“Any sweetener?”
she asked, as she passed the warm mug into his hand. Her round cheeks complimented the smile that
lived in her eyes. “No thanks,” he said
as his eyes watched her quick rotation to his side of the island. Their eyes met in silent
communication and he could not help but grin—and she, conversely, smirked. Steps
were to be taken for a return to the commonplace while holding on to a trace of what
had happened moments before. Clutching
her white stripped bathrobe tighter, she briefly broke the simmering stare to
look at the top of the refrigerator.
Perhaps the abruptness of the break, or his longing to
stare into her eyes again prompted him to blurt, “What ‘cha looking at?” Did it work?
Well, within moments, her eyes smiling returned, “You sure you don’t
want breakfast?” “No,” he laughed as his hand came down on her robe
covered thigh. “You sure?” came her
questioning pause. Returning his hand to
his coffee, he replaced one soft simmering warmth with merely another. Though he always preferred the human
connection, her coffee would have to suffice as a subtle substitute.
In the remains of the short time together found the two
in conversations. Fluidly words flowed
effortlessly into laughter. They spoke
of everything, they spoke of power, but most important they spoke of each
other. Though different in so many ways,
they knew that in the other, they were totally accepted. A group of two that could be a circle of
scholars, or a confederacy of dunces—it mattered not.
Then the inevitable came. The outside world could wait no longer. She took him to the door, still clad in her
robe. A hug, a press, a closing of her
door. It wasn’t until he got to his car
that he remembered, “I never thanked her for the coffee.” Looking back he smiled, he knew he would
thank her when he saw her again.
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