I sigh. “Not really…”
“It doesn’t matter, you know. If you want, we can just sit quietly.”
I lift my eyes to hers.
“Maybe you could talk.”
The corner of her mouth twitches.
“Tell me everything that goes through your mind.”
“Seriously? Do you care?”
“Yes,” I say, honestly. “I care, Christine.”
“Well, unlucky for you, because I love chatting… You’re going to have to shut me up by force.”
God, yes.I’d love to. In my own way.
And she talks. She talks and talks, without pausing for breath. I don’t know if she’s doing it just to fill my silences or to cover up the awkwardness of this strange, unlikely situation: but I like it.
She gesticulates, gets excited, her face moulding into silly but sexy expressions. She is herself, that much I’m sure of. Simply herself. She doesn’t hide away, doesn’t spare any details. She doesn’t need to. She doesn’t need to mask anything, because she’s so natural, so alive, that I can’t do anything but watch her, mesmerised by everything she does.
I listen to bits and pieces of what she’s saying. Every so often I lose myself in the movement of her soft lips, the corners of her mouth upturning, her eyes that mirror her soul. Her cheeks redden slightly when she becomes more animated, the freckles sprinkled across her face making her look mischievous. Her wild hair slips in front of her face, and every few minutes she brushes it away with a finger. Her hands move in time with the rhythm of her words: hands that I want to feel all over me, sliding over my body. I want to feel them wrap themselves around me, holding me tight.
“I’m boring you,” she says suddenly, bringing me back down to reality. Because this is a dream – one of those dreams that wakes you up with an infinite emptiness.
“No,” I shake my head. “Not at all.”
“I’ve been talking for over an hour,” she points out, embarrassed.
“It’s okay…I like it.”
She looks at me questioningly.
The waitress comes back to clear our plates. We both had steak sandwiches with fries and pepper sauce. She asks us if we’d like any dessert, and Christine nibbles on her lip hopefully.
“Why not,” I say, shrugging.
“I saw that you have brownies?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.
“Sure, with ice cream and chocolate sauce.”
“Oh God, yes,” Chris says, almost moaning with pleasure, giving me another little problem under the table.
“Do you want to share it?” the waitress asks.
Christine looks at me with her huge, sweet eyes, and I find myself nodding.
When they bring our dessert, she slowly plunges her spoon into the brownie, then slips the spoon into her mouth; my problem under the table is almost unbearable now.
“Mmm,” she says, closing her eyes and licking her lips.
And I can’t stop thinking about how much I want to lick those full, plump lips.
“Do you want some?” she asks, pushing the spoon in front of me.
They’ve only brought us one spoon.
