The Littlest Things

Footsies

The call time was earlier than usual. It was a day for filming a major scene, and everyone was close to shouting profanities at one another. But the girl in the oversized shirt sat back, relaxing, watching the nineteen-year old boy pace back and forth, clearly grumpy and disgruntled. “Couldn’t blame him. It’s 2 A.M.,” she sighed. But at 2 A.M., her mind was awake, even lingering to thoughts she rarely entertains. In fact, she found the sight of her boyfriend, looking sleepy and restless at the same time, very amusing, and it made her want to fool around.

“Why don’t you sit here and read your script?” she said a bit too loudly, trying to wake up her man. He then turned at the sound of her voice, and even in the soft light, she could detect the outline of his half-smile. He walked towards the table and occupied the seat in front of her, casually snatched the script and started reading without looking her in the eyes. This made her slightly annoyed.

Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes passed, but they simply sat in silence; the sound of flipping pages was like a ticking time bomb of hormones and frustrations. The eighteen-year old girl, who wanted to play around, was growing impatient, too. Thirty minutes passed and half of the crew was busy setting up the site while the other half was throwing silent curses. Amidst the chaos that was their filming site, she stared long and hard at his frame and thought of ways to catch his attention.

She found one.

“Why are you staring at me?” he suddenly asked while still flipping the goddamn pages and not even giving her a glance.

“Why aren’t you looking at me?” she cooed. It was a day for filming...and a day for flirting, she decided.

“Love, it’s 2:30 in the morning, but I can sense you getting ready to pounce. So, tell me: why the hell would I risk it and look at you?” There was faint amusement in his voice.

“Fine,” she pouted. She had a plan, anyway. Without even a single blink of an eye, she slipped one of her shoes off, moved her right foot under the table and touched his ankle then his leg ever so gently. He stiffened but pretended not to notice. Smirking, she moved her foot up then down, watching his reaction, waiting for his gaze. But the moment her toes touched him, she already grabbed his attention, alright.

“What are you doing?” he slowly looked up and looked her straight in the eye. She quickly averted her gaze, trying to contain fits of laughter from the discreet coquetry. She looked back at him, and the glint of mischief in her eyes was hard not to notice. “What? I’m busy memorizing my lines.”

“So should I blame the cat for rubbing itself against my legs under the table?”

“Yes. Kath’s the one to blame,” she replied, looking smug. He stared at her incredulously. “Stop it.” “No, I don’t want to,” she retorted. She moved her foot up and down playfully and he felt shivers down his spine. He cursed under his breath and involuntarily closed his eyes, feeling his own blood rush where it shouldn’t.

 “Stop it, please.”

“Why?” she demanded. She stubbornly continued her sweet torture.

“It’s...distracting. Don’t. Do. It,” he said through gritted teeth. She looked at him questioningly, faking innocence, and continued touching his leg lightly. She then reached just above his knee and he opened his eyes in alarm.

“Fuck this, Kath. It’s turning me on!” he shouted, all self-control vanishing in an instant.

“Let’s be cute this way while I turn you on,” her mind almost shouted, too. She couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t just play around with her. But his reaction was too funny that she wasn’t able to resist moving her foot against his leg a bit more.

“I’m telling you. Stop it before you regret it,” he said seriously.

“I won’t regret it.”

He gaped at her. He was too taken aback; the impact of her words fuelled his 2:30 AM desires. He closed his mouth, opened it again, wanting to say something, wanting to flip the table, wanting to stand up and grab her and push her against the wall and kiss her and touch her and feel her and make her not regret anything. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath; his eyes turned dark chocolates, his face bewildered, his mind unbelieving. He glanced back at the van and thought of things they could do inside it. But he felt her foot move away from him, and there’s no way he could stop it.

“I’m kidding,” she said in a small voice, realizing what she just said, realizing what she was really thinking the whole time. “I’m kidding,” she repeated, making herself believe, pushing away the thought that she will never really regret doing it. “I’m kidding,” she breathed once more, for the last time, staring at him, and letting him search her eyes for the truth that she couldn’t say, that she just let slip out, that she’s taking back.

They looked at each other – hearts racing, hormones raging – and the script lay forgotten on the table.