In Silk and Satin. Not sure which of the dresses you chose, but you ask me before leaving your (our) home. Both delightful. What can I say? I'll be staggered that I'll walk you to the social event, offering you my arm, even if your steady, proud steps are straight and balanced, and you fall towards me only for the opportunity of another gentle caress.
The dress will only make me wish going back home, all night long, at every swift friction while we dance, at every look at the subtle cuts that let me see your marble back, your soft thighs, your tender torso.
The dress textures will only remind me that you decided to wear one for the public, but only I will see the other: undergarments worn close to your body, premiering that same night, contrasting with silk or satin, in a flashier color, forerunner to an intimacy destined to my delight only. I might get glimpses of imagination, or even feel them during that social evening: daring, hidden moments that we find together - you are always eager to tease me.
The midnight kiss is not just casual, loving, wishful. It is prolonged, suddenly open, anticipative, sensual. It baits the imagination, already fueled by the feel good ambiance, the exquisite food, the exceptional wine.
We dance the night away. In an instant of embrace, you whisper at my ear "it is time to go..." The whisper encapsulates the ellipsis: the untold moments that are to come. The farewells, the social dictates, are lengthy and only heigthen the tension. At some points, our hands are held, and you subtly squeeze, you subtly caress, you subtly lock your fingers on mine. When free, we cannot rush quicker to the car, but still passionately kiss at every turn of the way.
We park. Your hand had teased me all of the journey, but briskly opens the car door. We suddenly come back to a rational walk, an act for possible neighbours. We are now seemingly a gentleman and a lady, not thrilled from the evening, not anxious about the night - composed, your arm in mine. We behave even in the elevator, an elusive kiss, a firm grasp against the mirror.
A final moment of intense silence and holding back, as you search your keys in the tiny purse. You unlock the door, turn to me, grab my hands, and pull me inside.
This could be a great NYE. And I dream in anticipation of a tomorrow that never comes, a tomorrow I was never brave enough to make happen.
And I know it would have been exactly has I dreamt it, and close to what I just described. And it is lost, just like that, and it might be happening with other man, that is capable of being courageous, strong, rightful and caring.
You deserve it is happening, I deserve I can only dream it.
(Did I mention your bedsheets were freshly washed satin? It was a divine sleep, because for everything else, we could not get past the first wall, the countersink, the table, the sofa, the carpet.)
