game he plays. Oh… you know each other? Friends. Just friends? He takes your number and smiles and nods and laughs.
You smile too, a playground smile: play with me, will you. You laugh, not the musical laugh you’re entirely capable of, but an unnatural concrete cackle. I wish you would stop that. He gives you a half-hearted hug and hurries away because boredom is an art and you’re hosting an exhibition. Well that was a waste of time. Next.
I feel sorry for you. It looks to me that you don’t know quite how beautiful you are, but I can show you. You’re basically a 99, why even waste time with these pricks? I’m standing right here. Your world would be a better place with me in it, just give me a chance. Now a girl approaches you. She doesn’t look pleased at all, in fact she’s already started shouting and she hasn’t even reached you yet.
I can’t make out exactly what she’s saying… but it looks like you’re in the worst kind of trouble. She slaps you — it cracks like a lightning bolt even from here — and storms off. The tears sting your eyes and your cheeks fill with hot, embarrassing blood. Not quite how you wanted tonight to turn out.
What did you expect?
Are you going to leave?
Don’t.
Home is for the weak.
Come to me.
Clockwork.
You move closer. It’s almost time for me to make my move. I feel nothing, no nerves — nothing but anticipation and the urge to affirm my assumptions. I’ve been doing this for years, since forever; you’re all the same. You want me — you need me, you just don’t know it yet. I love this game. And suddenly, surprisingly, I want you. I want to figure you out from the inside. I want your hands on me. I want you to drink me, to take me in.
You stop a few feet away with a flick of your mess of hair. There’s an otherworldly quietude as you request me by name, the magic words, and a brief period of customary exchanges as the barman introduces us for the first time, but not the last. You pick me up and press me to your glossed lips and within seconds I am lost inside you and the first step is over, the first sip. The rest is child’s play.
Tonight you’re mine, completely.
