Thom is at this party because he’s a zealot, and I’m here because I was promised a private and fancy dinner. The plan was to “talk to a few people quickly and then scram to a quiet place, then maybe get a hotel room, because Oxford is too far away and it is going to be late…”, as he stated earlier this evening, buttoning his shirt in front of the mirror. Now, however, he is oblivious to the ticking of the watch on his wrist and my audible sighs, talking with a gentleman on his right. I play with a napkin and feel like a lost child, while a lady in the adjacent seat is chirping about world politics into my ear.
Sometimes Thom turns his excited face toward me and I sit upright and clear my voice and smile at him while he lets out a hurried gist of the whole conversation. “Did you hear that?” he asks manically, his voice rising above the general buzz, and before I can come with a general answer his back is to me again and I resume the slouching position. When his interlocutor runs off to the loo I bow down to his ear and inquire him if he’d prefer a date who’d be more verbose than me. He grins at me with his mouth closed and whispers in my ear that he’s thought about that 15 years ago when he was unbuttoning my shirt, however he decided that having a pretty date is better than a clever one.
For that he receives a slap on the shoulder, but before he can make it up to me the gentleman is back and Thom faces him once more.
I gaze at the clock and see that it is late already, which means that our “quiet meal” gets reduced to a “quick drink in the nearby pub”. Scribbling “Dinner?” on a napkin I pass it to him and his expression changes to apologetic when he turns to give me a half-look.
So then we are sitting on the sofa, which is a blessing after the chairs, because I’m leaning back and I have his whole hand to play with, which I do languidly and without stopping for a long time. Sometimes I bring it to my lips and kiss it, then rub my face against it – I love the smell of his skin – and my thoughts drift along all the years we spent together. I realize I keep recalling random days of random years and just fumble through them without order. When I get greedy I slide my fingers under his blazer or poke my nose into his shoulder or neck.
He is surrounded by a group of people who roar with laughter at his remarks. One of them is rather young, in his mid-twenties, his eyes sparkly and voice ringing. Thom pays him no more attention than the others, and I’m delighted at the fact that the boy is contemplating Thom’s neck. I circle Thom’s waist with my arm while taking a swig, trying to act as casually as possible, but the boy’s eyes still flick to look at me quickly. I realize that I’m acting rather foolish and much less discreet than I thought, because the conversation trails off for a second and Thom turns to look at me with an amused cackle. He looks into my eyes, smiling, then leans in and whispers against my ear that I’m beautiful. Pulling away, his cheek slides against mine and we lock eyes for a second. Then he’s back into their conversation, only now he leans against my shoulder and strokes my arm lightly. I fight my triumphant smile and help nobody can see it.
Couple of hours later my arm is around his shoulder and his is around my waist and we whistle chaotically, trying to guess the melodies.
“Which one is this?” I whistle “Toreador”, out of tune, and he snickers and laughs, “No, really, which one?”
“I’m not into classical pop,” he says, clutching my waist; then he concentrates and tries to whistle something, starting over a couple of times, then stopping and cursing.
“It is very disturbing that most of the stuff I listen to is un…whistle…able.”
I laugh, pushing him against the wall. In the clear night I see his hair, which is relatively neat, and his clothes impeccable and in the state of fashionable dishevelment. His shirt is tucked into his trousers accurately, and it is buttoned up almost to the top. I shake my head and kiss him sloppily, cradling his cheeks and then sliding my hands down him to take off his blazer. His shoulders shiver slightly and I don’t break the kiss when I start to tug at his shirt, wrinkling it in my fingers and pulling it out of his trousers. When this is done my hands travel up his sides to stroke his neck and then bury in his hair, ruffling it and making it stick up messily. Finally, with his smile against my lips, my two fingers slide down his neck to be met with the first couple of buttons on his shirt, which I rip off and flick to the ground.
When I’m done I take a step back and look at his red swollen lips and half-closed eyes, his messy appearance and a smirk – and he’s back to his schoolboy age. He raises an eyebrow at me, then pops open a few buttons on the bottom of his shirt just so I see a bit of skin.
“You forgot that,” he says, licking his lips.
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