She was still talking quite seriously about work, but I had completely zoned out by now. My entire world conscious and subconscious, limited though either was under this heavy an alcohol influence, was trained entirely on thoughts of her. Thoughts I knew I should not be having.
I tried to listen to her and nod along, offer what might seem like a reasonable contribution to the conversation, but all I could do was be hypnotized by the movement of her lips and stunned by her gaze. I could see the bare flesh of her exposed thighs and it both tempted and scared me at the same time. How did it get to this point?
In short, I had practically fallen for her the first time I met her. And the more time we had spent together, the more I felt drawn to her. I had started to think about her at home, pathetically reminiscing to myself the playful office banter we shared and fantasizing about her as if I ever would have the chance to be with her. It had gone beyond friendship now, I had become besotted with her, almost overcome with desire. I’m old enough to know better, to not be suckered so childishly into falling for someone I can’t have but she just seemed to have an appeal I couldn’t resist.
She was, in essence a walking, talking stereotype of a 1980’s office clerk. Like a real life Lois Lane she put on her professional look for work. Her deep dark eyes, enlarged by her intelligent use of makeup, were hidden behind her glasses in the office. Her long dark hair always tied up, her shoes always flat and her dress sense always conservative. Yet outside of work she beamed a huge smile, her true beauty unleashed on the world and her perfect features enhanced by the freedom to look and feel how she wanted. She was a little younger than me, yet wittier and somehow more streetwise, able to conceal her emotions and keep her cool no matter how much I baited her. I had to tread carefully, we enjoyed a good working relationship which I couldn’t risk spoiling and I had wanted to be more sure that she felt the same about me before I made any kind of pass at her, but I’d left signs for her to decipher. And I’d read signs from her that I’d interpreted as reciprocation. That night I was too drunk to care about subtlety and tact. My longing for her was boiling over. It was happening then. I had to tell her how she made me feel.
We had been at a birthday party for a colleague; both got a little worse for wear and were now heading home after what turned out to be a pretty heavy night. There was tension and chemistry between us and as the night had worn on I had found myself with my arm round her waist more and more - posing for pictures, protecting her from the crowd at the bar, holding each other up. Even that little physical contact seemed to encourage me to want her more. We’d had a great time and it now seemed the only way to end it would be to tell her how I felt about her. Maybe that was just drunk logic, I knew I shouldn’t tell her at all, no good could come from it, but I was doing it anyway, my mind was made up.
The taxi cab jerked round a corner too quickly and I glanced out of the window to gauge where we were – not far from her house – my heart began to race and I shifted nervously, still trying to maintain an input into the conversation.
“So... erm, we’re almost at yours and...”
“Oh yeah sorry!” She interrupted, then rummaged in her handbag before pulling out a £20 note. “There’s half the taxi fare.”
It wasn’t what I meant. I would happily have paid for the cab myself but I took it anyway. My nerves were starting to get the better of me and I was audibly shaking with each breath.
“No... I mean thanks, but... well I was gonna say something but I’ve sort of forgot now.”
“Ha ha! Mong!” She quipped. It always seemed harsh when she called me that but I’d come to know it as a term of endearment from her.
“Ha ha!” I chuckled back uncomfortably. ‘Nevermind. It was stupid anyway’ I thought. Nothing was going to happen. Forget it.
The car turned onto her street. My hands visibly trembled and I repeatedly shuffled about as the driver slowed to a halt in the middle of the cul-de-sac and we stared at each other.
“So...” we started, both simultaneously mocking some kind of clichéd awkward love scene and genuinely unsure of what next to say. The moment seemed like an age, an age of pulses racing and of hearts beating so loudly the driver could barely hear his radio. She laughed uncomfortably and made a long sigh, still holding my eyes with hers, pausing only to look up and roll her eyes before fixing her sight right back on my face.
I waited forever before deciding to call it a night. There was nothing doing here, I had to just go home and drop all this nonsense.
“So I’ll see you on Mon...” I started.
“Fuck it.” She interjected.
“What?”
Before I could say anything else she reached forward, cupped my cheeks and pressed her lips against mine. I could feel the breath from my nose on her cheek so heavy and fast. Her hands slipped down my face, roamed inside my jacket and pressed against my chest. I was far from in great shape physically, but I still had the ruins of a decent physique and she investigated this slowly and painstakingly, all the while our lips engaged, pushed together.