sick again
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Painted lady in the city of lies.
Ooh, do you, know my name?
Do I, look the same?
You know I'm the one you want, baby

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He didn't treat me any differently the following Friday. We discussed his book, as we had done the last time, and then he went straight back to his long writing sessions, in which I barely participated. But this time, I made myself at home and brought my silk pink nightgown, as well as all my personal items, like a toothbrush and makeup remover.

I was now lying silently on his office couch, one leg stretched and the other lifted on the backrest. My nightgown slid down, revealing a glimpse of my lacy black underwear. He peered at me every once in a while but never interrupted my reading. My freckled, bare face was cast in shadow by a book I was holding in my left hand. It was a collection of Shakespearean poems and anecdotes, identifiable by its intricate green spine. My hair fell freely on the cushion, and it smelled like a fresh shower.

From the charity party until Friday morning, I spent a lot of time on my own, trying not to relapse into another severe depressive episode. I smoked and listened to Billie Holiday records because no other woman could give me advice on my relationships with men the way she could. Her pain and sorrow perfectly matched mine.

When Friday arrived, I was just as excited as the previous time, but this time I wanted to be fully prepared. He opened the door to a much more confident Audrey, this time.

"You're glowing." His whisper took my attention away from my thoughts. "The moonlight is hitting your skin, and it looks just like hot milk." Mr. White felt like adding, when he saw my confused, glittery eyes.

I didn't sit up. I simply moved my chin slightly to the right so that I could meet his gaze from that perspective. His lips parted, and I saw his pupils slide down the curve of my neck, peering through the thin, silky fabric at my almost visible nipples. "Are you putting that in your book?" I didn't have to raise my voice, so I kept it low and breathy, as if I lacked the strength to speak.

"I couldn't. I would be insanely jealous at the thought of someone experiencing what I am going through right now." The writer was hidden by the usual small lamp's shadows, but I could see an undertone of eroticism in his expression as he traced the outline of my legs from a distance. Instinctively, I formed an arrogant smirk on my lips.

"You're consuming me with your eyes." I reproached him.

"It hurts to look but not touch." He didn't filter his words, which was a quality I really liked.

"Good, Mr. White, long for me." A strap fell off my shoulder, enhancing the curve of my breast. I sighed loudly, as if I could physically feel his eyes all over me. He was truly consuming me, so I turned away and returned to my book.

"You sadistic woman." He stood up, but he didn't approach the couch. Instead, he reached for his record player and turned on some jazz.

From the corner of my eyes, I could see him roll up his sleeves, carefully folding them over his elbows. I couldn't focus on reading now. Finally, I decided to sit up with my legs crossed. I watched him light another cigar as I delicately shook my head to fix my messy hair. "Have you ever fallen in love?" I asked, out of nowhere.

"Considering that I've been married for twenty years, that's a weird question to ask, Miss Carter."

I slid off the couch, my long nightgown finally covering my legs. I didn't hurry my slow pace as I reached him. "People use the word 'love' to describe the combination of lust and affection, but that's not what I'm asking you." I stood on tiptoe and tried to steal his cigar. He didn't rebel, so I placed it in my mouth. It felt damp against my lips, and I could taste a little bit of him on it.

"I know what you're asking me. Why do you assume I couldn't have that connection with my wife?"

"You wouldn't need me here or anyone else if you did."

"Touché."

I leaned against the window frame with my sacrum, and he stayed beside me, stealing back his cigar and quietly watching me as he always did. I didn't get an answer, but I also didn't want to insist too much. "The way you smoke," I sat on the frame as I spoke. "It turns me on."

Mr. White didn't react much, and I didn't expect him to. I knew no woman could break through that thick layer of apathy. Not even me. My doe eyes stopped on his lips. I wanted them on me so bad.

"Your mere presence turns me on."

That caught me off guard, because he didn't look like he was dying to touch me. "It does?" I anxiously swallowed. He smirked at my nervousness.

"The fact that I want you is no secret, is it?"

I jumped away from the frame and returned to the couch, unsure how to respond. I wanted that conversation to end. He wasn't going to bend me over and fuck me right there, and all of that was getting me sexually frustrated anyway. I peeked at the clock. It was already three in the morning.

"We still have a couple of hours before I leave..." I moved towards the front door as I spoke. "I'll make pancakes while you write."

He walked right behind me, so I turned around, my face puzzled. "I'll come with you. I need a break." He landed a kiss on my head, something you'd do to a daughter. For some reason, it didn't irritate me. I felt almost taken care of.

We went to the kitchen together, only to be met with an unpleasant surprise.

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