Unquenched (12 page)

"So," he said.  "How are you?" as the word
"
you
" sounded special, due to the obvious emphasis he placed
on it. 

We looked at each other and without hesitation, began to laugh nervously. 
His question was asked to fill the silence and I was not really expected to
answer it.  That much I understood.  For the first time in years I felt like a
school girl and couldn't control my laughter.  It was totally embarrassing and
wonderfully refreshing all at exactly the same time.  It was blatantly obvious,
to both of us, that we just didn't know what to do with ourselves.  So we
laughed some more until our energy released then finally engaged in
conversation.

"So, what happened that enabled you to be here tonight?"
he asked gently. 

I winced very slightly with a pleading look and said, "Can we
save that topic for later?" 

I didn't want to begin the evening with deep discussion.  But more
than that, I didn't want him to know exactly what I had done in order to get
back to New York.  I didn't want him to know all the effort I had spent or what
I had done to Jordan.  Not yet.  Even though all I strived for and had attained
was in order to spend time with him. 

"Sure, no problem," he responded.  But there was no
doubt in my mind that he would follow up.  He was reliable.  I knew that about
him.  It was difficult to believe that we had only met twice as the depth of
what we shared was remarkable.  But it wasn't just passion.  And it was more
than a physical attraction.  There was an undeniable sense of compatibility.  A
friendship that was indescribably natural.  We fed off of each other when one
of us spoke and we were driven by interest and energy.  But yes, there was also
a special connection.  A chemistry.  There was an obvious desire to explore
each other but a sense of familiarity already existed.  I couldn't decipher all
of his thoughts yet I felt there was a history behind us.  It was almost as if
we had developed together over a very long period of time.  And I knew he felt
it too.  I knew he felt it because he finished my sentences whenever I stopped
midstream.  Or he would use a word I was going to use immediately before I used
it.  It amazed me.  It was inconceivable.  Twice we had met.  This was only the
third time. 

"How did you know what I was going to say," I asked him
each time. 

"I don't know, it just came out," he chuckled, as he
appeared surprised himself. 

But I had the gift of completing and duplicating the words he used
as well.  We were inherently on the same wave length.  Our minds moved in
tandem.  But we had come to each other that way.  We hadn't grown together or
earned the bond.  Yet it existed.  The magic of harmony I shared with few
people.  Four to be exact.  My sister, mother, and childhood best friend.  And
then of course there was my father!  But that had been after a lifetime of
experiences and influencing each other's behavior.  It was no coincidence that
as girls and adults we had simultaneously spit out the same words.  But with
him it was magic, almost hypnotic, and our interaction was effortless.

We were both still smiling and strangely enough, almost giggling
involuntarily.  I took a sip of beer and was relieved to feel the bubbles begin
to take some affect.  I wondered what he was thinking.  It was his thoughts
about me that were somewhat unclear despite my ability to read him.  It was
obvious that he felt alive with me and I fathomed that he was still attracted. 
But I was somehow unsure of how far he would take it as he exuded a strong
sense of self control.

"How were your last few days in Singapore?" he
inquired. 

"They were really a lot of fun," I answered.  We
actually went to a Chinese wedding and it was an incredibly colorful night,"
I explained. 

"Really," he said, again with a strong British accent. 

I burst out laughing and imitated his inflection and he joined me
in the harmless abuse. 

"Oh be quiet,
you
! I don't have a British accent.  If
you had any idea of what a German accent sounded like, you might realize
that
is what I have," he said teasingly. 

There was a feistiness about him that I was totally taken by and
an energy that was hard to resist.  We acted like children who were spirited
and free.  Time did not seem to exist.  We were somehow incapable of serious
conversation without laughing or playful banter. 

"So,
Miss International
, what country will your job
take you to next?" he tormented.

"Well, maybe Australia, possibly Korea, and then there's the
Middle East.  But one place I know I have no interest in going is Germany,"
I kidded. 

"And you,
Mr. International
, how often do you get to
New York?" I poked. 

"Well, that depends," he said schemingly.  "I can
request to have several flights a month but I might need a reason to do
that."

He stopped for a moment and looked deep into my eyes.  His own
eyes were sparkling and animated.  They were vibrant and dancing and I felt as
if he were touching me.  I looked down suddenly, as if for confirmation, and
both of his hands were in his lap.  But his long masculine fingers had been
caressing my face, or so I must have imagined in my mind.  I was starting to
perspire.  The moisture was accumulating on the back of my neck and I felt as
if I were generating heat.  The music on the tape had stopped. 

"So,
Mr. Engler
, what kind of music do you listen to
in that foreign place that you live?" I instigated sarcastically. 

The music having stopped had been my savior because the temptation
had become overwhelming for me.  I didn't want to initiate with him, but being
so close to him was inviting to me, and I knew he was still a long way from
ready.  His controlled calm demeanor made me question his intentions and I began
to fear I would be disappointed. 

"Probably nothing that you have on your shelf, I think it
takes about six months for the popular music to find its way to the States,"
he retaliated. 

"Well then, I guess you'll just have to trust me, won't
you?" I smiled.  "How's this?" I asked as I held up a cassette
and changed the music to something else. 

"Oh, Marvin Gaye," he said.  "I really like his
music.  I haven't heard it in a while." 

"Good, that settles the music.  Can I get you another
beer?" I asked. 

"Well, that sounds good", he answered with excitement. 
"At this point I am so jet lagged, I guess it can't do anything but help." 

I walked into the kitchen and I heard the music behind me.  The
sound was sexy.  The thoughts that were running through my mind were sexy too. 
And dangerous.  But then again, looking at him was dangerous.  To kiss him was
something I knew I should forbid myself from doing.  I wasn't sure I would
trust myself if I did.  And yet, I really didn't yearn for much more than his
kiss, yet I felt starved for some form of contact with him.  But I wouldn't let
him know it.  He would have to make the first move.  I had done everything to
make the evening possible.

"How about a little bet?" I asked, as I tried to keep
the excitement in the air. 

"Sure, are you ready to lose?" he responded, without
even knowing what he was about to bet. 

"Have you ever played backgammon?" I asked. 

"The answer is yes, and now you're in trouble.  And what was
it that you wanted to bet?" he questioned. 

"Well, let's see what happens after the first game," I
laughed, coyly backing down. 

I walked to the shelf and pulled out the game and came back to
reality very quickly.  The backgammon board had been wedged on the shelf
between books and the stereo speaker.  When I pulled out the board, the books
fell over, and knocked the speaker off of the shelf.  I heard a crashing sound
and I looked at the floor and saw that something white had broken.  There were
a million little pieces of what appeared to be ceramic on the floor all around
my feet.  The speaker had fallen but was still in one piece and the brown wood
held together despite it.  I looked up at the shelf to see what was missing and
then, with regret, I knew.  The beautiful Asian woman that my Grandmother had
finished several years before she had died. 

"Oh," I sighed mournfully, when I realized the damage. 

Tristan got up from the couch and came to my side immediately. 

"My Grandmother made this a few years ago," I whispered,
and as I looked at him I knew he understood. 

He bent down to pick up the statue's ceramic head and her hat that
had been slightly chipped off.  The precious gold rim around her hat had been
severed and it appeared irreparable. 

"Let's see if we can put this back together, it looks like
there are enough whole pieces." 

So together, we gathered the many shattered fragments and I
wondered again if I was being punished.  But I felt the need to rebuild it in
privacy where I could wallow in my sorrow alone.

"I'll work on it tomorrow, I really just want to take my time
and make sure that I do it right.  But thank you for helping," I said to
him.

The pain stayed with me over the loss of the statue and its
changed form since my Grandmother had created it.  As I carried the grief deep
within my soul, I was aware of something else that had taken place.  Tristan
and I had shared something together and I pushed myself to move on that night.

We had played some backgammon and got creative with the stakes,
but just played for fun despite it.

Hours passed by but conversation continued to flow.  Everything
seemed to matter to him.  Tristan found importance in all of my words and I
felt energized as I shared it with him.  He was inquisitive.  He encouraged me
to unpeel every layer of story and explain it in detail to him.  He inquired
about words and their meaning in English and how they were distinct from
others.  To him, speaking was an art.  He was expressive.  He created pictures
in my mind when he spoke.  In some ways I could tell he also viewed it as a
science.  He wanted to know tenses and my use of vocabulary and asked to be
corrected when he made mistakes.  There were native born Americans that spoke
incorrectly yet he strived to articulate well.  He was unique.  It was
important to him to expand his knowledge and I was impressed with his need to
do so.  There was something deep within him that gave him an ability, an
intensity that allowed him to touch me.  He touched me within, in a special
way, as Tristan had an irrefutable, burning passion for life.

Listening to him was easy for me as I drank in all that he said. 
He was direct, yet thorough, as I felt his stories, and they penetrated me as
if they were my own.  We talked about war, Europe, and sports, family, jobs and
dreams.  We talked about hardships, relationships and friends, and that's when
I told him about Jordan.  He refrained from commenting about Jordan and me,
which was probably appropriate to do.  He was a good listener but he also had a
lot to share.  I was pleasantly surprised at his ability to express himself,
even on issues that were sad.  We discussed almost everything with ease and
comfort, understanding, honesty, and trust.  And still, we always managed to
laugh.

"You know Tris, it is strange, but I still can't believe I've
known you for less than two weeks," I finally verbalized. 

"Yes, I know," he said.  "It's really
unbelie-e-evable," as he elongated the third syllable in the word.  I
realized then that it was his "e's" he accentuated and I adored
watching his mouth as he did so.

I could have imagined what time it was, and for that reason I
didn't look at the clock.  For me it was late, I felt it in my eyes, and for
him the hour was ludicrous.  But I didn't want him to go.  At that moment, I
wanted the night to last forever.

Our energy was beginning to dwindle slowly and it was clear that
we were fighting the need to sleep.  We were still on the couch, facing each
other, our bodies sat one foot apart.  My knees were curled up in front of me
and his rested sideways on the couch.  Within a few minutes time, we had
shifted positions and were sitting in exactly the same manner.  Our elbows were
leaning on the back of the couch, our hands grasping the back of our own
necks.  Our heads were tilted over with our ears to our elbows, as we used our
own arms as a headrest.  Suddenly, the conversation went silent.  We were
looking at each other.  It grew into a stare.  Neither of us moved.  No one
said a word.  We both sat entranced in our own peaceful state and still, we
remained separate.  The music in the background continued to play yet somehow
the room sounded silent.  I could hear him breathe.  I felt the air begin to
get heavy.  We were staring directly into each other's eyes and neither of us was
trying to conceal it.  His mouth was smiling slightly and his eyes were
intense.  I couldn't feel my own mouth but I knew that my eyes were locked with
his.  We were feeding off of each other.  Together, we had allowed ourselves to
become thoroughly and blissfully vulnerable.  I felt frozen.  He hadn't moved
but I felt him all over me.  I wanted to speak, but I couldn't.  It was like
being in a trance.  I couldn't see it, but there was a link of some sort
floating in the air between us.  It was almost tangible.  It was the reason I
could feel him.  We were connected.  I felt the heat start to rise within me. 
My own breathing grew louder.  I felt a burning sensation inside my chest.  I
thought to myself,
Tristan, please, take me in your arms now, I feel like
I'm going to burst
.  I wondered if he could read me then, and I really
hoped that he could.  Almost ten minutes had passed and we remained like
statues, speechless and virtually immobile.  But the sheer mix of agony and
ecstasy together was a state one could never forget.  I was absorbing him, one
step at a time.  He was giving himself to me, blatantly, through his vital and
expressive eyes.  I was growing dizzy.  He was draining me.  He was taking all
that I was giving him.  I couldn't take it anymore.  I had at one time found
comfort in exposing ourselves, but it began to explode inside of me.