And right then, it was even more perfect when I saw the names on the bags that were on my couch.
My shoulder slumped, so deep, my bag fell right to the floor. Then I hustled to the couch, dropped my keys on my vintage, oval, white, awesomely chipped, quirky coffee table (that yes, was totally girlie) I bought for three dollars at a yard sale and reached into the first bag.
I pulled out an expertly tissue wrapped parcel, carefully tore the tissue away and shook out a black dress, it’s fabric so far away from polyester or any synthetic fiber it was… not… funny.
It felt like what I thought heaven would feel like.
When I held it up I saw it looked like what an angel would wear too, if she had her own personal Italian designer, showed serious skin, wore black and not white and had whopping, mega style.
Holding it to me, I smoothed it down my front as I felt my nose start to sting.
I’d never seen anything so exquisite, touched it, held it and certainly never, ever owned it.
Then I carefully laid it out across the back of the couch and went back to the bag.
Dress two, a metallic platinum. Sublime.
Dress three, red. Flawless. Awe-inspiring.
After smoothing the red out on the couch, I went to the next bag.
Shoes. Three pairs. All high heels. All sandals. One pair black. One platinum. One red. The prices on the labels on the sides were not torn off or marked out and the least expensive pair was seven hundred and fifty dollars.
My heart, beating hard, started racing.
Next bag, three exquisite evening clutches. Red sequins. Black jet beads. Champagne satin.
Next bag, this one smaller, a bunch of little boxes. One, a collection of thin bangles, all set with tiny red beads. Another, earrings that matched the bangles, long threads of red beads mixed with long threads of thin silver links. Another, a twisting choker of strings and strings of jet beads. Another, matching earrings that were a burst of the same. Another, a wide bracelet with an intricate, heavy, complicated clasp that was part of the adornment off of which were strung dozens upon dozens of tangled champagne, seed pearls. The last, earrings of the same, so long, when I held them up to my ear, they brushed my shoulders.
And finally, at the bottom of the dress bag, a business card sized card with Knight’s black slashes, ordering:
A, Saturday, pick one. K
Pick one.
Pick one.
Nose still stinging, I stared at my couch and coffee table over which was strewn a cornucopia of feminine delights as delivered by my awesome, protective, scary new boyfriend who hadn’t even kissed me yet.
Then, stiltedly, I walked to my purse on the floor, bent, grabbed it and equally stiltedly walked back to my couch as I dug out my phone. Once my fingers curled around my extortionately expensive phone, I dumped my cheap (but cute) purse next to the expensive new “shit” Knight had delivered to me. Then I bent my head and hit buttons.
Then I put the phone to my ear.
Knight’s smooth, deep voice said in my ear, “Sebring, leave a message.”
And the message I left was a soft, trembling, “Honey, you haven’t even kissed me yet.”
Then, feeling stupid, scared, elated, mystified and anxious not only that this felt so good, often times right, many times terrifying, sometimes confusing but also anxious that he’d given me so much, no matter what it was, that I wouldn’t live up to the promise he saw in me, I beeped the button to disconnect and stared at my booty.
Then I sucked in breath and carefully, reverently put my stash away in my bedroom before I made a quick sandwich, ate it and set up for my client at my cute, chipped, white-painted, quirky dinette that a friend gave me when she moved in with her man and he declared he would not sit his ass at that dinette.
* * * * *
I was riding an elephant. It was white, its trunk up and trumpeting.
I was in my new red dress, shoes and bangles and I was giggling.
And somewhere my cell phone was ringing.
* * * * *
My eyes opened and I saw dark. I heard my cell stop ringing and I blinked at my alarm clock.
It was twelve thirteen.
Then I heard the call up buzzer sound in my living room.
What on earth?
I threw back my new, down comforter with its subtle, soft, flowery pattern (okay, so I had more flowers but they were in another room so that was acceptable). Part sleepy, definitely groggy I dashed in my baby blue with tiny pink polka dots drawstring, pajama short-shorts and my baby pink shelf bra camisole into the living room.
I flipped on the overhead light, grabbed the phone off the wall by the side of the door and muttered, “’Lo.”
“Anya, babe, been out here five f**kin’ minutes. You gotta sleep like the dead. Buzz me up.”
My breath left me.
Knight.
I blinked. Then I shook myself and depressed the button that buzzed him up.
I heard the door outside open through the receiver then nothing.
I put the phone back in its cradle and stared at it.
He hadn’t called after my client. He hadn’t called between clients. He hadn’t called at all, not even after I left a message. This was disappointing and a little scary. But I got to sleep telling myself when my day ended, his started so I had to get over it because clearly his demonstration that day was not about game playing.
And now it was after midnight and he was here.
Here.
Right now.
Taking the elevator (maybe).
And I had bed head, no makeup and was in my pajamas.
Oh God!
Panic instantly froze me as a million thoughts coursed through my head. None of which I had time to do anything about like changing, swiping on mascara, brushing my hair and/or teeth or spritzing with perfume and I knew this because there was a knock at the door.
I shifted to it since I was standing at it, looked through the peephole and saw Knight’s handsome head tipped down staring at what I figured was my doorknob.
Suit, dark again, this time a shirt the exact color of his eyes.
God, God, he was beautiful.
Another knock. Impatient.
I jumped, unlocked the deadbolt, the twist lock on the knob and slid off and dropped the chain. Then I put my hand to the knob to turn it but it was turning in my hand already.
I jumped back when the door opened and Knight surged through.
I looked up at his face, seeing instant and extreme intensity and whispered, “Honey, is everything oh –?”
I got no further. This was because his hands were cupping my jaws and pulling me firmly up until I was on my toes at the same time his head was descending.
Then his mouth slammed down on mine.
I made a noise at the back of my throat, lifted my hands and curled my fingers into the lapel of his jacket.
My shoulder slumped, so deep, my bag fell right to the floor. Then I hustled to the couch, dropped my keys on my vintage, oval, white, awesomely chipped, quirky coffee table (that yes, was totally girlie) I bought for three dollars at a yard sale and reached into the first bag.
I pulled out an expertly tissue wrapped parcel, carefully tore the tissue away and shook out a black dress, it’s fabric so far away from polyester or any synthetic fiber it was… not… funny.
It felt like what I thought heaven would feel like.
When I held it up I saw it looked like what an angel would wear too, if she had her own personal Italian designer, showed serious skin, wore black and not white and had whopping, mega style.
Holding it to me, I smoothed it down my front as I felt my nose start to sting.
I’d never seen anything so exquisite, touched it, held it and certainly never, ever owned it.
Then I carefully laid it out across the back of the couch and went back to the bag.
Dress two, a metallic platinum. Sublime.
Dress three, red. Flawless. Awe-inspiring.
After smoothing the red out on the couch, I went to the next bag.
Shoes. Three pairs. All high heels. All sandals. One pair black. One platinum. One red. The prices on the labels on the sides were not torn off or marked out and the least expensive pair was seven hundred and fifty dollars.
My heart, beating hard, started racing.
Next bag, three exquisite evening clutches. Red sequins. Black jet beads. Champagne satin.
Next bag, this one smaller, a bunch of little boxes. One, a collection of thin bangles, all set with tiny red beads. Another, earrings that matched the bangles, long threads of red beads mixed with long threads of thin silver links. Another, a twisting choker of strings and strings of jet beads. Another, matching earrings that were a burst of the same. Another, a wide bracelet with an intricate, heavy, complicated clasp that was part of the adornment off of which were strung dozens upon dozens of tangled champagne, seed pearls. The last, earrings of the same, so long, when I held them up to my ear, they brushed my shoulders.
And finally, at the bottom of the dress bag, a business card sized card with Knight’s black slashes, ordering:
A, Saturday, pick one. K
Pick one.
Pick one.
Nose still stinging, I stared at my couch and coffee table over which was strewn a cornucopia of feminine delights as delivered by my awesome, protective, scary new boyfriend who hadn’t even kissed me yet.
Then, stiltedly, I walked to my purse on the floor, bent, grabbed it and equally stiltedly walked back to my couch as I dug out my phone. Once my fingers curled around my extortionately expensive phone, I dumped my cheap (but cute) purse next to the expensive new “shit” Knight had delivered to me. Then I bent my head and hit buttons.
Then I put the phone to my ear.
Knight’s smooth, deep voice said in my ear, “Sebring, leave a message.”
And the message I left was a soft, trembling, “Honey, you haven’t even kissed me yet.”
Then, feeling stupid, scared, elated, mystified and anxious not only that this felt so good, often times right, many times terrifying, sometimes confusing but also anxious that he’d given me so much, no matter what it was, that I wouldn’t live up to the promise he saw in me, I beeped the button to disconnect and stared at my booty.
Then I sucked in breath and carefully, reverently put my stash away in my bedroom before I made a quick sandwich, ate it and set up for my client at my cute, chipped, white-painted, quirky dinette that a friend gave me when she moved in with her man and he declared he would not sit his ass at that dinette.
* * * * *
I was riding an elephant. It was white, its trunk up and trumpeting.
I was in my new red dress, shoes and bangles and I was giggling.
And somewhere my cell phone was ringing.
* * * * *
My eyes opened and I saw dark. I heard my cell stop ringing and I blinked at my alarm clock.
It was twelve thirteen.
Then I heard the call up buzzer sound in my living room.
What on earth?
I threw back my new, down comforter with its subtle, soft, flowery pattern (okay, so I had more flowers but they were in another room so that was acceptable). Part sleepy, definitely groggy I dashed in my baby blue with tiny pink polka dots drawstring, pajama short-shorts and my baby pink shelf bra camisole into the living room.
I flipped on the overhead light, grabbed the phone off the wall by the side of the door and muttered, “’Lo.”
“Anya, babe, been out here five f**kin’ minutes. You gotta sleep like the dead. Buzz me up.”
My breath left me.
Knight.
I blinked. Then I shook myself and depressed the button that buzzed him up.
I heard the door outside open through the receiver then nothing.
I put the phone back in its cradle and stared at it.
He hadn’t called after my client. He hadn’t called between clients. He hadn’t called at all, not even after I left a message. This was disappointing and a little scary. But I got to sleep telling myself when my day ended, his started so I had to get over it because clearly his demonstration that day was not about game playing.
And now it was after midnight and he was here.
Here.
Right now.
Taking the elevator (maybe).
And I had bed head, no makeup and was in my pajamas.
Oh God!
Panic instantly froze me as a million thoughts coursed through my head. None of which I had time to do anything about like changing, swiping on mascara, brushing my hair and/or teeth or spritzing with perfume and I knew this because there was a knock at the door.
I shifted to it since I was standing at it, looked through the peephole and saw Knight’s handsome head tipped down staring at what I figured was my doorknob.
Suit, dark again, this time a shirt the exact color of his eyes.
God, God, he was beautiful.
Another knock. Impatient.
I jumped, unlocked the deadbolt, the twist lock on the knob and slid off and dropped the chain. Then I put my hand to the knob to turn it but it was turning in my hand already.
I jumped back when the door opened and Knight surged through.
I looked up at his face, seeing instant and extreme intensity and whispered, “Honey, is everything oh –?”
I got no further. This was because his hands were cupping my jaws and pulling me firmly up until I was on my toes at the same time his head was descending.
Then his mouth slammed down on mine.
I made a noise at the back of my throat, lifted my hands and curled my fingers into the lapel of his jacket.
