I took the drink and looked for somewhere in the bar to sit. My preference was for alone and able to both hide a little in the darker corners, whilst still able to keep a subtle eye on the steps leading down to the basement from the busy London street above .
My nerves were taut, like guitar strings. The anticipation of meeting her was playing a strange song that I'd almost forgotten during the years of marriage.
Taking another sip, the doorway at the head of the stairs brightened to indicate another patron entering. This time would it be her? A silhouette of a woman. Short. No, better to describe her as petite. Tiny, like a dainty, almost ethereal being. Not beautiful as such, conventional labels seemed pointless describing her. Attractive, somehow radiating a simultaneous confidence and vulnerability.
Business dress, just as she'd been wearing in the office where I'd seen her earlier that morning. Sheer nylon covering the visible extent of her legs, dark skirt white blouse. Smart jacket. Trendy bag.
The strings of my confidence were now shrieking a siren song, the last chance to step away from this moment and turn aside, hide my face in the corner and pretend I wasn't there. To avoid her and our email-arranged meeting, to go back to my marriage as if nothing had happened.
I stood up and with an assortment of non-verbal cues indicated to her that is was me that had been flirting with her. It was me that was waiting to meet her. It was me that wanted to fuck her. As much as, she had assured me, she wanted to fuck me.
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