Francis Meyrick

The One Night Stand

They had arranged to meet at a popular eating place.
He, the amateur writer, the compulsive scribbler of verse and song, and she, the successful, liberated career girl. It was, as was fashionable, the girl who had invited the boy out. He had accepted over the phone, and now they were here, having met for the first time in their lives, making small talk.
The smoke screen of polite chit-chat was a comfort blanket, however. They talked about his short stories, his poems, and his lack of interest in submitting work to publishers. She talked about her career in the publishing industry, the high glamour world – so she described it – of writers’ meetings, book tours, and promotional book deals.
He, from his part, explained that he enjoyed the freedom of writing, and was not willing, and temperamentally incapable, of modifying his buccaneering style of prose to suit the whims of some self important bookseller bean-counter concerned with profits...

Underneath it all however, an entirely different conversation was also taking place. Wordlessly. In another realm, on another plane, words were being spoken, softly, inquiringly, with hints of mischief alternating with enquiry and puzzlement.
He, poker faced, witty in a dry sort of way, could not help but fail to notice the shape of her ample breasts, molding her white blouse their way. The smooth profile of her neck, elegant, that sloped down until it slid disappointingly away behind the immaculate starched collars.
She, talking voluptuously, her speech fast and direct, demonstrated a familiarity with the company of men, and an ability to hold her own in any debate. She interrupted his slower, thoughtful speech without hesitation, when she felt he was missing the point.
She also… wondered about those eyes, and the lines that radiated from them, and the jaw line, that seemed to be firm, yet framing a mouth that was gentle. His high forehead, and the quiet way his hands moved. His hands were delicate, like a piano player’s she thought, expressive, and poised to gesticulate an important point, or mime a flight profile of a sky diver or a helicopter.
He was wondering about her relationship with men. She wasn’t married, she had made a point of casually mentioning that, and he wondered how her boyfriends would feel with such an attractive creature in public. Would they enjoy the sly looks from other men? The admiring glances? The knowing winks, from man to man, as she trotted by on her high heels, her stockinged legs long and shapely? Her knee length skirt, black and tight, hugging her hips tightly and protectively, yet leaving little to the imagination?
Boyfriends? Why, he wondered to himself, had he thought instinctively in the plural? Was he judging her already? That wasn’t fair…
He admired the shape of her breasts again, with the top three buttons undone.
What right did he have to class her as a tart? For all he know, she was a sweetheart, a gentle, kind, person, deserving of respect and a fair, unbiased assessment. Despite himself, he felt a stirring, and it annoyed him. He resolutely focussed back on the conversation, his brow furrowing in concentration, as he hung on her every word.
The mental picture of her soft breasts retreated for a while, and the conversation moved on…
She was intelligent. Articulate. Sophisticated.
With pronounced views on many issues.
He.. was quieter. Less vocal. But strong and obstinate, and willing to go ‘granite hard’ against the generally accepted flow if he wanted to. Regardless...

What… would he be like in bed?
The thought popped into her mind, mid speech, and she almost felt a flush rise to her cheeks. She told herself not to be silly, and that this was a natural thought. And, anyway, what….would he be like?
She tried to imagine him, naked, his arms around her, kissing her full on the mouth.
Or slamming her up against the wall, his breath hard and out of control.
There was an unspoken danger about him, that was both appealing and repulsive.
They said some strange things about him.That he had been in some kind of trouble.Some said he had been a mercenary. Flying helicopters in far-off, dangerous places.
It was hard to believe. He seemed peace-loving, and harmless. Polite. Almost boringly so. It was rumored that he had been in knife fights, and bar brawls. That he had been stabbed, and shot at. It seemed hard to believe. Even the strange scar on his right arm, and the slight deformation of his skull surrounding his right eyebrow could not tell the tale.
He seemed so… gentle.

What…would she be like in bed?
He groaned to himself. He didn’t like his thoughts rambling off on their own accord down that path. It was as if it was impossible for a man to relate to a woman, without some gland secreting the wrong hormone. The go-get-’em-boy!- hormone. Testosterone…. Why was it impossible to just stay on the surface? Deal intellectually with issues, instead of always, always, at some stage feel the primitive instincts rising up? The caveman desire to conquer, to possess, to copulate and procreate?
The lass was intelligent, and bright. She deserved respect, and to be treated as an intellectual equal, and not just as some potential trophy to be added to the collection.
But… what would she be like in bed?

* * * * * * * * * *

“How did you get on? “
Her girl friends asked the question with girlish glee, the moment she opened the door to the apartment. She threw her coat down on the sofa, with an exaggeratedly tired air, and yawned theatrically.
“Well.. “, she said. “He’s actually… a bit dry. Kind of boring. He’s polite, and he looks at you strangely, but he won’t do anything about it. Kind of hung up and inhibited
in a funny sort of way… I don’t think he’s very experienced where women are concerned. “

The evening played through her mind. A slight flush of anger made its appearance on a subconscious level. Quickly, she suppressed it, and replaced it with a mild, dismissive irritation. The wave of her small, delicately manicured hand said it all:
“I don’t think I’ll be seeing him again… “
She dismissed the memory, fairly easily, with a well practiced mental shrug, and moved on, with only a momentary hesitation, to sunlit vallied pastures new…
The slight flush of anger… poked its head up again above the surface of the calm exterior lake, as if to cry out in protest, and this time, was ruthlessly held down until drowned.

He drove home, carefully, concentrating on his driving, and ran through the evening’s events.
“How did you get on? “
He asked himself the question, in the emptiness of space, in a puzzled tone.
You can probably have her if you want…
The small voice was speaking. He knew that voice very well. He had worked very well with that voice, many, many times.
The plot ran through his mind. The strategy. How to… woo the fair lady…
He could do it if he wanted…
It wasn’t his first rodeo…
Not by a very, very long shot.
But did he want to?
That was the question.

Probably…not.
There were more important things to do…
There were mountains to climb, high, solitary, wind swept craggy peaks.
Way, way above the valley. With steep cliffs, that, strangely, no-one showed much interest in… With only the howling wind for company…the wind, that grabbed him, shook him, and would hurl him off the mountain if it got the chance.
Lonely, cold, dangerous…. and exhilarating.
And if he could ever get to the top… the view was breath taking…

Probably… not.
Even though the dark, underground rivers within him flowed remorselessly, in their deep, secret, unseen caverns way below the surface. Winding their torrential, powerful way for thousands of years, unstoppably, inevitably…. coldly, to the ever waiting sea…
For well he knew… how those strange, bitter waters would carry him along, helplessly, if they could…

He accelerated abruptly to beat a looming red traffic light, and shot through on amber. It was very much against his normal conservative driving style, and it made him laugh, quietly.
Mockingly…

At himself, at the world, and at the folly of Man’s brief moment of evanescent vanity…