Dance

They met today.

It was probably the fourth, maybe even the fifth time. Fascination in full bloom. A play on words, a play on gestures. Incomprehensible to outsiders. A conversation without words.

Furtive glances. Words whose meanings were decidedly different from the generally accepted one. Mystery. Hmm... magic.

They met today.

They were both waiting impatiently. The clock hands moved slowly and maliciously across the white surface. Three more hours... two more... frantic preparations... a nervous rush from closet to closet. She had the eternal problem of "what am I going to wear?" Unfortunately, he couldn't hide it either... A nervous glance at the clock. She chose. She felt relief. She had long, slightly curly, auburn hair. Dark eyes. That was an understatement. Large, dark brown eyes. In dim light, they were mistaken for black. Her face practically obeyed her eyes. She complemented them. They were so enormous that her whole face took on an expression of surprise... of contemplation.

She could do so much with men with those eyes. Just a look. Not a word.

"Yes," she said aloud, unconsciously drawing out the expression. "This one will be the best today."

She tried on a green suit, holding it up to herself in front of the mirrored wardrobe doors.

Then there was the blouse the color of autumn leaves, the ginger shoes, and the handbag. "Oh," she hissed, "and my favorite poncho, deep green." She had good taste. Very good.

A short toilet. She didn't like to overdo makeup. Besides, charm lies in simplicity.

Eyebrows, eyelashes... and green eye shadow. She was satisfied. Delicate and tasteful.

Just a touch of coquetry," she thought, unbuttoning another button on her blouse.

The exposed mounds of breasts were clearly outlined in a rather daring neckline.

A much more intriguing sight than a tight shirt. Everything is revealing... It kills the imagination... It leaves no chance... like a movie compared to a book. And the neckline, hmm... a mystery begun with a revealed sliver of truth. Interpreted and visualized in a million ways, freely. Something wonderful.

One last glance in the mirror. She was ready. And most importantly, she liked the look. She gained confidence. She liked the feeling.

He, too, had trouble choosing the right outfit. Not because he had so many. They simply weren't in the style of the evening ahead. He always chose clothes based on comfort and practicality. They were too casual. Besides, he wouldn't wear his only suit (from his high school final exams) again. First, I have to shave, he muttered.

He lit a cigarette. He examined his face in the mirror. His face with a white beard of shaving foam. He wiped his mouth with his thumb. What a mess, he thought, looking at the cigarette's mouthpiece smeared with foam. He drew the razor decisively across his cheek. He felt a slight sting. He looked in the mirror. Blood. Damn, did I cut myself? he asked himself rhetorically.

He carefully examined his right hand. It was shaking. Each finger moved in a different rhythm, one he knew only. This surprised him deeply. He smiled. He started laughing out loud. "Damn, I feel like I'm fifteen again," his voice was audible, punctuated by new bursts of laughter, "I feel like I did before my first date. I'm as nervous as I was when I first managed to ask a girl out... sigh...

He's finished shaving. Now I just need to get dressed. Somehow... but what? A shirt. Fine.

Damn, I can't button it up. Oh well. She'd gotten a little small.

He'd forgotten the last time he'd worn it was about three years ago.

Trousers. From some suit that no longer exists. Maybe. A jacket that looked a bit like a blazer. A tie. He thought for a moment. He put it in his pocket. It might come in handy if they refuse to let us into that pub, he thought.

He was of average height. Short hair. The color was a combination of brown and black. Green eyes seemed to complement the outfit. They matched. Harmony. His stocky build betrayed strength. His calm but decisive movements—composure. He wasn't a choleric.

He usually didn't attach much importance to clothing, or rather, to his appearance. He wanted to show her that he respected her, that he cared about her. So there was no question of disrespect. Not even in appearance.

They met today.

They noticed each other from a distance. They tried not to betray their emotions. A game of appearances. Their eyes gave them away.

They tried not to be too effusive. Hypocrisy. A kiss on the cheek. A simple good morning kiss. An electric shock. Goosebumps.

He opened the door for her. She smiled. A simple thank you.

He let her go first. They found a table. He pulled out a chair for her. She sat down. Another smile. Then, as usual: waiter, menu, order, steaming plates. The diner was atmospheric. A slight twilight. Tables spaced far apart. Lots of candles. The only electric lighting came from two lamps placed symmetrically near the center of the room. Their light wasn't intrusive, rather complementing the candles. Besides that, there were a few halogen lights at the bar. But luckily, he was far away.

Some conversation. Some insignificant words. Some insignificant music in the background of insignificant words. And eyes. Actually, just eyes. And the blurred reality around them. Insignificant.

Time standing still. The diner's stagnant air filled with a thousand culinary scents. Colorful napkins, fresh flowers on the tables. Eyes. Hers, His.

She said something exceptionally kind. He wanted to stroke her cheek. Time started again with a soft creak, like an overloaded cart going uphill.

He reached across the table to touch her cheek. A soft crack. His shame. Her laugh. Cheerful yet kind. The tight shirt ripped under his arm. In fact, the sleeve was barely hanging on. A miracle, perhaps. A quick decision. A bill. She refused to let him settle it. He couldn't imagine it any other way. Paying. Exit.

The movie played backwards. A chair, the order of departure, the front door.

A busy street. A crowd of people despite the late hour.

"I'll walk you home," he said. He almost decided, hoping she would agree.

She agreed. A smile. A reciprocated one.

He took her arm. Another smile.

She felt his arm. Hard, strong, masculine. She liked it more and more. At the end of the walk, he embraced her. She felt safe and increasingly... aroused.

He was proud to be ensuring her safety. He felt needed and increasingly… excited.

The end of the journey. Her home.

They stood opposite each other. She embraced him. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for a wonderful evening,” he added by way of explanation at her curious gaze.

A moment of silence. Quite awkward.

“Would you like to come in?” she almost whispered, but he heard it very clearly.

“Sure,” he replied curtly.

A diagram of the door. He closed it behind him.

They entered the room.

She brought wine. Dry white. Admittedly, he wasn’t a wine person, but that didn’t matter.

He didn’t want to spoil the budding mood.

They sat opposite each other again. But this time, much lower. In fact, they had to lean slightly toward the table. The chairs (or perhaps stools, more accurately) had no backs.

They leaned their elbows slightly on the tabletop. More words. Now completely irrelevant. He was talking to her. He looked at her face, into her eyes. And… at her cleavage.

He imagined her breasts. And his hands… on them. In fact, after a while, it seemed he was talking to her breasts. He couldn't tear his gaze away. She liked the way he looked at her. It was stimulating.

She stood up rather abruptly. He made a pitiful face. The face of a child whose toy had been taken away. "

Take off that torn shirt, it's fit for the trash," she suggested.

Her words reached him after a moment. He was in his own world for a moment. And that throbbing pulse was somewhere deep in his head. Testosterone.

He took it off obediently. She looked at him from under lowered lashes. She liked him. Very much.

He, of course, noticed. "

I'm going to change, this doesn't feel comfortable," she said, and left for the bathroom.

He was left alone. He rested his head on his hands. He waited. Waited for the excitement to subside a little.

He turned around. Perhaps unconsciously. His body decided on its own. Then a thought came, already a fait accompli. The bathroom door was open. Or maybe it wasn't closed. In any case, the mirror in the bathroom and the mirror in the living room created a perfect image.

He watched. He swallowed nervously. His eyebrows rose higher, horizontal wrinkles appeared on his forehead.

She had removed her swimsuit. She was wearing stockings with a tasteful garter belt. If he had stood closer, he would have noticed a subtle pattern. The clasps of the suspender straps were black, like the stockings, so they didn't stand out. They didn't spoil the perfect, almost natural view of harmony and... femininity. He examined the underwear. It was black. The panties tightly hugged the hemispheres of her buttocks. They had a rather daring cutout at the hip. It was lucky she wasn't wearing a thong, he thought.

The bra, he supposed, probably came with the panties, looking at it from quite a distance.

He was emphasizing her breasts.

Another surge of hormones. He regretted now that he hadn't worn boxers. Those panties are definitely too tight, a thought flashed through his mind.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of her left breast in the mirror. Full, firm... the kind straight out of his erotic dreams.

But what to do with those unbearably sticking-out pants? He thought frantically.

The bathroom light went out. She came back. She was dressed casually. A tank top and some pants.

He wanted to pounce on her.

She wanted him to pounce on her.

Some pointless conversation. Again. Words to fill the void. He felt hot.

She felt a familiar tingling in his lower abdomen.

Just don't pounce on her like an animal, he repeated to himself.

This isn't just any woman, I care about her. Respect.

The slipped strap of her blouse. Her nipples standing out against the fabric.

He didn't know a casual movement of his hand would have been enough. Almost unintentionally. The strap would have slipped. The freed breast, with the pink nipple seen in the shower, would have been something completely different. Protruding, with goosebumps here and there, ending now with a completely different nipple, no longer pink. Brown, shriveled. As if waiting for something.

God, I hope he doesn't mistake me for any easy girl he comes across – she was terrified.

God, I can't behave like this. He'll be scared of me – he thought.

Their darting eyes. Their darting thoughts. And the excitement hanging in the air. "

I should go now," he said, modulating his voice to make it sound natural.

It sounded artificial. "

Yes, I should lie down now," she nodded artificially.

He stood up, clumsily covering the mound of his pants.

She stood up. Her erect nipples stood out even more clearly beneath the fabric.

"Goodnight," he said, looking away.

"Goodnight," she said vaguely.

The slight slam of a door.

He wanted to slam her, but at the last minute he changed his mind. He was angry, at her, at himself. Sometimes he didn't understand himself.

She cried. Out of grief. Out of disappointment. He doesn't like me, she thought.

They met today...