you know it babe. and it's true.
he picked up his glass and looked towards his menu. his skin was tan. much darker than mine. winter had really done a number on whatever color i had managed to attain that past august.
his words were perfect. choice, really.
well played, i thought to myself. responding back with that signature smile of carelessness and flirtation.
acknowledging the win with a tip of my glass in his direction.
round one. goes to the boy.
i watched his jawline tighten into a grin.
yeah, he knew.
it didn't have to be said out loud. because it was well played. he knew it. i knew it. hell, the whole room knew it.
and that was that.
i watched him closely. closer than he probably realized (no i'm not creepy. okay, kinda creepy)
i knew his type. well, in fact.
too well? mmhmm.
this whole put-together, picture perfect thing in front of me. the one that was so good at giving me just short of 'enough'. leaving me intrigued for more.
an old familiar tune that rang so so clear. even amongst the sound of dishes being dumped and the chatter of a booked friday night at one of the city's most popular restaurants.
like a willie nelson song on a rainy city morning.
his eyes shifted. and the intimacy of the 'babe' lingered from his last sentence.
i despise that he just called me that.
but in a self-loathing way--kind of love it.
the competitive and mysterious game being played right now. with no monopoly pieces or face cards. (spades, i'm good at spades) just those 511 slim fit levis and navy blue t-shirt. and the self-proclaimed rules that defined his every move.
the easy and simple way his smile could tease with my emotions.
right there, that damn queen of hearts.
just listening to his words. that in reality, were just words but because they were coming from his mouth--became magical. magnified to some level of propheticalness. holding depth and sustenance compared to that of mother teresa or gandhi.
his get out of jail free card.
sidenote: i will never understand how/why females do that. i guess it's the curse of wanting something to be more than it is. or desiring something so wrong to be so spot on.
dangerous stuff right there. and i'm not a fool.
not my first rodeo, right?
i'm not one for games of high risk. vegas and i are on more of a 'watch and enjoy' basis. i'm not one to place high stakes on something i can't control. and here we are. game face. evaluating what risks are worth taking. how much i will really lay out on the table? and what will remain safe, undisclosed?
do i tell him the stories of how i'm in so many ways a clone of my father. and confide in him about the things i am truly scared of. or do i keep it all within the sexy and shameless banter category... going home with nothing more than a knee-deep infatuation?
my move. my turn. so i stick to what i know. my words make him laugh.
genuine. flattering. impressive.
there we go.
round two: goes to the girl.
and yet here i am, playing it as if i don't care. secretly eating up the whole leave-it-to-beaver-picture that he paints with a trained hand. devilish with his casual jokes about the beautiful children we would make.
ah, you little player.
but there is a part of me that still loves it. of course.
he knows his stuff. like the way he'd callously let me take the upper hand, giving in for just a moment. knowing that he could take it back with ease.
leaving me wondering if i ever really had it. questioning things i strongly discourage myself from questioning.
ah, there it is. the trump card.
that horrid and wonderful ace of spades.
but play in carefully b-a-b-e.
if used too early, it could do more harm then good. if used too late--could be futile.
and really, neither of us want to lose.
and i don't want to fall. no, i really don't. i don't care what the feel-good love songs say. falling is not part of the game for me.
because i know that--in the end--after the initial force of impact, after the adrenaline rush and the massive collision of a steady and heavy drop--that i will be the one picking myself up again.
and whether or not this beautiful creature across the table from me realized that--and maybe never would. those are the facts.
sure, i can wince at the pain of the bruises. now showing almost immediately after impact. and i will walk on, picking myself up like a champ. but why? not when i don't have to.
it's all a matter of how you play the game.
of what cards you hold. and when you choose to play them.
he signed the receipt and thanked the waitress.
you ready babe?
he nodded toward the door and held out his hand.
i took it. ready.
round three: we'll see.
p.s. sorry i left you hanging for so long. i promise to not neglect this blog like that ever again. pinky promise. just adjusting to my new 100% fabulous life in the city.
xoxo. more to come.