They spent St. Patrick’s night together, an unspoken dare throwing punches at the fixture of reason.
“What are you thinking?” She said. The devil’s temper was painting curves across her smile. She owned the pace of their movements now that the company had gone intimate and the conversation had moved into thoughts gone splendor.
He didn’t answer, because that’s what men are apt to do in situations that beg for a response. They don’t. Silence being the age old currency of machismo, as if brokered from the pens of whiskey sailing playwrights and muscular wars fought in the silence of some foreign place. His was the possession of predictable context, where ambitious drinks are perpetuated and charm is allowed to prosper and feast only because the girl is in want of some time.
They lay together on her living room floor with Bowie tramping up her old turntable to something new sounding as the walls mimicked light. And then she gained her feet, standing directly in front of him as if a concubine delivered from the ancient stories. She removed her clothing, a maddeningly slow gallivant that enlisted his hands, finally. Their kiss was easy and wet.
It was going to be a mistake, he thought.