(image by lonelypierot)
What an amazing place he chose for their first date, she can barely hear her thoughts rising above the thumping of her heartbeat. With sweaty palms she dials his number from her hiding place behind the heavy curtain; the number she she now knows by heart. Not that it’s her first blind date of course; not at all. But this time she has no doubt that he is The One.
For months they've been talking. She can see him as a child climbing trees; as an adolescence kissing his first love; as a restless adult who could never fulfill his hidden passions. She can still feel her curled sobbing body under the blanket, when her choking words told him her secret – the words she never thought she'd utter. She also remembers lying in bed for, with the telephone in one hand, laughing for hours. Even now she can barely stand when thinking of the near violent shaking or her body releasing her desire when he played with her mind, release that nobody in flesh has ever lead her to. There was nothing she didn’t know about him. Nothing he didn’t know about her. Nothing but one.
She had always fallen for looks, always for the wrong man, so this time she insisted their looks would remain secret, and he accepted. Until today it was their only secret. But from the moment they agreed on this meeting, she could only think of their lips meeting; of their first touch. Today she’ll see him for the first time.
She pushes the wrong button, and with trembling fingers dials again. The sound of a phone ringing in the tranquil restaurant cannot be mistaken. It’s her favorite melody, the one she taught him to love. In the shimmering candle light a man lifts the phone to his face. Hello he says with a gentle smile. But he is not the man in her mind; not the man she saw their lips touching; not the man who brought her all the pleasure, the man who made her laugh. He is not the man who, for the first time, will explore her body with his. On her way out she knows she’ll never speak with him again. She knows that it’ll be the man who sent her the photos she’ll be meeting next. He will not be the man she wants, but the man she responds to, whose looks pushes her buttons. Next time, it will be the wrong man again.