I couldn’t remember the last time. I knew it was before meeting Tiel, but I couldn’t surface any memory of the location, the person, or the act. A cute strawberry blonde came to mind, but she was earlier in the summer and she only stuck out because Ineverwent for redheads.
I knew I sampled an artisanal gin that night, and it was exceedingly herbaceous for my preferences. I had a lengthy conversation with the bartender about that bottle of gin, but I couldn’t recall anything about the woman who got on her knees for me.
“Shit,” I murmured.
Tiel lifted her glass and rolled the base on her coaster, leaving a series of overlapping circles from the condensation. She chewed her lip for a moment, and frowned at her drink before meeting my eyes. “I think I have you figured out,” she said.
I made a show of looking at my watch. “And it’s only been what? Eight? Nine weeks since you forced me into that elevator? Certainly there’s a prize for nailing me down inside two months.”
She smirked, and I could tell I was getting her riled up. “I bet your standard operating procedure is incredible.”
“You’re damn right it is,” I muttered.
“Of course,” she laughed. “You have all the right moves and flawless execution. I’m sure you can accomplish more in ten minutes, in a random closet no less, than most men aspire to on their best nights.”
I gestured over my shoulder, motioning toward the restrooms. “Would you like me to demonstrate? You pick the closet.”
“Your skills are legend, Samuel,” she said. “But that’s the issue. Sex isn’t about skill. It’s passion, and you can’t fake that.” She brushed her hair away from her face, shrugging. “I know some musicians who can shred every single piece of music put in front of them, but they have no passion for the sound and you can hear it. It’s technically perfect, but it’s so fucking soulless that you never want to listen to that piece ever again.”
This was her way. She’d ask one seemingly simple question, pull one thread, and take me apart. The topics varied, but every time it came back to peeling away the layers of self-preservation I’d painted on over the years. She knew how to strip me down and see me without any of that protective veneer, and in a sense, it reminded me of Angus. She heard all the outlandish thoughts rambling around my head, but instead of decimating me the way he did, she took those loose, frayed threads and pulled me back together.
“Most people think passion lives in some thundering monster, a primordial entity that calls all the shots from deep inside your brain, but it’s not,” she said, growing animated. “It’s details. It’s the way itsy bitsy sounds bend around each other and create magic. It’s pressing your mouth to someone’s neck because you can’t imagine living another minute without feeling her skin on your lips. Fingertips digging into hips until they bruised. Reaching for someone in the night. Knowing her taste in your soul but never feeling fulfilled. Awakening all the beasts you’ve kept hidden inside, and letting them grow and breathe because she wants to know them. That’s passion.”
I stared at her, convinced I was observing something filthy and exquisite, and I couldn’t find a single thing to say.
I was suddenly uncomfortable, too warm and too confined in this small space. I tugged my sleeves down, then ditched the cufflinks and rolled my shirt to my elbows. It wasn’t enough, and though it was a delicate Italian silk that didn’t take well to folding, I unknotted my tie and shoved it in my pocket. None of it cooled the obnoxious tension clawing at me.
At first, I couldn’t comprehend my visceral reaction to her comments. Tiel and I talked about sex all the time. It was mostly my conjecture about her mouth relative to my dick, and it was all good fun.
“But you can’t really get any of that in a hook-up, can you? Sure, itches scratched, biological urges met, whatever.” She threw her hands up as if regular, hearty orgasms weren’t elemental to the sanity of men everywhere. “But you never learn what that person likes and craves. You don’t even know whatyoucrave, and it doesn’t matter how well you perform when there’s no soul. No passion.”
She held out her hands, the evidence presented.
There were no quick comebacks in my arsenal, and honestly, my dick was too busy getting strangled by my trousers to form a rational response.
“Why are we talking about me? I’m great. Let’s talk about you, Tiel. When was the last timeyouhad sex?”
She raised her glass halfway to her mouth then stopped, and set it on the coaster. “It was July.”
“Was it any good?”
Our eyes locked, and I noticed a blush creeping across her cheeks as we continued staring at each other. “It was fine.”
“‘Fine’ seems like an awfully low bar,” I said. “You’re comfortable with that?”
She glanced out the window, her gaze distant while her fingers tapped the tabletop with the piano’s rhythm. “Actually, itwasgood. We weren’t . . . hmm.” She balanced her chin on her fist and paused. “We just weren’t the right fit.”
I shifted in my seat, and the movement jostled the table and sent liquid sloshing out of my glass. I hadn’t touched my drink, and now it was dripping off the table’s ledge and staining the knee of my trousers. I brushed it away and shook off my hands, more frazzled than I was before, and gulped down my gin and tonic.
I didn’t want to talk about her having sex with some shabby guy. Some loser who didn’t understand her, who couldn’t handle her idiosyncrasies. But I couldn’t stop.
“Why not?” I asked.
Tiel tore her attention from the narrow stage, but didn’t respond immediately. “I go for the passion, and that’s not an easy find. Being with someone is a lot more than inserting one thing into another.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a little insertion,” I muttered.
Tiel shook her head and smiled. “Nothing at all. Sometimes insertion is good, but it’s the harder pieces that don’t come together.”
