Simple Things

"fuck, another model." Jeff rolled his eyes tipping back his cup, but his ribbing was fond.

Fuck indeed, he thought, another model. But this one felt different. The beginning was very much the same. He had been teased that he used Instagram as his own version of tinder. There was a note of truth to it, he knew he had a pattern, follow, like, DM,  but it wasn't like he could actually go on tinder, and when else was he supposed to meet girls. A couple he'd been introduced to had a bit of that chemical reaction he wanted. He had limited time, it needed to be volatile, a slow burn was not gonna catch before he had to be on to the next obligation. It was important to him that the attraction was explosive so they could get to the good stuff, the simple things quickly. So he started with scrolling through pictures, either given to him by a friend, like the debutante, or on Instagram after someone had caught his eye. Maybe that's why they always wound up being models, singers, somebodies.

But if the attraction was there immediately, the chemistry was more likely on his side, so he followed and waited for a reaction, if there was none, he may leave a few likes. If nothing yielded, he moved on. If there was a response, it was time for a message. He always tried to be witty. He wasn't always successful, his humor was not universally appreciated. He thought he was funny.

And she did too. The model his manager scoffed at. He'd went about it the way he always did, and the reaction was spontaneous and instant. It hadn't even been direct, but some ridiculous video he didn't see for a week as he was underwater, literally. He'd skipped the liking and went straight to sliding into her DM's. Once she responded, he once again skipped the liking entirely, this time going straight into infatuation. She was funny, quirky and made a fool of herself regularly on the phone. She blamed her brash statements on the language barrier, but he had an inkling that wasn't the truth. She spent a tremendous amount of time in California, growing up and as a young woman. She was testing him . His English reserve mixed with a little cheek, her gallic insouciance and pretend naivete meant their conversation could be innocently blue. They'd had some not so innocent exchanges by the time they actutally met too. They were both attracted. He really wanted to see the real life versions of the images that he couldn't get out of his head. He'd hinted as much and she had basically given him carte blache.

As for her own interest. She told him she was interested in being his lover during their second phone call. He just wasn't sure if she was interested in being more than a single serving friend. He had those, arrangemnts, they worked out well. But he, of course, and also in oppostition to stereo type, always caught feelings. He was still reeling from those rejections. Writing from those rejections. Achy longing and sad wanks were easy fodder for him, because he lived them.

But, if this continues on its current trajectory his next album was going to have a different flavor. Thei first meet up was quiet, at her pseudo appointment. She was so fun, they cooked together. He can't even remember what, he was so nervy, but she teased him out of his discomfort. Her jokes were th daddiest he had ever heard. He'd adopted a few, but didn't break her heart by telling her how many he'd already heard. His favorite had been added to his own arsenal. She's jumped up onto the counter by the stove wile he was stirring and touched his shoulder. He couldn't ignore that I he tried, his shoulder ached where she'd trailed her ring, middle, and pointers along his deltoid.
"How can you tell the difference between a frog and a horny toad?" She waited a beat until he quirked an eyebrow. "The frog says ribbit, ribbit, the toad says "rub it, rub it!" And she'd cackled indelicately at her own joke. He chuckled more at her, but it was a good joke.

She suggested they eat on the patio, and he hoped no one spotted him. He was sure he wanted a second date already. If they got photographed together, who knew if that would happen. She complimented his cooking and he teased her about her inadequacy as a sous chef.
"My value is ornamental," she volleyed
He couldn't ignore the note of dissatisfaction beneath the jest, "no, your value is intrinsic." He cupped her hand, the first touch he had initiated. She squeezed his fingers and stuffed her mouth with a bite, moaning ridiculously. Funny thing was the moan only made him wish to hear more, real ones.

He watched her smoke after they finished eating and when they had opened bottle number two. He was used to the smell from the primrose hill set, and while he didn't like it, he liked her enough to overlook it.
"I like to come out here, all year long, when it's so hot I sweat through my shirt, even when it's so cold my boogers freeze," she laughed. "I like the noises, the cars, and the voices, the fights and the fucks I can hear." She lifted an eyebrow, but he didn't take the bait, just leaned over and took her hand, kissing the back before he looked out over the balcony. 

"I've always liked it here, has a lot of energy, little chaotic," he had leaned forward to look over the balcony, but he could feel her eyes on him. The way she was watching made him feel like he had touched a livewire. The hair on the arm joined to her was standing at attention. She smoothed her hand over it.

"I like that too, but not as much as I like you, " He looked at her and she stared at him silently for a beat to long. He swallowed, was he supposed to say something back, he liked her too, her direct nature. She beat him to it though when she leaned into his space and spoke against his mouth, " Do you want to spend the night?"

He was caught off guard, he expected to have to work up to it, but he liked that she was a free spirit, a wild heart. 

"Yeah."