Learning To Let Go (Short Erotic Story)

Walking through the swinging kitchen door, waitress apron smudged and hair wisps flying, free of the hair clips set in place to contain them hours ago, Dahlia picked up the hanger where she’d left her street clothes fingered a pair of heeled sandals by the straps and headed for the ladies room.  Most of the staff hung out at the café after work. It was a great little stopping place with a friendly bar tender and great clientele, but who wants to advertise that they hang out where they work? So Dahlia stepped into a little cotton skirt and buckled her sandal straps to go out to the bar. She stopped at the mirror to tuck some errant wisps of hair behind her ears and give herself a quick inspection before pushing the roll of her uniform under one arm and pulling open the bathroom door. She made straight for a stool at the bar where Tomas was working.

“Tom Collins,” she said, setting her rolled up uniform on the bar beside her.

“No, Tomas,” the bartender said, pointing to his chest as he poured her gin.

She cocked her head sarcastically at him and smiled.  “How’s Ruben?” She asked, sipping the nearly-overflowing glass.

“He’s good. He’s good. Keeping busy with the new restaurant and trying to pretend he doesn’t miss me, since we’re on different shifts now. You know?”

Dahlia smiled and nodded. “Men,” she said, and they both laughed. I

Tomas leaned across the bar and kissed her on either cheek in his l genteel Latin way. “Is that why you have no man? Too much trouble?”

“Sure. That’s it.” Dahlia rolled her eyes and sipped her drink through the tiny straw.

Tomas wiping up the bar looked over Dahlia’s shoulder out into the room.  “Ah, but it’s never too late to get started.” He nodded in the direction of the room behind where Dahlia perched on a bar stool, and leaned in as if to conspire. “I think you have got some one’s attention over there, and he is not being shy.” Tomas moved off down the bar making a conspicuous face as he returned back to work.

Dahlia didn’t ever take Tomas seriously, but he made her feel like she was being watched so without even thinking she turned and looked back into the mass of tables and arm chairs in the room, and there was indeed a man, all alone, sitting facing her direction. She sat up very straight on the stool and went back to sipping her drink through the straw so she’d have something to do with her hands. Was he looking at her? She didn’t want him to see her looking at him, but from the corner of her eye it seemed as if he was not just looking, but actually staring.

Dahlia reached to a buckle on one of her heeled sandals as an excuse to turn her head just enough to get a better peek. He was relaxed, sitting all the way back in his over-stuffed chair with each hand resting over the arm. He wasn’t even pretending not to stare, and he could certainly tell that she was only pretending not to look. He looked almost amused, or was she imagining that? He wore heavy black boots and dark denim jeans with just a little cuff at the bottom. She couldn’t see much of his shape because of the chair, but beneath his crisp white collar, she could tell his shoulders were broad and where those white shirt sleeves were rolled up a few folds, his arms looked strong and sure. He seemed clean with neat shaven sideburns and a broad chin, and she was surprised at herself for wondering at his heritage. His skin was dark enough to be a surfer or a farm hand that spent all day in the sun, but he didn’t look like a farmer, and there was no trace of redness or burn. There was a hint of olive to his skin tone, and though his square jaw and high cheek bones reminded her more of a model than a real person, he was just imperfect enough to seem meaningful and very real.

All of this she absorbed from across the floor at the café, the stranger meeting her gaze as if he were not in fact the least bit strange. She could feel the metal of her stool, cold against her ankle where she realized she was still clasping the buckle to her ankle strap. She flushed slightly and turned back to the bar where she fussed with her purse to pay her tab and escape.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Tomas said with an almost presumptuous smile as he laid down her ticket in a sleek leather folder. She slid her bank card inside. He was probably still staring at her now. She stood up off of her stool and tugged lightly at the hem of her skirt for the sake of modesty. 

“Thank you Ms. Rouche,” the bartender said as he laid the leather folder on the bar. “Come back and see us.” Dahlia signed the receipt with a quick scribble. She was sliding the receipt back into the folder and gathering her purse and wadded uniform to leave when she turned almost directly into the chest of the man in the white shirt.

“Excuse me.” He said backing up a little with a smile.

“Oh I’m sorry.” She couldn’t bring herself to make eye contact. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.” She laughed sort of nervously.

“I was just,” he gestured toward the folder on the bar containing her receipt. “Well, I got here at just the right moment.” He seemed to be regaining his composure just a little and she could see that comfortable ease returning that had caught her eye. “Is that Ms. Rouche or Mrs. Rouche?”

Normally, Dahlia thought, this would be creepy, but something about his demeanor was unassuming, and authentic to the extent that she was sure he was either a great person or a great liar.

“It’s miss. I’m, uh, not married.” She said pulling her hair behind her ear and still not making eye contact.

He leaned in closer toward her ear. “So should I call you Ms. Rouche, or do I get your first name?”

She laughed politely. “It’s Dahlia.”

“A gorgeous flower.” He returned sincerely, stooping slightly to catch her averted eyes. “Were you leaving?”

“Oh yes, I was just going out to catch a cab.”

“Well, now that we’ve had drinks I could take you for dinner.” He said as if it were not anything out of the ordinary, but smiling at his own absurdity.

Dahlia smiled and shook her head a little in preparation for making an excuse to decline. She could see Tomas from behind the stranger, nodding at her to say yes.

“Where would you like me to take you?” He tilted his head and looked suggestively at the door. “Godavan’s?  Arigato? Oh, I know a fabulous hotdog stand. They have the best pickle relish.”

Still smiling but shaking her head “I already ate,” Dahlia declined again.

He looked at her with his big dark brown eyes, and she felt that he could see her. Not her face, her eyes, her hair, or that diet that she kept promising to go back on, but like he could see inside of who she was, who she had been, and who she wanted to be.

“Do you usually regret being so cautious?” He said casually. “Later on, when you play it out again in your head.”

Dahlia thought for a moment, but kept her guard.

“Sometimes, I suppose,” she started slowly, “but I imagine the regret that comes from lack of caution must sting a whole lot worse.” She managed a cocky smirk, but she didn’t feel very cocky at the moment. She wanted to go with him.

“Ahh, a wise woman perhaps? Or someone too often burned?” He put a finger to his lips in a gesture of contemplation. “I wouldn’t want to cause you any more regret, but if I walk away you’ll never know whether the caution was warranted, and you’ll regret it forever.   So how can we remedy this?”

“Coffee?” Dahlia said before she really meant to.

His broad mouth opened into the first full smile she’d seen on that strong face. “An elegant solution, but first . . .” he reached past her on the bar to sign his receipt and picked up the accompanying bank card that read Devin Naciemento. Her eyes were working their way through his name as she tried to frame a pronunciation in her mind. “My great grandfather was from Brazil,” he said when he saw her reading it. He slipped the card back into his wallet. “I’m told it’s a common name there, though I wouldn’t know personally. I imagine Devin isn’t quite as common”

“No, I’d imagine not.” Dahlia replied, mostly just looking for something to say. “There’s a cute little coffee shop around the corner here. We could walk if you’d like.”

The bell on the café door jingled as he swung the door open for her to pass. “Do you come here much?” he asked as she waltzed past him, trying not to appear hopelessly smitten or vulnerable with this obviously experienced and comfortable man.

“From time to time,” she smiled and tapped the rolled up uniform in an exaggerated gesture.

“I travel a lot, so I’m in the city frequently enough, but never for very long.”

“What do you do that moves you so much?” she asked as she wrapped an arm around the lamp post while they paused on the corner.

“They call it consulting, or sometimes I’m called an analyst, but mostly I help big businesses figure out how to get people to do what they want them to do. Sometimes that’s marketing to outsiders, sometimes that’s manipulating employees so that they want to do the job they’re already being paid for. It can mean a lot of things.”

“So you’re a professional manipulator.” She suddenly felt like she had the upper hand. She had him labeled as an outsider and now she had a reason.

“Ok, maybe I shouldn’t have said ‘manipulate.’” She thought he’d feel like he was in trouble now, but he obviously didn’t fluster easily. “I help people figure out what they want, how to get it, and how to get others to want the same things. It’s like being a therapist for entire companies at once. It sounds crazy, but for some reason I’m good at it.”

The coffee shop was lit with trendy colored glass lighting in yellows and browns. It seemed very chic, and Dahlia was glad she had suggested it. The barista stole a long, obvious, and satisfying glance at Devin as Dahlia looked through the list of drinks. “Tall skinny latte.” She ordered and paid, not leaving him the chance to pay for her drink.

She chose a small table in the corner, away from the bustle of the foot traffic coming and going with their cardboard cups of rich earthy caffeine. Devin sat down across from her, and studied her quietly.