A late Night Dinner
Before we begin, this is my first work of fiction that i've finished in a long time, so it's mainly me brushing up my skills after not writting since university (Nothing kills your drive for creative writting like being told you have to write).
So yeah it's just a short sketch really of a scene of a person going on probably the third date (You know, when yoou can back to their place and not be called a slut despite the fact you've been dying to since the first date?) and whats going on.
The gender is left ambigious, so feel free to think of the main character as a woman or as a fella. Please if you enjoy it or have some critical feedback let me know, it's the only way I can improve.
Enjoy!
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It was a bad haircut. It was a spectacularly bad haircut. If it had existed in ancient times, forgetting the absence of hair gel for a moment, epic poems of cautionary warning would be told and retold, reworded from generation to generation but time could not make this haircut any less disastrous. Heck it might even be weaved in the creation legends, some omen of the end of days. They had enough of them to fit it in somewhere.
It was still a bad haircut. Although it wasn't the hairstylists fault. They obviously had skill and talent, if not the back bone to tell the unfortunate otter that the cut just wasn't him. But now there was a very charming, interesting otter in front of me, bordering the lines of cute and sexy with a haircut that had not only thrown cold water onto my libido but then thrown it out the door, kicked it into the gutter, called it a whore then ran over it. Twice.
It was this point that I noticed he was looking at me with expectation. Well we weren't in bed yet so it wasn't that it was my turn to service him, when for once I would not hesitate to give head as to be able to stop looking at that hair cut. So to buy time I said nothing, picked up my wine glass and took a sip.
He had chosen the wine and like everything but his hair it was perfect, sweet and wet with a pleasant citrus blend to to. I savored the flavour as I forced my mind to try and remember what we had been talking about. Work... No, that was before the entree, we were waiting for mains now. His ex and kids? No they were very absent from this conversation meaning he was probably going to tr and take me home tonight, not that I had objections except for that hair. Darn, usually I couldn't be slipped up like this. My wine glass was already on the table so I had to say something.
"Your eyes are really the nicest shade of blue when you smile like that" and a sultry smile. How did he react that that schmaltzy line? Would he know I wasn't paying attention because of his hair? Or would he think I was just bored with him? Of course I wasn't bored with him! I hadn't seen him naked yet! Not that that is all there is too it.
Ah ha! A smile and a slight blush, a shift in his scent from deflating ego to measured pride. Obviously his wife, ex-wife gotta remember that, did not compliment him enough. Or perhaps he see's me in greater esteem. Which is flattering, though perhaps to sudden. Why am I thinking so much?
Another sip of the wine, a larger one as the mains are served. He is having some sort of fish, I didn't pay attention to what type when he ordered as I'm not a fish person, but the sauce smells like ambrosia. Spices through a cream sauce with just enough bite to compliment the baked fish. Mine is a Chicken stuffed with feta, spinach and a few other herbs with a pesto paste baked onto the outside and two giant pieces of pasta next to it.
We eat with light conversation. TV shows, music, movies, who that slut in his office is banging these days, who that slut in MY office is banging these days, heaven forbid they meet each other. I keep my eyes either on his eyes, his meal or my meal, to avoid that hair. His foot rubs my leg gently and I press against it. It glides up slightly but stops at my knee. I wonder if he, or anyone else, can smell my arousal. Well better deal with that.
The hair. Gods. How can I be so shallow? He is everything I've been looking for in a man out of the sack. If what I have heard is true he's hardly a dud in the sack either. But I keep letting that hair get in the way. Just play it cool, get through desert, get him home, switch off the light and the "accidentally" give him some dye in his conditioner so he has to get it re-cut. Bribe his stylist if I have to.
"Desert?" He asks. God his accent is alluring too, how can you put so much sexual longing into a single word? His foot has moved up just a little move. His body language reads "Lets go home" to even the most inexperienced eyes. To my experienced eyes its a full colour illustration that by all rights should be kept in the bottom of a tank of ice.
"No thank you" A sweet calculated smile as I let my paw move down and stroke the bare fur on the top of his foot slowly, feeling his toes flex. I lick my lips seemingly absently and cant help but see how he stares. I know the kids are at his ex-wife's place tonight. There are definitely going to be fireworks tonight. I lean in closer and kisses him softly on the cheek, move up to his ear and whisper the words that will see me at his place in under an hour. Our bodies entwined, secrets of the flesh being explored, exposed.
"Your haircut looks ridiculous"