Equinox ★ jimmy page imagines

seven

Something vicious dances in my stomach when the elevator doors open and I reach the lobby floor. The lounge is low-lit. Sconces along the walls throw yellow light. Each table bears a tall candle that flickers reflections in glass cases.

Over the speakers, jazz is playing: John Coltrane intones a love song. Couples huddle in booths, hazy in their clouds of cigarette smoke. I walk past to find your table, where you're alone and dark as the velvet surrounding you.

Already, your heavy-lidded eyes absorb my presence. You take a long sip from a goblet of red wine.

I play it how I think you want it: "You seem lonely. Are you waiting for someone?"

There's amusement in the slight wrinkle of your mouth. "No, just enjoying the night."

My skin aches when your stare does not lessen. "It's cold outside. Could I warm up with you?"

"Alright," you reply. You follow my figure around the table to where I sit right beside you.

I run my hands over my thighs to keep from touching you, to keep from ruining the fantasy.

"Do you want a drink?" You ask me.

"A moscato. . ."

You leave for a moment and I stare out across the lounge, contemplating my character. It's so often you indulge me. Nights I cannot count where I draped across you and tried to get under your skin with my questions. Time spent in bed where you let me test out my secret desires. I touch my lips with my fingers at the thought.

My turn, I think, to strip away my burdening fears. I can be malleable for you.

When you return, you set a wine glass in front of me and another beside your own dwindling drink.

"What's your name?" You ask.

"Naima," I tell you, because John Coltrane has nearly finished his song. His saxophone swells a moan.

"James. Why are you here tonight?"

"I was looking for company."

"Oh?" Your finger traces the round foot of the wine glass. "What kind of company?"

"Your kind."

"My kind?" You grin with dark excitement. My heartbeat quickens. "Naima, what do you mean by that?"

My body grows warm. I sip wine quickly for the courage, but I can't bring my eyes to yours. "Someone who will find all of my dark, hidden wants and will let me act on them."

You hum. You haven't even touched me yet and I am burning. Beside me, your hands rest on the table. You twist one of your rings, a curling snake, around your finger.

"Were you hoping to have all that fulfilled tonight?" You question me.

"Yes, but —" I begin, but remember I am Naima tonight. She would not hesitate. "Yes. Where's your room?"

I down the rest of the wine.

Silvery, sly joy reflects from your cufflinks. "On the eighth floor. Care to follow me?"

You rise and I take your hand out of habit, before you even offer it. You don't seem to notice I've broken the narrative when you pay for our drinks and lead me from the lounge.

In the elevator, I stand beside you as a businesswoman rides up with us. My hand is still clasped in your own. In the bright light, I can see you're wearing a navy blue jacket underneath your big black overcoat. I'd like to hide myself in the space between them, hibernating and warm.

We leave the elevator before the businesswoman. You escort me down the hall with its chocolatey wallpaper until we reach the room we've been living in for the previous three days.

I watch you like I always do: unlocking the door, setting aside your overcoat and taking off your shoes. Your last step is the unbuttoning and rolling of your shirt sleeves.

With your forearms exposed, you turn back to me.

"Naima," you say. "Take your coat off."

I do as you ask. I crouch as you watch and unbuckle my heels. When I am done, I gaze at you and your slouched figure on the loveseat. You've taken a cigarette and lit it. You hover your hand near your mouth.

"Your dress now. . . or would you like my help?"

"Your help." I come toward you with shaky thighs and sit carefully on your lap. Familiarity strikes. I settle.

Trading your fingers for your mouth, you hum around the cigarette and work the dress's zipper down to where it opens at the small of my back. You hum at my skin bare to you. You place a flat, warm palm to the middle of me.

The shell of the cloth falls forward on my arms. I bring them through while you encircle me, wrapping around me with your delicate grip. Up my ribcage to rest on my breasts. I breathe deep and long at the touch.

One hand departs. I watch you settle your half-smoked cigarette into the crystal ash tray beside us.

"Stand up," you command. The dress slithers past my hips with your help. And with your help, I turn to face you and resettle on your knee. For the first time tonight, you say my true name. Like that, the story is over. I know you well again, know that you are not so brooding as tonight, know that if I kiss you on the side of your neck, near your pulse, that you will groan deeply for me.

You've said before that I remind you of yourself at my age: how ambitious I am in my interests and how nervous I can be. I cling to our similarities. I clench the fabric of your shirt.

"Was I good?" I ask, to acknowledge the end. Little worries prickle like heat on my skin.

"Of course," you hum. "You're always good. We'll make you a seductress soon enough."

I smile. Your hands rest on my bare shoulders and you lean forward to kiss me. I remember how soft your lips were when we first met and how you cradled my face in your palms.

The room is dark and no noise filters through the windows or doors. I rise on your hips to remove my underwear.

We are making love. I have no time to let my mind wander; you are humming into my ear:

"But I wouldn't have you any other way."

Your words leave me yearning. I wrap you and breathe into your neck, where the potent scent of you calms me. You are all — the expanse of the room and the wine from the lounge that became so heady with every winding brass note. The night is mine. I hold it tight like I hold you in my arms.