At a jazz club

Electro jazz played too loudly to talk about anything that needed soft voices. So with no soft voices, lovers were silent. Too much can happen in this silence of bass and keys and dirty saxophone alto. An intoxicating sensation of presence envelopes the room of people who are here to be seen. It was not too early, not too late. There was too much red and wet wine lists.

She felt the fire and ice rip through her in the way that made her laugh too loud and her gestures too animated. He was there. Across the way.
The lighting wasn’t dim enough here.

And he knew.

He knew about the way she showered every night religiously before bed. He knew about the dark mole she had on her left butt cheek. He knew she liked her eggs poached. He knew about the soft down between her breasts and he knew she arched her back. He knew her aunts and uncles by name. He knew her scent and taste when she hadn’t showered.

For happy hour they were perfect strangers. Flawless at it. Each with new prizes the other had never seen.

She noticed he didn’t laugh too loudly or gesture gregariously. He moved her soft hair away from her neck to whisper something in her ear.

She flinched. A little. The pain wasn’t so much a slap but a growing gnawing.

She was silent.