A Picture Paints a Thousand Words

Sex Face

"We need to talk, young lady."

I'd barely reached the cafe table when Tom spoke. My first reaction was to the 'young lady' comment - an inside joke because he was somehow inexplicably proud of being (what I considered a mere) twelve hours older than me. Well, eleven hours and fifty-three minutes, if we're being precise, but the rounding up is neither here nor there. 

So I chuckled, then really looked at him properly, and that's when I noticed the expression on his face wasn't proud or joking but was, in fact, decidedly angry.

Oh shit. 

At that point I began a mental inventory of all of my activities before I'd gone to work that morning, endeavouring to isolate which one of them could be the meaning behind that look. His jaw was tight, his lips in a firm straight line, and a small scowl furrowed his brows. His eyes, behind what I called his 'sexy nerdy glasses', were the chilly grey-blue of the North Sea on a cold day. Fu-u-u-c-c-k-k.

Not giving me the chance to do more than open my mouth as a precursor to speech, Tom leapt from his chair, dropped a few quid on the table, grabbed my arm and dragged me down the road in the direction of our house. 

Okay, he doesn't want to do this in public. Fair enough. "What did I do?" I murmur for his ears only as he all but frog-marches me past trees devoid of leaves and hedges lacking any colour save green, any late blooming flowers long gone as early winter took its hold. "Did I leave my wet towel on the bed?" It was a bad habit, I knew, one that irked Tom when we first moved in together, and I'd been making a real effort to curb that particular foible. He merely shook his head but didn't say anything. I racked my brain. "Left the kettle on and it boiled dry?" I'd put the jug on for him just before rushing out the door, knowing he loved a cup of tea first thing when he got up. "Forgot to call your mum and invite her for dinner on Sunday?" I was pretty sure I had done that, but by this stage I was clutching at straws. "Did I not sort the laundry properly and I've turned all your white shirts blue? Or pink?" God, had I remembered to separate my favourite red shirt? It's only been washed a couple of times, so there could still be colour running...

"No," was all I got out of him as we rounded the corner and arrived at our front gate. He pushed it open with a fair amount of force and glared at me even as he stood back to let me precede him along the short path and up the five steps to the door. Keys appeared in his hand and next thing I knew I was in our entrance and on the receiving end of some doggie love, golden retriever style - which is to say, almost being knocked over by enthusiastic tail wagging and having my hand licked to the point where the slobber was almost thicker than the skin.

"Missy, bed!" At the curt command, Missy's amber eyes met mine and seemed to say, 'Well, someone's in a mood!' before she ambled back towards the kitchen where her woollen blanket lay. Tell me about it, I thought, as I took off my coat and hung it beside the door. "Lounge room," Tom barked at me. Well, alrighty then.

Upon entering the lounge I was surprised to see the large-screen TV paused on my own face. I have a television show, you see - nothing special, just a little cooking show on ITV - and periodically I invite other chefs to join me. My guest on the show that aired this morning was Jamie Oliver. It was his third appearance, as we hit it off quite well and the viewers - and network execs - all loved it and said we had 'great chemistry'. Specifically, the shot frozen on our 54-inch was just after I'd swallowed a generous mouthful of the exquisite, mouth-watering lamb dish Jamie had cooked.

"Would you care to explain that?" Tom jabbed a pointy finger towards the TV, his voice low and gritty and, I must admit, more than a little of a turn on. Simmer down girl, I told my nether regions, this is soooo not the time.

"Umm...I'm tasting Jamie's tender lamb shoulder?" I couldn't understand the fuss. "It's really, really good; the ras el hanout gives it..."

"I'm not talking about the bloody food, Madelyn!" Uh oh, full-naming me isn't good. "Look at that face!"

I looked again. It was just my face, the one I saw in the mirror every day. What's the big deal? Okay, I had my eyes closed and my head was tilted back a little. I recalled how it had felt as the warm juices and sauce flirted with the back of my tongue, as the practically-falling-off-the-bone-it-was-so-tender meat danced over my taste buds. The tartness of the lemons, the acidity of the tomatoes, the texture of the chickpeas. "Mmm, mmmm..." The flavour was out of this world, almost orgas... Oh shit!

Opening my eyes wide, I gasped and clapped a hand over my mouth as I realised what I was looking at. What Tom had seen.

I've made my sex face on national television!

Mortified, I looked at Tom. Tom looked at me. "You see it now, don't you?" 

I nodded, hand still covering my mouth, mind racing. Everyone has seen my sex face! My whole family, Tom's family, all our friends and co-workers and...wait. Wait. Finally, thankfully, a modicum of sanity squeezes in through the near-panic. My shoulders dropped. I exhaled loudly. "It's okay," I told him.

"Maddy, how on earth is this okay? Everyone has seen..."

"Yes," I interrupted him, "everyone has seen it, love, but there are only a handful who know what it is." I looked deep into his fathomless blue eyes. "And you're the only one who has seen it in quite some time, and the only one who will ever see it again. So..."

He paused, and thought, and I could see the tightness leave his features and his brow smooth as he realised the truth of what I'd said. "Oh. Yes. Of course."

I took his hand and offered a shy smile. "If you like, we can go upstairs and work on a completely new sex face that you'll be the only to see."

When his face lights up with a smile, it's as if the sun has risen from the cold dark night. "Sounds like a great idea," he agrees happily, immediately tugging me towards the stairs. The scritch-scratch of claws on hardwood can be heard nearing as we pass the kitchen. "Missy, stay!"