On Fire by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Author:Rachel Kramer Bussel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: On Fire
Publisher: Cleis Press
Published: 2017-01-14T16:00:00+00:00

SATISFAIRE

G. C. Elizabeth

I can’t reach the soap. It’s still piled up in the chrome shower basket dangling from the showerhead. I curse at the notion of having to reach up to get it but stretch my arm out anyway from the warmth of my relaxing bath. I catch the scent of vanilla and lavender bubbles on my skin as I strain to reach even a fingertip to my collection of soaps, irked when I arrive at the conclusion that ambition far outweighs ability in this scenario. I’ll have to kneel in order to meet the bath-to-soap-basket height requirement. I clench the sides of the tub and push up against the pressure of the bathwater, meticulously folding my legs underneath me to kneel, concentrating to avoid splashing.

“I’ll get it for you,” you say as cold air slaps the parts of me that are no longer submerged. I hadn’t even realized you were up yet. My eyes brush over your tall, swimmer’s physique, shirtless, golden and yummy from head to toe. I commit the hug of your boxer briefs to memory, admiring how they cling to your thighs—your manhood and your everything—savoring the intimacy of watching you glide through my apartment with such comfort and ease, a thought that coerces me out of my own body for a moment as you drift toward me and my nakedness.

To me you aren’t the brazen Italian restaurateur whom sous-chefs fear and food critics envy. You’re the ruggedly gorgeous man who treated me to dinner at Satisfaire, a 24-hour French-style brasserie that I hadn’t realized you owned when I showed up late one night. You came over to my table and introduced yourself with the traditional, “Is this seat taken?” I told you no and scanned the room as you sat down, wondering what on earth I’d done to attract the attention of such a handsome stranger. Your skin glowed golden in the dim light, and your dark, tussled hair contrasted delicately with your hypnotic green eyes. The stubble on your face, and your black-frame specs presented you with a modern, indie quality. You opened with how I “reminded you of home.” I asked you where “home” was, and you said Georgia, a statement that made me shiver, contemplating the odds and whether I should try the peach cobbler.

I studied you with twisted intrigue, uncertain if we’d ever met before. You were well dressed that night in a red V-neck tee with the most amazingly situated distressed jeans, belted and falling just below your fit-but-not-too-washboard abdomen. You signaled to a waiter, who reacted promptly—a gesture that struck me as unusual. He returned to us attentively with a chilled bottle of Shiraz. You insisted on knowing more about me, so I revealed that I was a transplant from Atlanta and no longer singing backup in the music industry. I was now teaching vocal improvisation techniques at Berklee. You told me that Satisfaire was your restaurant, and informed me that I was sitting in your booth…

“Happy one-month anniversary,”

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