Eat Hot Death

I walked into the bar looking for a one night stand. I didn’t want complications and I didn’t want strings, I’d had all that and now I just wanted sex. I wanted the passion that had leaked away after so many years together. I wanted the mystery that gets solved when nothing about your lover is unknown. I wanted to feel beautiful and desirable and important, even if for only a little while.

Kicking Matthew out had been easier than I thought it would be. Despite ten years together it had been at least five since I’d started feeling more like his roommate and less like his girlfriend. He had stopped calling me sweetness and doll face, replacing them with hey or just a grunt. He’d stopped being interested in any of the things we’d once had in common, and he was spending more and more time away with his buddies.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t tried to keep things alive: surprise dinners, sexy lingerie and a plethora of new sex toys, but when my efforts were consistently met with apathy, indifference or disinterest I finally stopped trying. Relegated to oversized T-shirts and cotton panties, TV dinners and virtually no conversation at all, we slid down into a depressing routine.

I could remember the exact moment when I realized I was letting life slip by in a cloud of mediocre companionship; Matthew had been sitting on the sofa in his dingy boxers and mismatched socks watching the newest trash reality show. I’d seen him like that a hundred times, it wasn’t a new ensemble, but seeing him there I was filled with such an overwhelming sense of panic that I had to run to the bathroom to throw up.

It was the very next day that I had told him he needed to go. At first he was shocked, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish, and then the yelling started. He went on about how I’d miss him and what would I do without him, all the while angrily packing his things. I knew he’d have to make several trips, after all you can accumulate a lot of crap in ten years, but the moment the door shut behind him that first time I felt light enough to walk on air.

Once the last of his things were out of the house I spent weeks celebrating. I celebrated by reclaiming my friends who had drifted away. I celebrated by throwing out all the clothes that had displayed the apathy I’d saturated myself in, replacing them with things that reminded me I was attractive and female. I spent time on my outward appearance so it would reflect the freedom I felt inside.

And now here I stood, a solitary hunter searching for worthy prey. My black hair had been cut into a steep A-line, the heavy locks framing my face while a wisp of bangs softened my hairline. My make-up was simple save the deep red lipstick that matched my dress perfectly. The silk felt like a caress of fingers when it fluttered against my thighs, the thin straps crisscrossing between my shoulder blades.

I wasn’t shy, having discarded the need for timidity with my oversized T-shirts, and spotting an intriguing face across the bar I picked up the shot I’d ordered and walked directly toward him. He was sitting with a group of his friends, two empty beer pitchers standing like valiant soldiers who had given their all, and it was his friends who noticed me first. One by one their faces turned in my direction, their gazes boldly looking me up and down, and by the time I reached the table his green gaze had found me.

I stood silently for a moment, simply staring at him while his friends made testosterone laden innuendos. I sat the shot glass down in front of him and smiled, “Buy you a drink?”

He looked at it dubiously, “What is it?”

“It’s called Eat Hot Death,” I replied, placing my hands flat on the table and leaning toward him, forcing him to lean back to meet my eyes.

“Sounds like a hangover waiting to happen.”

“Perhaps, but isn’t that typically a reasonable price for what comes before it?” I asked, straightening up and several heads turned as I walked over to the jukebox, dropping a quarter into the slot and making a selection. Turning back to him my eyes made it clear that I expected him to join me and with encouragement from his friends he got to his feet.

Frank Sinatra’s voice crooned out The Way You Look Tonight as he moved toward me, stopping right in front of me and I wordlessly reached up to push the heavy leather coat off of his broad shoulders, tossing it back at his friends.

His breath was coming fast and he visibly tried to slow it down, taking a deep lungful of air and letting it out slowly as I stood a mere six inches away. Placing one arm around my waist he took my hand as I wrapped my arm across his shoulders and we began moving together.

I could feel all the eyes in the bar on us; I could feel the emotion that was stirred by the simple movement of our bodies. My eyes never left his and neither of us spoke; only the music and the feel of our bodies pressed together existed, and the three minute song seemed to go on and on.

The silence that fell when the song ended was like being doused in cold water and he tried to step away but I refused to release him, my arm holding him against the length of my body. The asking in my eyes was plain, and my answer was in his. I released him so he could retrieve his coat, and I don’t think his friends’ crass comments even penetrated his ears.

Making his way back to me I gestured at the untouched shot glass with a small nod of my head, “You forgot your hangover,” I said softly.

He smiled at me, a fiery flash of white teeth promising passion, “You’ll see to it I feel hung-over in the morning, won’t you?”

I gave my own wicked smile in return as we made our way out of the bar, “You better believe it.”