Every few minutes, my eyes drifted towards the clock. I felt like a kid waiting for the bell to ring on Friday, but time passed by excruciatingly slow. I struggled to pay attention and focus on the proposal at hand. My thoughts kept drifting to Anatole. I was so intrigued. The sparks from that kiss…
He was prompt, showing up in some kind of sexy convertible. He looked very handsome. I looked like the girl you’d be uncomfortable sitting beside in church: feigningly demure in my cream cardigan, beige strappy heels, and flowered white dress–pure and pristine, other than the cut of my neckline leaving an exquisite view of my décolletage.
I will admit, if you have a nice car with an impressive acceleration, it’s sacrilege not to play. And I was pleased he showed me what his baby could do. The music blared an EDM song I’d never heard of, but vibed well with. I put my hands in the air with my hair whipping in the wind like every basic bitch in any teen movie jetsetting in a convertible. I couldn’t help myself. Downcast eye pout, hands clasped behind back, toe scribbling nonsense in the sand.
We drove to Bohemian Bull. I liked that Anatole immediately ordered a drink and a shot of Bulleit. He liked that I joined him in the shot. I liked his energy–with him being high, I naturally demurred to calm–and felt he was on a similar wavelength as me, something very uncommon. He must’ve felt a similar way because within 5 minutes he asked me if I’d want to go to a wedding with him in December in Arizona. With a few moments consideration, I said, “Fuck it. Why not? That sounds fantastic.” After reassuring I was genuinely serious, he booked my flights. He wanted to ensure I only had one connecting flight and though the price was steep in my opinion, he looked at me with a shrug and tilt of his head, “Eh, you’re worth it.”
I found his conversation gravitational; that’s where he sucked me in. He was a showman that kept the dialogue steam rolling ahead, whether you were boarded, racing to catch the train, or fallen on the tracks staring in aghast. I hadn’t felt this way in years. Even Nascar and Donald Draper hadn’t given me this childish excitement. Every word he uttered stoked my attraction, my leash of decorum slipping slowly further out of grasp. Hell, I was giggling like a kid and fighting the urge not to grab his hand and insist we find somewhere to play. Shut up. Don’t ruin the ending.
Damn he was fun. Charismatic. Interesting. Handsome. Mysterious. Check please?
So Anatole drove me home–he earned more points by loving the rendition of the Cranberries’ “Zombie” by Bad Wolves which we blared on the way. I invited him in and introduced him to Moss, my roommate. Moss is one of my most favorite people in the entire world; but, I cut off the niceties and abrasively excused the two of us.
Locking Apollo out, I turned to look at Anatole. With the memory aged, I lack a perfect recollection, but I remember wanting to tear his clothes off; so I did. Before I hazard any further, I must curtail myself–not only would I not do it justice with the memory fading, I must remind myself that my mother wouldn’t be thrilled to read these particular details…
After the culmination, I remember looking up at the ceiling, panting slightly with the barest hint of dewiness to my skin, satiated and spent. Rolling over onto my stomach, I propped myself up on my elbows, my chin on my intertwined fingers, a Cheshire Cat smile blooming on my lips, and purred, “Well that was fun.”
Oh, how very right I was.
Oh Anatole. After our conversations, passionate tryst, and my gut feeling, I knew you would be trouble. And that we would be a dangerous pair. But what I also knew without a doubt, Arizona was going to be one hell of a trip.
And was I right. To dance with the devil is an exhilarating affair. But to be seduced by the devil, who could possibly resist?
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