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Back to the Beginning
It all began on a Tuesday, the fifth day of the fourth month of last year. That was when you first saw him; the suave gentleman with the distinct white Templar-haired tint.
His mannerism however, was what attracted you to him, because, as you concluded; he had the gait of a 26-year-old man but his hair enshrouded the head containing the wisdom of a 57-year-old priest.
Even though he couldn’t have been a year over 42.
His mannerism, you argued, and nothing to do with your preference for older men.
He noticed you staring, and he waved. You were flushed at the gesture and so you looked away, albeit too quickly.
You wished though that he would meet your eye again. You’d nod in acknowledgement, you decided. Just a friendly nod to a stranger in the get-together party of an office partner.
And then when he didn’t, you felt downtrodden.
You should have just waved back, you mused.
You lost your party spirit and couldn’t wait to go home. You drank, and you drank. More drinks were passed around, and you smiled at the waiter, taking the last flute of white wine from him even as he looked at you with suspicion.
You look like you’ve had enough a deep voice called out from behind, and you were irritated that someone would try to gauge your intake of wine. You don’t even drink it all the time, so indulging yourself today shouldn’t be a problem. You reasoned.
“That’s hardly your business,” you wanted to call out. You made to turn and stare at the beboru who just spoke, your right shoe heel got stuck on the stool’s bottom ornament and you stumbled.
You closed your eyes, waiting for the ground to meet your face, but it didn’t.
You heard the clattering of shattered glass, but you were suspended, a firm grip girded you by the waist. You felt the warm breath on your neck and then you grappled the counter to steady yourself, the hold loosened a bit, but didn’t come off until you sat on the chair.
“Even the wine seems to agree with me,” the voice spoke, but you were too ashamed to reply.
He was standing so close, and you felt a bit draaw just breathing in his cologne. “It’s okay,” He said, coming to face you. A hanky went around your pinkie finger – you didn’t even notice you had cut yourself.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his brow furrowed with concern, forming ridges across his forehead, “I shouldn’t have walked up on you like that.”
Your eyes trailed to his lips, dark and full. You tried to find the words to reply the chunk of a man, It’s not your fault, you wanted to say, but the she-devil in you wanted to play a game, “I would be, if I had just maimed an innocent woman.”
Worry spread across his face, and his eyes scanned the rest of your body for possible injuries. “I’m sorry.” He repeated, and you could tell he honestly was, so you felt bad for a second, and then you forgave him, the next.
“I’m okay,” you said, rubbing a wrist that didn’t ache. “I just hope I won’t cause an accident driving with this broken arm.”
He squinted, observing you and then he laughed, “Of course, I can drive you home.”
His laughter was deep, and it seemed to originate from the pit of his stomach.
“That would be punishment me enough.” You slyly replied, grateful you had found your voice.
“A punishment I would heartily bear.” He nodded, with a slight bow.
Smooth as a cat, you wanted to commend. But the way he stared at you left the words hanging in your throat, and that’s when you knew you were in trouble.