She told me that she was finished with the "sweet and sensitive" men she was meeting. I knew she truthfully meant something else. She was finished with passionless men. Unassertive men. Boring men. "Sweet and sensitive" was just her way of being tactful. She wanted to say the men she was meeting were nice, but unexceptional. They didn't focus their hunger or urges on her, because they barely had enough of those qualities for their own lives.
"I'm exhausted with their routine," she said. She didn't look exhausted though. She looked like she was in the prime of her life. Still on this Thursday night, the restaurant where we sat probably reminded her of all the ordinary things in her life.
I gathered that after days and weeks had passed, and the various men in her orbit graduated to second and third-date material, she needed something more from them. But she wasn't getting it. She didn't want mild or timid kisses, or whatever else followed. Yet that was what she found. Out there in dating-land there was a particular tiredness with life, which was simply masquerading as politeness and sensitivity. Maybe even maturity.
"I need a bit more" - she searched for the word... "I need more Grrrrrr in my life..." She joked, landing on a sound rather than a word. I could see the frustration in her face, and hear it in her voice, though she was smiling as she talked.
I imagined she needed to be muscled. She needed to be taken. She wanted to find that man who had some rare unabashed passion, and would let it overwhelm him... and then her.
"Grrrrr...?" I answered her. I smiled and thought about the way the sound found something wonderful. It cut through the conversation. In fact, I wanted to answer her with my own sound. I wanted to say 'I have that for you. That muscle. That need. But I have yet to show it to you.'
Instead, we laughed and the subject changed, but still that sound was hanging over the rest of our short time together. On that night, it was just her and myself, and a few other work-friends who sat nearby. We were there at the usual restaurant near the office, sharing drinks and poking at half-eaten appetizers.
I wondered if she could see the way my breathing changed, as she spoke. I wondered if she could see the way my eyes traveled over her. Work-friends necessarily had a social and romantic barrier between them at our company, but all I wanted to do was break down that wall and come crashing into her bedroom late one night.
*********
I tried to bury myself in everything EXCEPT her. I rode my bike on weekends, tiring my legs and resurrecting my lungs. I dusted-off the keyboard to my old piano, and taught myself to play a Brahms Intermezzo. The sheet music had sat there open for years, waiting. I was exasperated at my lack of technical skill, but I warmed as the music began to slowly flow and develop. Later, when I sat in front of the TV, I ordered myself to do push-ups and then chin-ups at every commercial break, and then as days turned into weeks that was all I did as old shows flickered on the screen, resting -- breathlessly -- as I fought the images of her intruding into my life. My body was changing. Hardening. Finding itself.
It seemed to be helping. At night my fatigue overwhelmed me... I slept calmly; deeply. The visions of her and I together only showing as temporary bursts, which I sometimes managed to disregard.
*********
But that was only until one Thursday night. The same restaurant, the same half-eaten appetizers decorating the table. Somehow that memorable "Grrrrr" still coloring the atmosphere. The difference this time, was that there were more people in attendance.
We had to crowd around the various tables, and once again, she happened to be next to me. Our legs touched and then stayed planted together as we grouped closer to make room for new arrivals. As the conversation and laughter carried around, I felt the warmth of her body. We all talked work; we talked gossip; we made fun of ourselves and everyone we knew.
But beneath that table she didn't retrieve her leg -- she didn't move it away, although by then she could have easily done so. It stayed pressed-up against mine. And I kept my leg right there as well, incapable of turning away from the feelings she brought. I felt that "Grrrrr" travel through my body. I imagined the feeling of her skin. The way her legs could wrap around me. The way I could spread her wide, over and over. At the moment, if I wanted to keep her at a distance, it was literally impossible.
I might have done something different. Maybe, if I had consumed one less drink that night, or if I had taken one extra minute to consider my actions, I would have been more mature, more responsible. Instead, I was soon going to risk my job, and I didn't care...
As we all sat close together talking and laughing (the feeling of her wrecking my mind) I found a cocktail napkin. I found a pen in my jacket pocket, and on that napkin I scribbled a note.
