David swabs his brow discreetly for the sixth time. Did I mention I like numbers? I'm not particularly fond of the number six, not a good omen as the literature states. Since I'm not overly superstitious, I stoically remain in my seat and hope David's palms don't sweat as profusely as his forehead. When we shook hands earlier, I did notice how cold and wet his hand was but, foolish me, I thought it was due to our rainy weather. Might it have been nerves instead? Can I have intercourse with him anyway?
"It's my third competition," perspiring Dave points out.
"Wow. You must be quite fit," I retort. Quite lame, girl.
Davy Crocket takes my comment at face value, though. Literally. I'm smiling, batting my eyelashes at appropriate intervals, enthralled by my date for all to see. Am I good or what? I should have let Gavin take me out instead of this stud, but nooo, ever the peacekeeper, I (repeatedly) declined Gav's invites to prevent any sibling rivalry.
Rule 3: Man, woman, any and all twenty years or older can play. Unlimited participations. Previous players shall wait one year before reentering competition. Winners can reenter the competition at will.
"I can give you pointers if you'd like," Davie boy offers. Why do all damn players and ex-players and wannabe-players offer me unsolicited advice? "What's your game plan, Silk honey?"
"My game plan?" Seriously, the dude can't be asking me for my strategies? As if I would just hand everything over. This is a date, asshole. I might lend you my body for a half-hour−that guy looks like a premature ejaculator, one of his few redeeming qualities so far−but I ain't given you my trust, safety, and soul. "I don't have a game plan. I just, you know, find as many spheres as I can, and stay out of everyone's way." I throw in a giggle or two.
"Do you think I need a plan?" I ask with wide, innocent eyes. I do very credible doe eyes. I add a tentative pout and a flutter of eyelids, and Mr. clammy three-time player-but-not-a-single-win Dave generously draws on paper napkins my new master plan.
As he drones on and on and on, my mind wanders. The rain beats down against the restaurant's front window. Lately, I've been acting mighty foolish to avoid thinking about a certain referee, haven't I? And am I successful? Nope. Take right now. I have to make a conscious effort NOT to compare limb by limb, David's football player impressive self with Jasper's rugby player shape. David is gorgeous. He's nice if somewhat patronizing. I will do him soon even though I can already foresee he won't be enough.
"Can you take me back to your place?"
In my limited experience, no guy has ever denied me. David doesn't break my stride.
Turns out he lives a block from the restaurant. Was I that much of a foregone conclusion? I feel a tiny bit insulted, but not enough to turn on my heel.
YOU ARE READING
Opus
General FictionI left out the real reason I'm here. Kendrick, my ex-lover, is dead. He was the game's winner three and two years back. On the Competition's Registration Form, at question 78: Why are you participating? Answer in 100 characters or less. I si...
