Our relationship has been building for weeks. More and more flirty, the two of us have been pushing the limits of our temptation, under the radar of our small group of friends. During tonight's late night dinner party, the attraction between us may prove too intoxicating to resist, especially when flashes beneath her sundress reveal cotton panties with what appear to be little, red hearts.
Bordeaux has been flowing, and I am deep in the grip of the grape, the place where everything takes on a haze and romanticism as if bathed in candlelight. I sit across from her, falling into her eyes, deep brown pools of espresso, invigorating. They drip shot after shot into my nervous system. I feel electric and shaky, warmed to the core, eager to pour words upon words to chase and tackle the millions of thoughts she has erected within me.
We are locked in
mamihlapinatapai
, a word birthed in Tierra Del Fuego, meaning the look shared between two people, both hoping the other will initiate that which they both desire. Our friends chatter about in a blurred periphery as we stare deeply, barely caring if we are caught. We struggle to keep the lust just below the surface.
She offers me a small candy wrapped in red plastic, twisted closed at both sides.
