Fancy A Quickie?

Restaurant faite par Devouement

"Your seat, Mr. Mason," the waiter proffered.

"Thank you, Harry," Simon Mason nodded. He turned to his date opposite.

"So, you like my little set up?"

Rachel studied the restaurant as carefully as she could but the distraction was heavy in her mind. The closeness of Simon, the way his attention was always so intently on her, knowing they were but inches from touching made her skin prickle and come alive.

"You've really got the atmosphere right," she finally admitted, "it's expensive and tasteful but comfortable and welcoming. The fact you know everyone here, even the waiters, show you've put so much of yourself into it."

Simon's face split into an uncharacteristically bashful air, the loose blond curls delicately bouncing against flushed skin.

"I dragged this restaurant from nothing into what it is now, I put effort into every square inch of the place and personally vetted and mentored each staff member here. I'm proud of what I've done."

Simon looked around the premier restaurant he owned with a sincere feeling of accomplishment but his attention swiftly went back to Rachel; it always did. When around her that's all he could think about as if she were the next hit of something dangerous.

"You should be. Thank you for sharing it with me," she added, aware that she still owed manners even though her true thoughts were raging with the promise of his touch, his hand, his kiss.

"What do you do that you enjoy?" Simon asked.

"I do a few things, none of them to any degree of skill but things I find joy in. Writing, reading, painting, that sort of thing."

"I always wanted to paint," Simon said wistfully.

"I wouldn't say I'm any good but it relaxes me. I'm jealous of those people who can create something so abstract out of their own being. Music, art, sculpture... I can't imagine being able to just make something new, special, physical out of the intangible." Rachel shrugged lightly.

"Surely if you write that's the same thing?" Simon asked. Rachel admitted it was similar but words were physical, present, fixed.

"What if you were to write about here? What would you create from this scene, here inside my restaurant?"

Rachel gazed around the room once more, his task sparking a million new sensations heightened by the painful desire of his proximity.

"Well, I'd mention about the clever lighting and the atmosphere of the place, it sets the tone. I'd mention the activity of the waiters and staff, the noises and smells from the kitchen to involve all the senses."

Rachel swallowed discreetly as her own senses thrummed. Simon's focus was on her entirely, undividedly, passionately, but she had to bypass the chemistry that had been threatening to spill over all day.

"I'd talk about the old couple over there by the window, discussing retirement and grandchildren and which yatch club to join. I'd create a reason for those two women to be here for business, perhaps covertly organising a coup.

"Probably I'd focus on the man and woman in the corner, the ones trying to mask their intense feelings by spinning out small talk. They'd use their talking to justify their possibly illogical connection, to find some common ground so their feelings had more merit.

"I'd write about how desperate they were to grab on and never let go even if on someone else's paper it made no sense. The girl would tell the man that she was scared, not of having strong feelings towards him, but at how they were there despite the fact they didn't know each other well.

"She would hope the man would admit to thinking much the same but would quell her fears with a touch of the hand. He would tell her that they each knew so much of loneliness and failures so why deny what feels good? He certainly never felt this way before.

"Finally, the girl would tell him that she loved being with him and that the chemistry was undeniable yet she couldn't be the one to make the move; she only knew her heart, not his."

Rachel breathlessly trained her eyes on Simon, his face intense as ever but unreadable. She felt vulnerable, foolish, weak.

"Of course, the thing about stories is that people can pick and choose which bits they want to like," she added quickly to fill the palpable silence between them, "and if there's no ending written they can decide themselves what they want to happen."

She unwillingly kept her gaze on him even though she was afraid of any change in countenance. Any minute twitch of large, dark eyes would give away a multitude of answers.

Rachel felt fear rise up. He would've answered by now if he wanted her, he would surely have done something.

Finally, almost implacably, his hand moved.