Thought's of a Mad Man

Hello darling,

It’s been a while since we’ve talked. 

I can’t help but feel I’m to blame for the distance between us. That I’m at fault for the silence that killed us both. 

For decades, I wished on a defective star. I put everything into believing that my wishes would come true. But I was a naive little child hoping that my voice would be heard in the crowd of reality.

Now I’ve grown up. I’m no longer that innocent child on my knees at the window. I no longer send up prayers to a star that doesn’t listen. And all that’s left of me are the memories of you. 

The time you and I spent the entire night talking in the van. We couldn’t have been more than 13 years old. I don’t think you knew how much I liked you. Maybe you did. Maybe you liked me too and I didn’t know it either. But it didn’t matter. We talked until the sun came up and it was one of the greatest nights of my life. Leaving the van that morning before your parents woke up was heart wrenching. I didn’t want that night to end. I still wish that night hadn’t ended.

I remember the time a few years later, the dance that we shared. I struggled so hard to understand my place in life that night. I couldn’t see a path to anything better. And I had no idea why I felt the way I did. But none of that mattered to you. You danced with me anyway in that school gym. And when the dance ended, you kissed me on the cheek. I can still feel the softness of your lips. The wet tender connection between you and me. My heart skipped a beat that night. Oh how I wished I could reach out and hold onto you, keep the music from ending.

Later still, I remember the night it rained. You and I were talking standing next to your car. Words flowed like water over the edge. Effortless. Freely. When the rain started to tap us on the shoulder, we paid it no attention as we continued to communicate. It was as if two people had stumbled upon something unique and timeless. How I wish that night had led to something better. 

There were other times we shared. Times that last in my memory as something special. Something grand. It’s not as if they pale in comparison, they are just too many to hold in my hand - like sand running between my fingers. 

But what pains me the most is that lately, my wishes feel like broken glass. They cut my heart. They tear at my chest. And I feel like I’ve been left bloody and beaten. 

Have all my wishes for us truly turned black? Have they all really landed on the ground at my feet, instead of rising to your ears? To my star above? 

Why have you and I lost each other? Why can’t we connect? Why does it have to be so difficult between us? Am I too old? Am I too deformed? Am I too broken? Why am I not enough?

Maybe someday I will receive your answer. Maybe I won’t. But what I really want to say is - I don’t want to wait for you any longer. I want to move on. And if you have a heart at all, either you’ll answer my call, or you’ll let me go. Because if goodbye is all that is left to say, then please tell me, so I can finally move on.

I watch with growing horror as the images in the mirrors begin to move—slowly at first, like an old projector sputtering to life. The flickering light casts shadows that crawl across the stone walls. The air thickens, heavy with the scent of damp stone and something sweetly metallic, like rusted iron and wilted roses.

The mirrors come alive with scenes I know too well. Moments of pain. Of fear. Of ache.

In one mirror, I’m six years old, curled up in a dark closet. The door is cracked, and outside, voices are shouting—sharp, slurred, angry. My small hands tremble around a stuffed bear, its fur matted with tears. I’m trying not to cry. Trying not to be heard. The closet smells of dust and old shoes. I remember that night. I remember the way the air felt—tight, stale, suffocating. It was only one of many, but this one etched itself into me.

Another mirror shows me at eighteen. Dressed in black. A spring morning, but the sky is gray. I watch as they lower my father’s coffin into the ground. I’m alone. No one stands beside me. No one touches me. My grief is silent, like a scream swallowed whole. The wind rustles the trees, but I hear nothing. Just the thud of earth on wood.

In another, I’m twenty-five. Sitting on the edge of my bed in my apartment. The room is dim, lit only by the glow of my phone. A message is on the screen—a confession of love, a chance for happiness. I watch myself hesitate. My thumb hovers. Then I delete it. The screen goes dark. The pang of regret hits me like a punch to the gut. My face burns with shame. I remember the silence afterward. The way the air felt too still.

Then I see myself at the party. Standing alone. Watching her. Watching everyone else live. My face is pale, eyes hollow. I look like a ghost haunting my own life.

I choke. That image is too close. Too recent. Too real.

The other mirrors begin to shift—blurring, merging, distorting. They show variations of the same fears: rejection, invisibility, longing, shame. My breath fogs in the air. The room feels colder, like the warmth is being siphoned out of me.

She moans softly beside me. Her grip on my hand is firm now, pulsing with heat. Her eyes are half-lidded, glowing faintly like embers in a dying fire.

Then she speaks.

“This one,” she says, stepping toward the mirror with the party. “This is my favorite.”

Her voice is velvet and hungry. Being put on the spot like this makes my stomach twist. But the more scared I feel, the more something else stirs inside me. A flicker of defiance. A spark of bravery. Because as much as I fear her—fear what she knows, what she sees—the less I’m able to run. To turn away. To escape whatever this is.

She begins to touch herself—slowly, deliberately. Her free hand glides over her body, tracing the curve of her waist, the swell of her chest. She bites her lower lip, eyes fluttering as she squeezes herself and savors the pleasure. Her breath deepens, becomes rhythmic, almost ritualistic.

“I’ve tasted many kinds of fear,” she says. “But yours… yours is layered. It’s not just terror. It’s restraint. It’s longing. It’s the kind that changes people.”

I want to deny her. I want to scream that this isn’t real. That my senses are lying. But I can’t. The mirrors are too vivid. Her voice too intimate. My body too weak.

I watch her face as she drinks in the sensations I’m giving. Her beauty flickers—just for a moment. Beneath her skin, I see something ancient. Something monstrous. A flash of shadow and bone. Eyes like hollow stars. It’s gone in an instant, but it leaves a chill in my spine.

She embraces me. Her arms wrap around me, pulling me close. I feel her slender frame beneath the heavy layers of her dress. Her warmth builds—feverish, burning, like a furnace stoked by my fear. Then I feel myself rising. My feet leave the ground. My body lifts into the air.

The mirrors flash faster now—strobing with scenes of my worst fears. My head spins. My chest burns. My limbs go numb. I feel myself unraveling, like a pool of emotions being drained drop by drop. My memories flicker. My strength fades.

My mind screams: Run. Get away. Escape. But I can’t move. I’m suspended in her grip, in her hunger. And yet—something else stirs. A deeper part of me. A part that’s been buried. It begins to rise, like a shape emerging from deep water. A flicker of power. Of resistance.

But it’s fragile. Fading.

In one desperate burst, I push her away.

“Stop,” I gasp.

We drop to the floor. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs. She stops moaning. Her glow dims. We lie there, tangled in silence, both of us breathing heavily.

The mirrors go blank. The room is still. My emotions are gone—drained, emptied. Her connection to me severed the moment she lost her grip on my hand.

The urge to run still claws at me. But as I watch her lying there—her chest rising and falling, her face flushed and vulnerable.

Then insanity crosses my mind.

Not the kind born of panic, but the kind that blooms from desire too long denied. A weakness I’ve never felt before—raw, absurd, electric. It’s not fear anymore. It’s hunger. A need to touch, to taste, to claim something forbidden.

I dig at the floor to get to my hands and knees and crawl to her, slow and deliberate, like a man possessed. She lies there, breath shallow, eyes wide, watching me approach. Her lips part slightly. Her chest rises with anticipation.

I hover above her. She looks up at me, and I feel it—an addiction. A pull. A gravitational ache. I kiss her. I don’t know why. I just know I have to. I have to take the chance. A chance I would have never dared moments ago. But now… now it feels inevitable.

Her lips are soft, cool, and then suddenly warm. Her tongue meets mine, and the kiss deepens—wet, urgent, consuming. My chest burns, not with fear, but with something new. Something alive. With every breath, every press of her mouth, my fear dissolves. Childhood memories begin to fade like smoke. All that remains is heat. Lust. Need.

She kisses down my neck, slow and deliberate, sucking at the corners of my jaw. Her breath is icy and sweet, like mint and moonlight. My body responds without hesitation. My erection swells, pulsing with desire. I feel powerful. Masculine. Alive.

She moans softly as she sucks harder, her fingers digging into my back. And then I feel it—the drain. That slow, burning siphon. The pull of something vital leaving me. My strength. My essence. The more I give, the more she clings to me, grasps at me, claws at me like a drowning woman desperate for air.

The burn intensifies. It’s no longer pleasure. It’s pain. A beautiful, terrifying pain.

“Stop,” I demand, voice ragged.

I collapse beside her, breathless, drenched in sweat. My heart pounds like a war drum. But even now, even emptied, I want more. I crave her. I crave the feeling. The danger.

“What are you doing to me?” I ask, voice low.

She turns her head toward me, her eyes glowing faintly again. Her lips are red, swollen, glistening.

“I think you already know.”

“What happens if we keep going?”

She smiles, but it’s sad. Wistful.

“The same thing that happens to anyone who has too much of something taken. You die,” she says, panting.

The words land like a stone in my chest. But I don’t flinch. I don’t recoil. I feel like I could handle anything she says.

“Why me?” I ask.

She turns fully toward me now, her body trembling slightly. Her glow is dim, but her eyes are clear.

“Because you didn’t run. Most people scream. They fight me. They try to escape. But you… you let me in. You showed me who you are. I’ve never tasted such exquisite energy before.”

I lie there on the cold stone floor, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat. The mirrors are blank now—silent, emptied. My fear is gone. Not buried. Not ignored. Just… gone.

And in its place, something new blooms: stillness. Strength. A quiet, unfamiliar confidence.

I turn my head toward her.

She’s curled beside me, breath shallow, dress clinging to her like it’s melting into her skin. Her glow has faded. Her eyes—once radiant—are now glassy, uncertain. She looks less like a creature and more like a woman who’s lost something vital.

For the first time, I see her clearly.

Not the costume. Not the seduction. Not the hunger.

I see the loneliness in her. The ache. The way she trembles slightly, as if unsure whether to reach for me or retreat.

I sit up slowly, studying her. The curve of her shoulder. The way her fingers curl inward like she’s bracing for rejection. She’s not dangerous now. She’s exposed.

I reach out—not to reclaim power, but to offer something else. Something human. I brush her hair back from her face. Her skin is warm now. Human-warm. Her breath catches.

“Is this real?” I ask. “Are you real? Do you really feed on my fear?”

She focuses, her gaze locking onto mine. Her lips curve into a soft, tired smile.

“I’m as real as life and death.”

The party is a good one. People are dancing, laughing, shouting over the music. The bass thumps through the floorboards like a heartbeat, and the air smells of cider, sweat, and synthetic fog. Costumes swirl in a kaleidoscope of velvet, latex, sequins, and face paint—witches with glowing eyes, vampires with bloodied lips, ghosts trailing gauze, goblins with twitching LED horns. The music and the crowd blur into one pulsing organism, alive with celebration.

Everyone seems thrilled just to be here.

Except for me.

I stand at the edge of the party, half-shadowed by a plastic skeleton strung up in the corner. Maybe I’m content to be on the sidelines. Maybe I’m just lying to myself. Either way, I’m here—watching, not participating.

I was invited by my best friend. She’s a sultry, lovely, dark-haired beauty. I used to have a crush on her, back when I thought longing was the same as love. Now she’s just someone I cherish.

She’s here with her boyfriend. A good guy. A confident guy. A fucking handsome guy. Asshole.

But tonight is not about my friend. For the past hour, I’ve been watching a girl across the room. A redhead dressed in a sleek, custom-made costume—half skeleton, half witch. The fabric clings to her like it was stitched from shadows and silk. Her hat tilts just enough to cast mystery across her face, and the bone detailing glows faintly under the blacklight. She’s a vision I can’t blink away from.

At least ten men have approached her. Confident types. Smiling, charming, full of swagger. She’s been gracious with each one—polite, warm, even playful. But she’s turned them all away. Every single one. Her kindness is as intoxicating as her beauty, but I know it’s a shallow judgment. I don’t know her. I’ve never met her. All I know is that her smile feels like a spell I’ve already fallen under.

I’ve wished a hundred times tonight that I could walk over and talk to her. But I must be wishing on a defective star. My feet won’t move. My chest tightens every time I think about it. I’m not like those other guys. No one’s looked at me all night. Not once. That fact alone tells me everything I need to know.

Outside, the yard is littered with orange and yellow leaves, rustling under the feet of tiny trick-or-treaters. The air smells of damp earth and pumpkin spice. Lights strung across the porch cast a warm glow on the sidewalk, where little spooks and superheroes parade past with squeals of delight. At the door, the host hands out candy with theatrical flair, laughing with the children like she’s one of them.

I watch the scene until I feel I’ve earned enough distance from my own discomfort. Then I look back—and she’s looking at me.

Her eyes meet mine across the room. I freeze. My breath catches. I don’t know where to look, but I can’t look away. Her smile is slow, deliberate, and it hooks something deep inside me. When she starts walking toward me, the crowd seems to part for her. My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. My pulse races. Sweat beads on my forehead. I feel like I’m being hunted.

She stops in front of me. “Hello,” she says.

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

She smiles at my silence. “Do you always sweep girls off their feet like this?”

I laugh, awkward and breathless. Her voice is velvet and smokey. But inside, I feel like a spotlight’s been turned on me. My skin prickles. I scan the room, expecting eyes on me, judgment, mockery. I look for traps, for flames, for escape routes.

Then her finger touches my chin—soft, cool, deliberate. My eyes snap back to hers.

“You are irresistible,” she says, her smile deepening.

“Thank you,” I manage, my voice trembling.

She takes my hand. Her fingers are impossibly small, cold as moonlight, delicate as frost. The moment her skin touches mine, a strange calm washes over me. Like sinking into a warm bath after a panic attack.

“It’s a nice costume you have on,” I say, trying to steady my voice. “It looks really expensive.”

“Thank you,” she replies, lifting her other arm to show off the details. The fabric shimmers like oil on water. “I’ve had this dress and hat for a very long time. Seems like ages.”

“You’re a witch?” I ask.

“No,” she says, her eyes gleaming. “I’m a Phobophage.”

“A what? A…”

She laughs. The sound is electric—low, sultry, and charged. It shoots through my chest like lightning. Her grip tightens slightly.

“A Phobophage,” she repeats. “It’s a spirit that feeds off fear.”

I smile, half in disbelief, half in awe. She’s not joking. Her eyes say she’s not joking. And something inside me believes her. But my heart sinks.

She closes her eyes and smiles wider, like she’s tasting something exquisite. Her head tilts back slightly, exposing the pale curve of her throat.

Can she feel how scared I am? Can she actually be enjoying it?

“Yes,” she says.

“Yes what?” I ask, my voice barely audible.

Her eyes flutter open. Her smile is radiant, almost feverish.

“You are delicious,” she says.

Before I can speak, she turns and pulls me with her. I follow without thinking. Her grip is firm, her pace swift. The crowd doesn’t seem to notice as she leads me through the house, down a hallway I hadn’t seen before. The music fades behind us. The air grows cooler.

She stops at a door, unlocks it with a key I never saw her take out, and pulls me down a spiral stone staircase. The walls are damp, the air smells of moss and old stone. This basement doesn’t belong to the house above—it feels ancient, buried, forgotten.

At the base of the stairs, the room opens wide. Eight antique mirrors stand in a perfect circle, their frames carved with symbols I don’t recognize. The air hums with energy. Candlelight flickers from sconces along the walls, casting long shadows that seem to move on their own.

She pulls me into the center of the circle. We stop.

I look into the mirrors. Each one shows me at a different age—different moments of fear. Me as a child, crying in the dark. Me at school, humiliated. Me at my father’s funeral. Me alone in my apartment, staring at the ceiling. I feel my knees weaken. My breath shortens. I can’t comprehend what I’m seeing.

She begins to moan—low, heated, breathy. It’s not just pleasure. It’s hunger. Her grip on my hand tightens. Her skin begins to warm, pulsing with heat like a living ember.

*** I went to college to be a writer. I have two degrees that specialize in putting words to paper. And recently, a friend of mine has challenged me to use that talent to write about myself. Something not only do I find horrifying, but torturing to soul who wishes nothing more than to be unseen. But I figure I will give it a try. In an attempt to find a kind soul. Bare with me. ***

I’m not the kind of man who walks into a room and demands attention. More often than not, I’m the one people overlook—the quiet figure in the corner, the presence they don’t think twice about. My body, worn by age and shaped by disability, no longer commands space the way it once did. Like Quasimodo, I’ve learned to seek the shadows—not out of shame, but for shelter. Reality, after all, is unkind and unyielding.

But beneath that quiet exterior lives a different kind of power. A sensual intelligence. A capacity for intimacy that doesn’t shout—it listens, it learns, it lingers. I am a man who builds slowly, deliberately. What I offer isn’t visible at first glance. It’s felt in the way I pay attention, in the way I touch without haste, in the way I make someone feel seen.

Most people think domination is about arrogance, aggression and control. About force. About taking. But that’s not how I move. I don’t dominate like a shotgun blast—I do it with precision. With knowledge. With patience.

I study her. Not just her body, but her rhythms. The way she breathes when she’s nervous. The way her voice shifts when she’s unsure. I learn her tells, her silences, her contradictions. And when I touch her, it’s not to claim—it’s to affirm. To say: I see you. I know what you need, even when you don’t.

That’s the kind of dominance I offer. Not a performance. Not a power trip. Something quieter. Something earned.

The trouble is, most people don’t recognize this kind of dominance. They’re used to louder men—men who lead with swagger, who stake their claim before they’ve earned it. Men who mistake confidence for connection.

So when I stand back, when I listen first, when I choose not to perform—I’m often dismissed. Misread. Overlooked. They don’t see the precision. They don’t feel the weight of my attention. They don’t realize that my restraint isn’t weakness—it’s calibration.

I don’t rush in because I’m shy, yes. But also because I’m deliberate. I protect myself. I protect her. I wait until I know what’s real. And when I move, it’s with purpose. With care. With the kind of presence that doesn’t need to be announced.

Imagine being with someone on a cold winter’s night. Snow stacks against the windows like a siege, held back only by glass and will. Inside, the fire crackles—flames dancing like mischievous spirits, casting light into the corners where shadows wait. You’re curled near the hearth, wrapped in the blanket I tucked around you, its warmth pressing into your skin like a promise.

I sit nearby, legs propped, your head resting in my lap. My fingers stroke your hair slowly, rhythmically. I’ve watched you all day—watched the effort, the tension, the quiet fatigue you carry without complaint. I’ve wanted to touch you for hours. But I waited. I always wait. Because I know the difference between impulse and impact.

You make a soft sound, half sigh, half surrender. That’s my cue. I rise, and you grumble—playfully, but I hear the truth in it. You were comfortable. You were held. I retrieve the oil, kneel at your feet, and begin. My hands are strong, deliberate. I work from heel to toe, coaxing tension out like secrets. I feel your body soften beneath me, and inside, something in me exhales.

This is the part no one sees—the patience. The hours of restraint. The quiet ache of wanting, held in check until the moment is right. I suffer for it, in silence. But it’s worth it. Because now, you’re mine. Not because I took you, but because you gave.

I move up your legs, following the map your body draws for me. I touch where you respond. I linger where you smile. I’m not guessing—I’m reading. I’m maneuvering. Not with force, but with fluency. And as you slip deeper into pleasure, into trust, into openness—I feel the shift. The door opens. My desires step through.

This is my dominion. Not loud. Not cruel. But earned. And in this moment, as you melt beneath my hands, I feel the dividends of patience. The thrill of guiding you where I need you to go. The joy of knowing that what we share isn’t taken—it’s built.

There’s a loneliness to being this kind of man.

Not because I lack connection, but because I offer something most don’t know how to receive. I don’t perform masculinity the way they expect. I don’t bark orders or flash bravado. I wait. I watch. I build. And in that waiting, I’m often passed over—for louder men, simpler men, men who make their intentions known before they’ve earned the right to touch.

I suffer in silence sometimes. Not because I’m weak, but because I’m patient. Because I know that real intimacy isn’t found in declarations—it’s found in the quiet moments when someone finally sees you. And until that moment comes, I live in the shadows. I protect myself. I endure the ache of being unseen.

It costs me. It costs me time. It costs me chances. It costs me the kind of easy affection that others seem to stumble into. But I don’t want easy. I want real. I want the kind of connection that’s built on knowing—not guessing. On trust—not performance.

So I wait. And when she finally sees me—not the quiet man in the corner, but the one who’s been reading her all along—I move. And when I do, it’s with everything I’ve held back. Everything I’ve studied. Everything I’ve felt.

That’s the reward. That’s the dividend. That’s the thrill.

The music pumps into the air of the enclosed room. Lights accent the darkened space, sparsely decorated, densely packed. Bodies move in rhythm. The reverberating bass pulsates in my chest until I must move. My hips, my arms, my body keep time and motion with hers. Our hips together, a sexual swing on the floor. A stranger. A momentary partner.

​My eyes lock on her body as she keeps her arms elevated so I can see her curves, moving, swaying, twisting, giving motion to the sounds. I can’t stop.

​Then, a drop. The music stops. No rhythm to carry me. Nothing to celebrate. It makes me stall. To fall from my high.

​I look. I see. I’m entangled in the eyes of a woman I cannot ignore. She pushes me to notice her. To take stock. To drink in the desire she’s giving me, her gaze locked on mine. The room goes dark, and not because of the lights. I feel trapped, capped in a vast space. Drawn. I make my way to this creature, this force pulling me near. She has power. I leave the one behind for the one I cannot evade.

​The music begins. Sultry beat. A drum line saturates my spine. I feel the rhythm build. Slowly. I move through the crowd. Her eyes, her body, her attraction— a siren’s song. I meet her. I have landed. Captured. Nowhere to go but in her eyes.

​She and I begin to dance. Slow, intimate. Her right arm finds my shoulder. We sync up fast. The music grinds: a bluegrass guitar—seductive, torrid, carnal. She goes left. I go right. She swings. I balance. She moves to me. I bring her under my gaze. Down her body. She moves with erotic desire. Her dress, form-fitting. Her black hair, sexual, fun. Her curves. Her movements. Her. Her. All her. The only thing I see is her.

​Her free hand strokes her hair back. The long black locks are pure sex. A deep look of heat. Raw, sensuous movements letting me fixate. Nothing dwells but the physicality of our dance.

​She steps one leg around mine. Then the other. She lets herself mount my body with the dance. Damn the clothes between us. Her head swings around. Lust. We are lust. Steam and dreams and venereal expression fill the space. I take her hips. I claim control. As long as the music lasts. As long as we keep moving. I have her. All to myself. Mine to have. I observe. I feel. I steal the moments.

​I let my head move into the curve of her shoulder. We are so close I can smell the perfume. It sends my thoughts into a higher orbit. Ecstasy. I nearly lose myself. Nearly kiss her like a fool who can’t control the urge. This floor is meant for nothing but two people moving, locked in a motion timed to fantasy, desire strummed by a guitar that lights our organs on fire. Desire.

​Her head falls back. I swing her around. She opens her body. I take it in. She gyrates. She grinds. I hold—and pump—I don’t let her run from the need. The need of me to be her man. Demand, command of her soul.

​Is this real?

​Can I let myself feel these things? Can the thoughts in my head really be fed, be led to a place never discovered before? She dances. She moves. She causes me to lose. Lose my mind. My intelligent, logical kind sensibilities. God, please. Please don’t stop. The music that drops and lifts and swings and grinds these bodies into something that can’t possibly be anything but pure, true, love at first sight.

The water is cold, but it feels soothing against my skin. Washing my truck in the middle of October isn't as pleasant as a day in July, but the excitement is a live wire thrumming through me. The thought of tonight has my anticipation at its peak; the thought of her is my sole drive.

​The high midday sun overhead gleams off the dark, wet paint. Sudsy water washes away the caked dirt, the miles, the memory of that last off-roading trip. Every bit of energy I pour into this detail work—polishing and perfecting—shines like a diamond in the finished result.

​After hours of work, the truck is ready. I am ready. She is ready.

​I drive to her place and park just outside. I gather the deep red roses I bought just for her and walk to the door. My heart pounds a rhythm against my ribs, my blood races, and my mind is a kaleidoscope of her face.

​She answers the door. Her face is all smiles, her eyes alight with a fluttery joy. She takes the bouquet from me, burying her face deep into the velvety aroma of summer. She takes a long, slow breath, filling her lungs with the sweet, pleasant perfume of the flowers.

​Then, she throws her arm around my neck and kisses me. Electricity electrocutes me as she lifts her foot, leaning into the contact, her soft lips pressed firmly against mine.

​"Thank you," she whispers, her eyes—a deep, thrilling blue—telegraphing the pleasures to come.

​She takes the flowers into the kitchen to place them in a vase. I stand at the threshold, watching her scantily dressed body move away from me. My mouth goes dry, my mind recalling the dozens of times my tongue and lips have caressed her warm, smooth skin.

​I wait, patient yet intent, watching her every move. The swing of her hips, the way her light cotton clothes cling to her figure. I notice how underneath her simple top, she wears nothing. The thought of her nipples raising against the fine cotton, two small dimples yearning to be seen, sends a hot pulse of desire through me.

​When she finishes, we walk out to the truck. I open her door, a small, chivalrous gesture, and help her inside. She gives me a slow, knowing smile as my hand lingers on her skin, then I raise her hand to my lips for a brief, warm press. My eyes lock with hers, and in that moment, the rest of the world fades.

​The trip to the beach isn't long, but it's a fun, intimate blur. As always, she immediately takes control of the radio. She searches her phone for the perfect song—something a little soulful and driving—then she moves close to me as the music plays. She holds my arm, squeezing it tightly to her side, and rests her head on my shoulder. I inhale the faint scent of rose oil, coconut, and tropical flowers that is her signature perfume.

​We drive along the very edge of the waves for a long time. We go far past the main entrance, past the other vacationers, all the way to the isolated Jetty where no one is around. I park in the corner, nestled where the wind is broken by the massive rocks and the body of the truck.

​She watches with girlish interest as I take the seasoned wood from the back and start a fire. The sharp, smoky smell of the first burning logs fills the air. In no time at all, she is sitting closely beside me, and we are warming ourselves next to the dancing flames.

​We watch as the sun moves toward its dramatic exit. We talk about nothing and everything, the lovely simplicity of the evening. I caress her hair, running my fingers along her soft cheek. I use my strength to pull her close to me. As the sunset explodes in color, I fight the encroaching chill to prevent her from feeling cold. This allows me to be cheek to cheek with her, enveloped in her unique scent.

​Then, I engage part two of my evening. I pull out her favorite sweatshirt: my old college sweatshirt, the one that smells like me, feels like me, and has been with me for decades. I help her pull it on, and she snuggles herself inside it like a giddy girl receiving a treasured gift.

​I open the ice chest and begin making dinner over the fire.

​I impress her with my skills as I cook fresh, live crab, corn on the cob, potatoes, and carrots in a spicy Cajun broth. The smell of burning cedar and saltwater mixes with the steam from the cooking pot, the savory spice fighting for attention, each aroma wanting to be the star of the show.

​As everything cooks, I feed her sweet strawberries, cool blueberries, sharp cheese, and a glass of chilled white wine. I spend the entire meal hand-feeding her, making sure she is more stuffed than a Thanksgiving turkey.

​When the night is deep, we bury the last few glowing embers. I help her into the back of the truck, where I unroll a thick, padded mattress. I take pillows and blankets from the backseat of the cab and pile them up against the back wall, building a soft, cocooning nest. I take extra care to cover her up, to cuddle her close as we listen to the deep, rhythmic crashing waves of the sea.

​We talk until I can't help myself, until my hands begin to explore under the soft fabric of her shirt. We talk as I fondle, as I caress her torso and the curve of her waist. We talk all the way up to the moment I begin gently squeezing her nipples, and she answers me with a deep, breathless kiss.

​We let passion run wild all night in the back of my truck. Deep, breathy moans fill my ears as I pleasure her body. She lets herself be ravaged. She lets herself be pleasured. She lets me take my desires. She doesn't stop me as I take advantage of her submission. We don't stop as we seize an entire night together.

​Then, as the sun begins to rise and the sky turns from black to a soft, bruised purple, we throw off our covers and run naked into the waves. The cold water bites and teases our bodies. It touches us in ways we only wish we could touch each other. We make love on the edge of the water as waves wash over us.

​I taste the salt on her skin, feel the tightness of her muscles, the grittiness of the sand. She breathes out passion, exhales lust, and takes in every desire I offer. We continue until the bright light and sheer exhaustion send us running back to the bed of the truck, diving under the blankets to warm ourselves with shared heat.

​We feel excited. We feel free. We feel lucky to have experiences that we know we'll remember for the rest of our lives.

After a moment of deep shame and regret, I gathered up my things quickly and I headed for her building. I had no idea how I was going to do this. I don't know her name, I don't know what she does. I may not even be able to get past the front desk. I might not even be able to catch up to her. What am I going to say? ‘Hey, there's a lady who sits across from me at a picnic table, I need to talk to her. Do you know where I can find her?’

I get to the doors of the building and I see her in the lobby. I got lucky and she was detained by someone talking to her in front of the elevators. I walked towards her and she noticed me when she glanced around. She didn't look all that happy to see me.

I waited patiently for her to finish her conversation with the man that was talking to her. By their interactions it looked like she knew the guy pretty well, but was immensely annoyed by him and really didn't want him even in the vicinity of her. It was that obvious. It was damn near painful to watch. But finally she found an opening in the conversation that she was able to excuse herself. She pointed towards me and I felt a twinge of happiness that for a second time I was able to help her escape the clutches of a clueless simpleton who couldn't take a hint.

Although, it did cross my mind immediately there after that maybe she felt even less inclined to talk to me than the guy she was so obviously repelled by. ‘Oh shit. This might have been a big mistake,’ I think to myself.

She comes over to me, and though she noticeably didn't want to talk to me, she at least didn't flip me off and tell me to take a long walk off a short pier.

“Listen. I'm sorry for what I said…”

Then I froze. I didn't know what to say after that. The words seemed to catch in my throat and I went blank. I tried to think of something else to say that was genuine and meaningful, but all I was left with was awkward silence and her not impressed with what I was saying. ‘Awe fuck it. I'll just wing it.’

“You know, as humans lately, we have forgotten the basics. We try to be original and think that we know better than those who came before us. But all we do is fuck things up and make them overly complicated for no reason at all. Which, all that means is, I wasn't using any manners. I was lashing out wanting to strike first, to be the one to reject you and drive you away before you had a chance to use reality against me. And if I had remembered to use my manners I would have realized that maybe I didn't need to be such a jerk. And I'm sorry.”

“Thank you,” she said with timid solace. “But you didn't have to come here to apologize.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to. I've enjoyed our lunches together and I didn't want my big mouth to ruin that. I brought a bazooka to a conversation and I fucked up and pulled the trigger when I shouldn't have.”

“You surprised me honestly. I was shocked more than anything. I've never been the one to be turned down before. Usually I'm the one telling people I'm not interested or that I don't want to be bothered,” she said.

“Well, truth be told, I normally would never have said that. Today's just a bad day for me, and I kind of lost my temper,” I said with a small chuckle to myself, feeling a little bashful from the honesty.

“Well, if I am to be honest. You were right. I did mean that you would make someone else a great companion. It was an instinctive reaction that I always have of immediately rejecting someone and then thinking afterwards. It's become so second nature to me that I was shocked when you pointed it out to me. And then I was knocked on my ass when you told me you weren't interested.”

I had to smile from her view of the events. She was being light hearted and the conversation was actually a pleasant one now that we were really being honest with each other.

“Yeah, well… Normally I would have taken a different tactic. I would have tried to be witty and unique and charming in a beauty and the beast sort of way. I would have tried to make you see the qualities of who I am. Hoping against hope, praying that you would see through the physical appearance to the prince buried within. Yadda yadda yadda. Getting stuck in the permanent friend-zone. My heart being crushed yet again. Until one day when you would come to me and tell me that you have finally met someone. He's wonderful and great and though he's not everything you have wanted in a mate, he still makes you happy. Enough. And I end up taking a long walk off a short pier.”

“You really don't believe in fairy tales then. Do you?”

“Oh hell no. If the Beast was real, today, in America, no one would even know that fucker existed. His little flower would wilt and die and he wouldn't even get a tricker-treater coming to his door. Hell, even the furniture and other what-nots would have packed up their shit and gone to live with the ice princess bitch in the other castle freezing their little asses off because at least she's cute in a cold-hearted-bitch sort of way. And she still gets men climbing her long ass ice staircase to hit on her while she tells them to fuck off and die. Let it go. Let it go. Turn away and slam the door. I don't care what they are going to say.”

“OH MY GOD! Did you seriously just quote Frozen?”

“No.”

“Yes you did.”

“Did not. No.”

“You closeted little Disney Princess freak, you.”

The two of us had a good laugh together.

“You really are a judgmental little troll. Aren't you,” she said as we continued to have fun poking at each other.

“Yeah, but a really cute/hideously judgmental little troll, as trolls go. And besides, you're just pissed that this beast told beauty he's not interested. He's happy and content in his drafty, windy, wet tower of solitude and misery. And he's not coming down for anything,” I said with stubborn pride and delusionary ignorance.

“You're so full of shit. You know this right?”

“I won't tell if you won't.”

“Well I have to get back to work. So take that as you will,” she said smiling and happy.

“Fine. I've spent too much time out of my dungeon anyway. I will see you tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” she said walking away towards the elevators laughing and smiling.

“Is that a good maybe? Cause, I know a cute green ogre and a funny little donkey that can rescue damsels in distress from their ivory towers if you don't show.”

“You're crazy,” she said as she called back to me from across the lobby.

“Now who's being judgmental?”

With that, the doors to the elevator opened up and she stepped inside. I felt good that she was laughing and having fun with me. I had hope that she would come and have lunch with me tomorrow.

So I left the lobby of her building and I crossed the courtyard and park to my neighboring building where I spent my days in a dark dungeon of solitude toiling away on broken computers. From my window, I was able to look out at her building and wondered if maybe she thought about me at all. Then I quickly squashed that horrible thought of happiness that came from thinking about her and I buried my head in work.

The next day was another lovely sunny and warm day. Which fucking sucked. But at least it wasn't hot out as summer was finally behind us. I tried as hard as I could not to be eager to go to lunch. As much as I could, I tried my best not to think about it, but wound up thinking even more about it because I was trying so hard to ignore it.

When it was time, I gathered my lunch that I had spent a little more time on this morning to make it a little better than normal, and I headed to the bench. I sat in my new position waiting for her to arrive and hopefully sit across from me.

It was excruciating waiting for her to appear from the doors of her building. Time kept ticking away and she didn't appear. I couldn't stop counting the minutes on my phone that she might come out and come have lunch with me. I felt stupid, like I was being an idiot for letting myself be excited and hoping she would show up. But it was just as stupid to try and deny that I am who I am, and this is what I do.

Then I looked up and there she was, heading across the courtyard, coming right for me with her lunch. She was talking on her phone as she walked and I tried not to pay attention to her. But my heart leapt in my chest knowing that she was not mad at me.

She sat down across from me and said goodbye to the person on the phone. She put her phone down, pulled out her gourmet health meal, and without even looking at me, said “This doesn't mean I forgive you.”

“You just remember that I dumped you first,” I said looking at my phone and not at her.

We spent the rest of the lunch hour not saying a word to each other. It was silence and tranquility and a wonderful break from our busy day. And she looked particularly beautiful today.

“What are you looking for in a woman?” she asked me with nonchalant interest over her bite of vegetables.

The day is testing me. I know it. I can feel it in my bones. How the morning started out with me grumpy as can be and wanting nothing to do with the day. Then work driving me mad with nonstop people coming into my office. Now she’s asking me this. I could just spit in her salad.

Since that day when I sat across from her and made that guy go away, she and I have sat across from one another eating our lunches at our customary table. Sometimes she'll start a conversation with me. Sometimes we'll just sit in silence eating our respective food. But never have we ever talked about anything personal before.

“Yeah. I'm not answering that,” I said as I continued to scroll through profiles on my phone.

“Oh come on. Why not? It's a legitimate question.”

“Because it has misunderstanding and other problems written all over it.”

She didn't like my answer, but she didn't argue back. She just watched intently as I continued to scroll through profiles aimlessly without seeming to give any interest in what I was doing.

“A typical guy. You don't even read them. You just look at the pictures and nothing else,” she said as she took another bite of her food.

“What?” I asked, confused as to why she would say that.

“You scrolling through the profiles. You're just looking at the pictures. You're not even reading the profiles. You're making judgements based on looks and nothing else. That's such a typical male thing to do.”

“I'm not looking at their pictures,” I said.

“Then what are you doing?”

“No. No. Go back to what you were saying. Calling me a pig and a typical male asshole that only judges women based upon their looks.”

Though I was kind of annoyed by her comment, I couldn't help but smile and laugh a little at the conversation we were having. I know she wasn't trying to insult me or actually start anything bad.

“I didn't mean to say that you were…”

“A scum-sucking-bottom-dweller that only judges women based upon their looks and cares nothing about who they are as a person?”

She started to laugh at my response to her putter her foot in her mouth. “I didn't mean that,” she laughed. “But what are you doing?”

“I’m not really doing anything. I just scroll through seeing if something catches my eye.”

“What's something that might catch your eye?”

“Sometimes it's a name. Sometimes it's a smile. Or sometimes it may be a location they are from. Just random things that happen to catch my eye,” I say.

“Then what?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“You don't write to them or say hello or anything?”

“No,” I say with no thought about who any of these women might be. “I mean, sometimes I might read their profile if I think it might be interesting. But I don't message them.”

“Why? Why don't you say anything?”

“What's the point? They're just going to ignore me. They might read my profile or something, but they never write back,” I tell her as I continue to flip through my phone.

“You don't know that. What are you saying that's causing these people to never write back?”

“It's not about what I say. I say the same thing any gentleman might say: Hello, how are you? I read your profile. You seem to be a very interesting person. Would you like to have a conversation with me? Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. It's about what I’m not. Which is a typically handsome, wealthy guy with six-pack abs and enough brain cells to hold a 5 minute conversation.”

“A 15 minute conversation! Thank you,” she said laughing at my description of what women look for. “And you know, we don't all look for that.”

“Oh yes you do,” I said in total disbelief of her comment. “I've been sitting at this table for a little over 3 years now. And you've been coming and sitting here at this table for about 10 months. And in that time, I literally cannot count all the men that have come and hit on you. And you haven't given even as much as the time of day to those men because they are not that Hollywood Dream Boat kind of guy.”

“That is totally unfair!”

“Hey, I'm not judging. I would have told every single one of those idiots to hit the bricks too if I was an attractive woman such as yourself. But the fact of the matter is, those men were all attractive, very self-assured nitwits that didn't fit the mold I outlined.”

“And what makes you think I’m looking for that stereotype?”

“1) You are a very attractive women. And this day in age, you have to work at it to be attractive like you are. Which means you expect the person you are with to work just as hard as you do in order to be attractive. Fair is fair. 2) You have very nice clothes. You obviously do not go shopping at Old Navy looking for the bargains because money is tight. Which means, not only do you have an appreciation for the finer things, again, you expect him to be able to afford a better lifestyle and not be some bum in K-Mart shorts. And 3) If any one of those guys had come up to you and said something original or interesting or half way funny, you might have talked to them. But they didn't. And you responded accordingly. Which means that you are looking for someone who's educated and intelligent, which not only allows them to have the finer things in life, but gives them the ability to be more creative and witty when meeting a beautiful woman such as yourself.”

“Ok, A) Stop judging me! And B) … Shut up!”

I could see that she was both impressed that I was able to deduce those things about her, and laughing a little and still having a good time. Which means she wasn't offended by what I had to say. Which made me feel good. She had a sense of humor about herself and that she was a lot more grounded than I gave her credit for.

“I don't mean a person is bad for wanting those things. I don't do any of those things that you do to take care of myself, but I still have my standards just as you do. Which means everybody is looking for something. We all have our fantasies.”

“Then I ask again,” she said. “What are you looking for in a partner?”

“That's just it. I'm not looking for anything. I just like to scroll.”

“Oh come on. You just said, ‘Everybody is looking for something.’”

“I'm not everybody,” I said trying to restrain my laughter, knowing I am purposefully being difficult.

“Oh, and I am? I'm so typical that you an figure me out in a heartbeat?” She asked.

“Typical? No. No way. Special? Maybe. But maybe I'm just that good,” I said with a cocky nod to myself.

“If you're so good, then why didn't you ever try to ask me out?”

“Because I'm not an idiot. I know when I don't even stand a chance. I might be funny and witty, but I know when I am out classed. And you are WAY out of my league. You should be with someone way better than I ever could be.”

“I don't know. You're handsome. Not bad looking. You are funny and witty. You make me laugh a little. And you certainly are not typical. That's for sure. I've never had anyone tell me they aren't good enough for me before.”

“No. No,” I said cutting her off. “For someone else you mean. I'm good enough for someone else. You mean I'm good enough to be your friend. But that's it. We would never be anything other than just friends though. Well, no thank you. I enjoy our lunches together, but I'm not looking for a friend. Thanks, but no thanks.”

This last comment of mine kind of hurt her feelings a little bit. Maybe if I was paying a little more attention I would have caught it. Maybe I would have not said it, or at least been kinder about it. But I was too busy being an ass and I didn't notice it.

She didn't say anything to me after that. She ate her lunch, gathered her things and left as she always does, a few minutes before one o'clock. She headed back to the same building she came from, where I have deduced that she has a corner office on the third floor of the 10 story building. It wasn't until I saw her walking back towards her building that I realized I had said something that hurt her feelings. Because she left without saying goodbye.

‘You need to make it up to her. You need to apologize to her,' I thought to myself. ‘You need to catch up to her and say you’re sorry.’

She's gotta be the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life.  I don't think everyone would agree with me, but that's how I see her.

I don't know who she is, but I spend an hour a day with her: Monday through Friday, noon to one. It's probably been a few months now. Sitting at her end of the table, me at mine. I used to sit alone, content to have the solitude. But now, she's become a silent partner in the middle of my day. A kind of sharing, if you will, of the escape from our nine to five.

I've never talked to her. I have no idea if she even knows I'm here; I wouldn't blame her if she didn't. And this arrangement suited me just fine. I'm no idiot. I know there are types of people that I'm not one of. And oil and water just don't mix. But recently, with the weather getting warmer, she has begun to shed layers, exposing more of the appealing flesh underneath.

This has caused two problems in our unspoken agreement to overlook and omit one another. The first of which, she makes it nearly impossible for me to keep my eyes, and more importantly, my thoughts to myself. Temptation of the woman makes it very difficult for me to keep my mind on other things as my head often fills with thoughts of her curves and beautiful sensual body. But this is forgivable, as it's not her problem that I find her so attractive. A little bit of discipline and I can usually refocus and think of other things.

But it's the second problem that is harder to ignore. As she is more exposed, and thusly, more appealing, this has caused men to start coming over randomly and interrupting what used to be a wonderful, tranquil spot to relax. And these morons, these barely ape-like creatures with half a brain cell, never get the picture when she tries to dismiss them with a polite rebuff. So I'm forced to listen to her come up with a hundred different ways to say, "No thank you. I'm not interested." I have to hand it to her though, I run out of patience for these mouth breathing idiots far sooner than she ever does.

And as much as I feel for her, because she's just trying to be herself while going about her own business when these bipedal pigs come traipsing along disturbing her, I have nearly come to the point to where I have started to feel it necessary to either find a new place to eat, or that she must. On one such day, when I am feeling particularly short tempered and completely not in the mood to deal with said walking, talking dickheads, I took it upon myself to do something about it.

It was a particularly warm summer's day and she was wearing a light cotton dress that seemed more like tissue paper blowing in a breeze than body coverings. The dress, the sandals, the way her hair seemed to float on a breeze that I only imagined, all gave this woman an air of angelic beauty that warmed a cynic’s heart.

From her purse she pulled a Tupperware filled with fresh vegetables and other grown wholesome foods, which made my bologna sandwich and chips look just pathetic. She's sitting over there, a picture of beauty and health, smiling and content as she looks to her food, all the while I sit in my mental storm cloud of misery while eating the very definition of “given up all hope.” It was a day I had exhausted all my patience dealing with blustering management when I saw it coming. Some cock-sure dude with more testicles than IQ points come walking across the park, headed directly to her. I mean, do these guys have some kind of GPS guiding them to her or something?

The guy wasn't even to the table and my blood was starting to boil. And I knew that if I didn't get rid of this asshole quickly, I was going to blow my top. And that would have made her feel bad, and I didn't want that either. So I quickly gathered my lunch and slid over a little so that I was sitting directly across from her. She looked up from her lunch with inquisitive eyes that seemed shocked that I had done such a thing. My presence across from her stopped her in her tracks as I looked back into her deep pools of blue and green. Then, before this stranger got to the table, I spoke.

“And Mark and Janice were wondering if we would come over this weekend and barbeque.”

The poor girl was stunned. She had no clue what I was talking about, or why I was even sitting across from her saying these things. But before she could gather her thoughts and ask what in the hell I was doing, the stranger came up to the table and stood silent next to her.

She turned her head with a mouth full of food and looked at the man who was staring at us, more her than me. I looked up at the guy and quickly added, “Can I help you?”

The guy didn't say anything in return as he froze for a moment, smiled and then walked away. The lady before me watched as the man walked away not even looking back. Then she looked at me and understood what had just happened. She quickly covered the smile on her face with her hand and said “Thank you,” with a mouth full of food.

I didn't say anything in return. I merely picked up what was technically a sandwich and continued to eat as she and I enjoyed the peace and quiet of the hour before returning to where ever we come from when we are not on the bench enjoying our solitude and tranquility.

That is until my brain started shouting at me, ‘why in the hell didn't you say anything back? You moron!’

Have you ever seen an abused animal? Seen how they act around humans? It doesn’t matter if you were the one abusing the animal or not, they look at you with those untrusting eyes and they just say “stay away.”

The courage it takes to learn to trust someone again. The time it takes to learn someone and understand them. And in the back of your mind are the memories of what’s happened in the past. And one little misstep, those memories come flooding back in a rush and wash away all that trust you worked so hard to build.

Now, you have to double your efforts, you have to double the amount of courage it takes to try again. And it’s not easy. Because you are going against your own instincts. You are going against the lessons you’ve learned and you’re opening yourself up for more of the same pain that you already are so full of. And you’re putting your faith into something that you don’t believe in: trust. Trust that one time, one day, it won’t happen again. That knife won’t stab you again. That pain won’t flood your heart again. That anger won’t sweep in and fill your mind with red and blind you to the fact of something being a simple accident.

But for humans, this process can be even more difficult. Because we are aware of the choices we make. And we may ask ourselves, are we making the right choice by trying again? Are we really being courageous? Or are we being stupid for making the same mistakes? And I’ve talked to a lot of people who draw hard lines on this issue. Many of whom who will not allow others the opportunity of harming them again. And you see it, you see that look in their eyes. That look of not trusting, of being hurt.

Communication can be the answer to this problem. Finding a way to break through the walls and just being able to have a dialogue. Thinking about all the worry, all the pain and all the fear that can be avoided if we could talk it out and be able to express what it is we are feeling and what is going through our minds. But we have become a culture of protecting ourselves, of building walls to keep others at bay. And I cannot deny that it’s for good reason.

But what do we do when we find that right someone? How do we know how to let someone through our wall when we don’t give them a chance to really communicate with us? When we ourselves don’t open up and tell others the truth of what it is we are thinking and feeling. How can there be honesty when two people only speak in half truths. What is the price we are really paying for not talking to someone and telling them how we really feel? And is that price greater or less than the price we pay for maybe being burned one more time?

I don’t know.

~ This never happened. It’s a complete work of fiction. But I was thinking about it and I thought, man, wouldn’t it be cool if it did happen. ~

Tonight I was at a club. It’s one I've come to before, but don't always like to be at. It’s always busy, the music is normally really good and the drinks are the best. But it's not the kind of place I fit in.

Tonight I was having a pretty good time. Like a ghost among the living, I went relatively unnoticed, but still enjoyed just being in the crowd. Then a woman caught my eye. I spent a considerable amount of time watching her, looking from afar, content to admire her with no desire to talk to her. She was a very rare and beautiful woman, especially for a place like this. And so of course I was intimidated by her. I nearly felt like a stepped on puppy just looking at her.

Normally the crowd here is much younger than me. Since they don’t make a good night club for… older people, especially any kind of club I would ever want to visit, I find myself coming here most times and just simply sitting in a corner. I feel content to just enjoy the sights and the music and go unnoticed.

But this woman, this woman was unbelievable. I had tried several times all night to ignore her so I didn’t feel like some kind of creep gawking at her. But I always found myself looking back to her. She was my age, professional, refined and highly enigmatic. Her dress complimented her well. It’ wasn’t made to give others a free view of her body like so many other women’s dresses in this place. It was dignified, classy and obviously very expensive. Her hair was also fantastic, alluring and added so much to her beauty in an understated way. The way she held her drink showed she had manners, some sort of social education and upbringing. The way she comported herself had and air of refined etiquette.

If anyone was far too good for a place like this, she set the gold standard. Which made me crazy with curiosity as to why she was even here in the first place. Alone of all things. And all night long, good looking men, men in suits and with flashy jobs and cocky attitudes that normally got them any woman in the place, would go up to her. And within only a moment or two they would leave, head hung low and shoulders slumped as she gave them nothing, not even a millimeters worth of interest. One, after another, after another, men were being shot down by her. It was a massacre. She was leaving dead bodies behind her like a nuclear war. And yet, I didn’t get the sense it was because she had some kind of shitty attitude.

Then I saw it. It was for the tiniest of instants. The only way I was even sure I saw what I saw was I had to rewind it in my head and play it over and over again. But it was real. It was there. This woman needed help. Not a single person saw it. The fact that the drink she had in her hand never touched her lips. Not once. The fact that her eyes never stopped looking towards the door. The fact that she probably never heard a single word any person has said to her the entire night. And it was compelling to me that this poor woman needed something, and she might be under duress.

It was the only reason I even got up from my table and went to her. If it wasn’t for that revelation, I would have never in my life even thought of talking to her. I’m not that insane. She was shooting down guys way better looking and more confident and wealthier than me. I never would stand a chance with this woman. I’m not so naive as to think I stood a chance with her and wouldn’t immediately be shot down by her the second I approached her.

I made my way to her from across the room. I tried to move quickly through the crowd. And when I got to her, I simply stood before her. I didn’t say anything right away, or do anything. I made myself stand tall and straight so she would feel my intimidating presence before her. But I made no move towards her. I let her adjust to my standing there, subconsciously accepting my authority over her as I dwarfed her in height and stature. When she finally made eye contact with me, she bit her bottom lip as she looked up at me. I slowly and gently leaned in and whispered into her ear, “What is a little girl like you doing out so late without your Daddy?”

She instantly jumped back in shear panic. Her face went flush as she felt the headlights bearing down upon her. “How did you know?” she asked.

“Small things. Things you come to recognize over time.”

“Well, he wouldn’t like it if he saw me talking to you,” she said as she looked around the room and back towards the door. “You should go.”

“How late is he?”

She looked back to me and didn’t say anything.

“Has he called or texted to say that he’s running late?”

Again, she said nothing. She only looked me in the eyes with a sorrowful look on her face. And there it was again. The same look on her face that caused me to get up and come over.

“Let me guess, this was a first date? A first meeting? You met him online and…” I didn’t have to keep going. The tear beginning to form in her eye told me everything I needed to know as she quickly wiped it away.

“Come on. Let’s get you home.”

“No, I can’t go. He may show up…”

I put my hand up to stop her from talking. I kept my hand up and I didn’t move it. Then I touched her chin to get her attention and to focus on looking into my eyes.

“He’s not coming,” I said quietly and gently. “I’ve watched you for over three hours now, turning away men left and right. You never once checked your phone, so I know he never texted, never sent a message. Which tells me he’s not coming. It also tells me that he’s not a very good Daddy if he’s left you here all alone and couldn’t bother to even let you know he wasn’t coming. But I think you know that already. I think that’s what the tear was about. So come on, let’s get you home.”

I didn’t ask her permission. I didn’t wait for her to give it to me. I simply took her hand and I began leading her to the door. She followed behind me holding tightly to my hand. I stopped at the coat check desk, and she retrieved her coat while I took my cell phone out and called for a cab. When her coat was given to her, I took it from her and held it out for. I could tell she was accustomed to having men help her with her coat, the way she turned and extended her arms so I could slip it on and over her shoulders.

I once again took her hand and held it as I lead her outside. I told her I had called for a cab. She didn’t respond as we passed through the crowd of people still waiting to get inside. We got to the curb just in time for the taxi to pull around and meet us.

I opened her door and I let her in first, then I slid in next to her.

“You don’t have to…”

She was trying to be polite, as well as possibly trying to get me to leave her alone now that she was in a cab. But I stopped her from saying anything and asked for her address. She reluctantly told me and I repeated it for the driver.

The cab drove off and we sat quietly for a few minutes. Then she asked me how I knew back there. I turned to her and smiled.

“My wife, who passed away several years ago was a little. She and I were together since we were kids. We went to school together, grew up together and got married right out of high school. She and I discovered the lifestyle together. And I could always tell when she felt little and took on a persona of innocent youth. I don’t usually stare at people, but I was watching you tonight and I saw it. I recognized it and I could see you felt like you were in trouble. So I wanted to help.”

She didn’t say anything in return. She just simply watched out the window as the city passed us by. She kept quiet the whole time we took the ride across town to a wealthy suburb. The taxi stopped and I asked him to wait for me. I then got out of the car and held the door open for her as she slid out. Once again I held out my hand for her and I helped her to her feet.

As she walked to her front door, I didn’t say anything as I waited at the taxi. I just wanted to make sure she got inside before I left. She put her key in the door and opened it, then she stopped and walked back to me.

“Thank you,” she said as she stood in front of me looking in my eyes.

“You’re welcome. I hope you kick his ass if you don’t mind me saying. Someone like you deserves much better and he really screwed up tonight.”

Of course I wanted to say he was a pathetic dumbass of monumental levels for disappointing a woman like her. But I didn’t want to offend her, especially not knowing their history.

She reached into her purse and she pulled out a small business card. She bit her lip again as she looked at it and thought a moment. She then handed it to me. “I wouldn’t mind if maybe you called me sometime and we had a coffee or something?”

I smiled as inside I felt so very honored by her asking. Shit, I practically wanted to do cartwheels. But I kept my cool, I took her hand and I kissed it.

“I would love to.”

She smiled and went back to her home. She waved as she shut the door and went inside. I got back into the cab and left for home looking at her card.