22 April 2009

Tea Date

He is sitting across from me in the dimly lit restaurant, its Persian rugs only barely softening the wooden seats. I like watching him shift his weight in discomfort.

The copper earrings my sister made for me are heavy in my ears, and I welcome the slight discomfort because it keeps me grounded, keeps me from sliding into the fear into his eyes. 
Those eyes are darting all over, looking voer my shoulder, down at the table... anywhere but at my face as he describes the things he loves to hate, hates to love... as he describes the way that they send him slipping under. He glances, quickly, fearfully, at my face every few minutes, as though gauging my response. 

It takes him longer to look back at my face each time: it is clear in my eyes, in my smile, the pleasure that I take in his discomfort, his humiliation at discussing these things in a public restaurant in the middle of a major city. 
Occasionally I prompt him, make him elaborate on some point that makes him squirm and look determinedly over my shoulder as he answers, face pinkening with humiliation. 

And it makes me smile.

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I am just your ordinary average every day sane psycho supergoddess