722

Sweet, smoky lavender and searing scallops. It was a new blend of smells for Sarai, and she was resisting the urge to fully enjoy it. The couch she was sitting in was definitely comfortable enough – when she had first sat down in it, she sank with a Goldy-Locks “just right” fit into its soft blue fibers. Her host wasn’t a bear, of course, but she had a duty to be a responsible guest on this private-quarters date.

Sarai had met him two weeks ago, at her friend’s birthday party. He introduced himself with a chivalric air after bumping into her in the hallway of the small apartment, gently picking up her hand and kissing the back of it with a whispered “My lady,” spoken in a tone so romantic she thought she truly had stepped into a fantasy for a moment. As all relationships go, one thing led to another, and soon they were sitting on their mutual friend’s bed, having intellectual sex with each other. She found him to be a simple man with a complicated mind, and she fell in love with the way he spoke of novels as parallel universes and music as a spiritual aphrodisiac. The very next day, they went to a museum, and it was there that he had proposed to her that she know and use his name – Trevor.

As the days passed, Sarai was increasingly convinced that Trevor was a perfect match for her, a way to whet her mental appetite while appeasing her inner need for companionship. That’s why, when he asked her out on a date that involved a home-cooked dinner at his own apartment, she daringly agreed – despite the freshness of the relationship and the warnings she had heard about such dates from female colleagues.

Now, sitting in the front room of the apartment, Sarai felt the queasy stomach pangs of nervousness. As most innocents are prone to do, she had envisioned early what his small homestead would be like – egg-shell white walls and simple black décor, bookshelves lining the empty spaces, with perhaps one impressionist painting hanging in the hallway. But when the door opened to her light rapping, she was greeted with a burst of color and an artistic disarray of furniture and knick-knacks, a virtual museum of the inner workings of Trevor’s mind crammed into a tiny one-bedroom apartment. In an instant, her perception of her perfect mate had been shattered like delicate pottery.

As he had begun preparing their meal, and she had gotten slowly accustomed to her new surroundings, Sarai began to relearn just who Trevor was. Although he worked as an assistant professor of mathematics at the local university, his heart was not fully in the academic realm. He had confessed to her as he slipped into the kitchen that he had always wanted to be a chef, own his own restaurant, become famous without being an aristocrat. He also loved creating things, and as he disappeared from sight, her eyes discovered some of his own handicrafts – pottery, wire sculpture, wood carving. To be perfectly honest with herself, she had thought these arts to be lost to native tribes, far removed from the clean built modernization of America. Indeed, the more she looked around and identified each little trinket and bauble placed around her, the more she was amused by the irony: here she sat, a simple woman with an exotic name, in the home of a man with a simple name and an exotic mind. Although she was sure this would be their last night together, she felt a little charmed by the mysticism that Trevor’s home so deeply implied.

But the brief reverie she had was bound to quickly come to an end, as the familiar warm tone of Trevor’s voice emerged from the kitchen. “Sarai, I forgot to ask you. Do you like wine with dinner?”

“That’s an interesting question,” she murmured, half to herself.

Trevor poked his head out of the kitchen. “Hmm?” he mused momentarily, before her confusion registered. “Oh, heh, yeah, I guess it is a little odd. I’ve just dated some really prudes in the past, who wouldn’t touch alcohol, or thought it was presumptuous or snobby.”

“What if a person just doesn’t like the taste?”

“Well, there’s that too,” he replied with a grin. “Is that your answer, then?”

“If it doesn’t cause a damper in your plans, yes,” Saria replied. “I rarely drink.”

He smiled softly, and gave her a spirited wink. “Water it is then. I’m not a big wine aficionado myself. I’ll be out in a minute.” With that, he disappeared into the kitchen again, leaving her once again, albeit briefly, to her own devices.

She shifted herself lightly, settling deeper into the cushions of the couch as she waited. Despite her misconceptions, she reasoned that he still seemed a fairly charming and kind individual, the kind a good friendship could be built with. Of course, her mother would be chiding her sharply for being in the home of a still strange man, a man who did not follow the guidelines of simple living that had been so deeply ingrained in Sarai so long ago. She feared now that he was too materialistic, too rich for her simple tastes, although they had meshed so well early on.

But just as she began to formulate a way to politely tell him that he was not what she was looking for in a prospective mate, Trevor emerged again from the kitchen, a chilled glass of ice water in each hand. He came over to her with his ever-present smile and let one of the glasses pass from his grasp to hers before sitting in a chair opposite her, looking at her until she met his eyes with a grateful smile in return.

It was then that she came to realize how little attention she’d paid to his physical attributes, having been so previously obsessed with his mental capabilities. What caught her eyes first was the fact that he had slipped out of the button-up shirt he had worn when he had let her in, leaving on only the form-fitting white undershirt beneath. He had definitely put as much attention into his body as his mind, and while his physique was not built as large as many men, it was slim and toned, letting his muscles show without making him look like a body-building freak. He was a little sweaty right now, but it gave him a different air, an air of strength and self-confidence, that she hadn’t quite caught on before. She could smell him, too – a scent of sweat and deodorant that oddly aroused her senses. Squirming slightly in her seat, she admired his face as well – a slim sweep of his jaw to a slightly pointed chin, warm, full cheeks, and eyes of a deep coffee-hazel that sparked with passionate interest in her.

“What’s on your mind, hmm?”

Blood quickly rushed into Sarai’s face, and she smiled abashedly. “It’s nothing.”

“Oh, you were thinking about something,” Trevor teased. “I could see it in your eyes. Come on, don’t be secretive.”

“Honestly, I –“

“You were thinking about me, weren’t you?” His smile pierced her defenses. “It’s inevitable, Sarai. We’ve been going together about two weeks now; eventually you’re going to get up the nerve to kiss me.”

The blush on her face deepened. “I just don’t like to rush things.”

“Dear,” he replied smoothly, “there’s a difference between rushing things and denying oneself what’s supposed to naturally happen. You do find me attractive, don’t you?”

Her mind stumbled on the direct question, and from it through her mouth slipped the blunt answer.

“Yes.”

“Well then, when a man and a woman find themselves mutually attractive, they usually take action on that feeling,” Trevor continued. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since we met, but you’ve not even shown a sign of interest. I’ve been a little worried that you were sexually scarred somehow in your past.”

Sarai blinked. “Oh, no! I’ve just... never thought about those things before.”

“Never?” He laughed, but in the laugh she heard care and sympathy. “Then you’re in for some education tonight, dear. But first, dinner.” Before she could respond, he stood up and slipped off into the kitchen, leaving her for a third time alone to her increasingly flustered thoughts.

Once she was sure he was out of sight, she set her glass down on a small coffee table, and stood up, gingerly pacing around the unfamiliar room. Within a few moments, she found herself standing before the one bookshelf that was in the room, scanning the book titles for comfort as she often did at home. To her relief, she found several familiar titles. As she was about to kneel down to inspect the lower shelves, she did a double take, and then reached her fingers out to grasp the spine of a canvas covered book. It was a collection of Lord Byron, and she quickly flipped the cover, fanning through the pages to scan the verse she knew well from an early age. Her fingers finally settled on the page of Prometheus, and she read slowly, a murmured whisper on her lips as the verse came forth, a summoned god through her lips.

When Trevor’s voice came again to her, this time from the small corner that served as a dining room, it was hushed, as if afraid to wake the reading dreamer. “A fan of Byron?”

She nodded slowly.

“Not many are,” he replied, making his way over to her with soft steps. Once behind her, he slipped his arms around hers, turning the pages carefully backward to another poem. “This is my favorite.”

Her eyes read the title. “She Walks in Beauty? Why? It’s just a simple love poem.”

“Precisely.” Trevor smiled. “ ‘And all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.’ Isn’t it a gorgeous line? The woman he idealizes is not simply an angel. She’s a woman who knows both reason and chaos; she is the heart of goodness and the birthplace of lust. She is the regenerative seed of life and death.” He paused, and placed his hands over hers, calmly shutting the book. “At least, that’s how I envision her.”

“That’s beautiful,” she mused quietly, surrendering the book back to the shelf. “I had never thought of it that way.”

“And now you will,” he whispered with a secretive smile. “Now, shall we eat the dinner I’ve prepared, or not?”

They moved side by side to the dining table, Trevor acting like the chivalric gentleman and seating Sarai with grace. She eyed the plate as he took his own seat: seared scallops on a bed of rich, creamy risotto, framed with a small salad of arugula and baby spinach. The steam from the warm food blasted her senses; to be truthful, she hadn’t smelled anything so rich or delicious in years. It tugged at her stomach, and she could not resist picking up a fork and indulging in the culinary temptation, spearing a scallop and scooping up risotto and placing both with care in her mouth.

The flavor assailed her with more force than the smell, and she instinctively repressed the moan that struggled in her throat to express the sensual delight she had been given. As she savored the bite, reluctant to swallow it down, her eyes caught the glint of candles and the mellowness of dim light about her, a homemade romantic setting that had been crafted to give light to the food and their faces, and to let the rest of their surroundings fade into darkness. It was as if a mystical gateway had been opened before her; a gateway of sensual delight that in her twenty-odd years of life had never been walked through. She did not know how to reasonably react, but within her head, she heard the whisper lulling her into the dark abyss of mystery.

“Yep, I think I did pretty good on this one,” Trevor commented from across the table. A silent moment passed, and he peered at her face in worry. “Sarai?”

She swallowed, and looked up at him with a sheepish smile.

“Is it okay? Do you not like it?” He frowned.

“Oh… I love it. I –“ she paused in consideration. “I think it’s the best food I’ve ever tasted.”

“You don’t sound like it. Normally people make sounds when they eat food they like. You know. Mmmm. Oohhh. Mmm-ohh.” He grinned a little, but then narrowed his eyes scrutinously.

“Well. . . I was always taught to chew with my mouth closed, not to talk while I was eating.”

“That’s not talking, baby. It’s moaning.”

She lifted her gaze and looked at him with an amused tone. “I don’t think my mother would have approved of me moaning at her meatloaf.”

“That’s a bothersome image,” Trevor quipped back, laughing. “Seriously, if it’s good, I want to hear it. Show me. Don’t be shy.”

Sarai blushed, and looked back at the food. It seemed to smirk back at her, tempting her, daring her to do something different.

“Go on. This isn’t a formal restaurant; I’m not here to judge your table manners.”

Steeling herself, Sarai once again prepared a forkful of food. She was never one to have others watch her eat, but the food was absolutely irresistible. She wanted to be taken to that other dimension that the first bite had taken her. She wanted to hold back conventions just once and let her senses surrender to the tastes, the smells, the textures. And so once again, the food found its way onto her tongue; again, her senses exploded with the delight of this mystical creation cooked up by the shaman across from her; and this time, as the moan squirmed up her throat, she did not suppress it – instead, she closed her eyes, leaned her head back just so, and let every sensation fill her as her body expressed its pleasure.

A long moment passed, and then Trevor commented from across the table respectfully. “Wow, it’s that good? Thanks.”

As she swallowed, Sarai contemplated his reaction. No embarrassment, no teasing, no innuendos. Simply acceptance of an expression of her sensual nature.

Sensual nature? As she prepared another bite, fully prepared to indulge herself, she contemplated this concept. She had never considered herself sensual; she had never fantasized about anything beyond rational goals. But now, as this warm and wonderful food slid down into her stomach, she began to see that she had not simply been hungering for simple meals and a perfectly logical and planned life. She had a deeper hungering – a hungering for the pleasures that others had expressed and enjoyed so freely but she had disdained by training; a hungering to express herself and be as prolific as the authors and poets she so admired; a hungering to not live, but to feel. Trevor had been preparing her for this all along; he had somehow cut through her paper-mache mask to find the woman who hadn’t really bloomed yet, and had been preparing a feast just for her. As she looked across the table, she could see in his admiring eyes that the dinner before them was only the beginning of a long evening, and this disgusted her rational self – but this disgust bred another disgust within her, a disgust at the repression of being human.

So when the dinner was over, and they went to the couch to rest together, she did not shirk at his closeness when he sat beside her. His arm draped over her shoulders confidently, and the instinct of her hungers nestled herself against his chest without prodding. She could hear his heartbeat, and it sounded not simply like blood pumping through muscle; it was music.

“I’m glad you enjoyed dinner,” he said softly.

“Thank you for making it. I didn’t honestly know someone could cook that well.”

This time, a blush crept on his face. “Well, it’s taken practice and plenty of failing to get things right. But cooking is an art, and it takes some courage to get things right. If I’d only ever cooked what my mom taught me, I’d have made you some dry spaghetti with meatballs. Edible, but it does nothing to really fill the entire stomach.”

“Yes – I think I can understand that now.” She smiled, and curled her legs underneath her.

Trevor smiled back. “You know, I was worried about you a bit, Sarai. You’re always so dead-set in getting your to-do lists done, and you never seem to really have fun, even when you’re supposed to be out having it. Like at the party. You were standing around, sipping punch and leaning against the wall, and your mind was clearly on what you needed to get done that evening, and the next day, and for the rest of the week. You can’t live like that.”

“I was just taught that idle hands do the Devil’s work,” Sarai explained. “If you ever wanted to accomplish anything in life, my father told me, you have to work all day and all night to get it done. Fun is for people who don’t really want to get anywhere in life.”

He squeezed her closer. “What a prick. Seriously, we’re not born to die. I hate people who think like that.” Turning his head, he looked down at her with a gentle smile. “Hopefully, you’re not turning out to be like him.”

“I don’t know.” She sighed. “This feels good, but everything I was ever taught is screaming at me right now to sit up, gain some distance, avoid touching you –“

“Sarai,” Trevor interrupted. “You can’t let what you were taught to do get in the way of learning what you should do. Listen to your heart. It tells you what you really need to do.”

Sarai smiled, and looked up into his eyes. There, she could now see more than a spark – she could see a world, a universe all its own, a soul full of love and pain, bright and dark. It frightened her, it stirred in her nerves a feeling of dread, that if she should surrender, a part of her would die. But the whisper from deep within also told her that it was time for it to die, so that something more beautiful could live.

When her lips grazed his, she knew it was true, and released her soul to the forge of life’s fires.