by Miss Understood
by Miss Understood
Martin’s mouth plunged onto her cheek, his nose nudging hers sideways, his unshaven face scratching against her skin. Startled, she pulled away, and wiped the damp spot with her finger, forcing a smile as he sank back into his chair. She had a sudden urge to reach for his tie and straighten it.
“You’re even more beautiful in the flesh,” he remarked, his tone resembling that of one whose lips were more than comfortable with such statements. He had a peculiar accent too, not quite the one she’d envisaged.
He beckoned to the waiter, his thumb and finger snapping together a little too quickly; his eyes suddenly sweeping across to the bar and lingering there for a moment too long. She turned, glancing over her shoulder. A woman. She should have guessed.
He poured the wine – a full bodied red – which he’d ordered. She’d have preferred a white…
As he spoke, his eyes seemed incapable of holding hers for more than a second, before they flickered and dropped, and she toyed with the pendant hanging from her neck, turning it over in her fingers in an attempt to conceal her cleavage.
“Angela is a real gem,” he was telling her, gesticulating annoyingly and exposing the fake Rolex strapped around his wrist. She studied the thick hairs on his arm, cascading over the back of his hand. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? Perhaps his hands hadn’t been visible in the pictures he’d e-mailed? She couldn’t remember now. And who the hell was Angela anyway? Her mind swam with thoughts, scrolling through the abundance of letters they’d exchanged. Oh. The secretary. That was right. She felt a twinge of sympathy in her chest.
Martin sipped his wine, his little finger extending as if he were drinking tea from a too small, china cup. She tried to focus on his words, but they became lost, blurring together into a monotone stream. She imagined tedious Sunday afternoons, his voice rattling through the dull rooms of his apartment. Lowering her eyes, she ran them along the length of his legs, settling on the large space which lay between his shoes and the bottom of his pinstripe trousers. White socks? Jesus! She swallowed a little too loudly.
He reached for her hand, his pallid, sticky fingers engulfing her own; his over-long nails curling inwards.
She could see it…her eyes screwed tight under cold, alien covers. His clammy hands probing her crevices… his breath on her face, hot and urgent. The unrelenting thrusting… his sweat pouring onto her breasts.
She looked up.
“Martin…excuse me for a moment?”
Her chair legs scraped across the floor and he watched her, smiling, as she disappeared into the bathroom.
Cursing, she unfastened the latch and opened the window, squeezing her body through the tiny gap. When her feet made contact with the car-park, she ran.
Back inside, Martin’s fingers curled reassuringly around the condom in his pocket.