By the Ink of this Love, I Swear
Clarissa has always been my muse. She didn’t realize it for a long time — as I chased other girls just to see what might provoke her to reveal her intentions toward me — but now, tonight, it’s as if I’ve conjured her from ink on the page as she sits on the couch in my living room, the stem of a glass of wine hanging between her fingertips. Her lips are painted a maroon that makes me think back to the days when I pursued only the women whose mouths were painted in fire-engine tones of red. How I liked their kisses, their attentions — but Clarissa offers me something much sweeter.
I settle down beside her, my own glass of wine in my grasp, and watch her through hooded eyes. She looks almost bored as she stares down into her wine, the dark red pool seeming to draw her attention far more than I ever could, but I know it’s just a ruse. If I placed my hand to her chest right then, I’d feel her heart racing just for me. It’s always been that way. It just took me a long time to realize it.
“Stop staring, Antonio,” she says, her voice soft, but I hear the tremble beneath the words. I still sit back, giving the notion of being at ease, when all I really want to do is sidle up beside her, remove the glass from her hold, and wait until she looks at me with those languid eyes that have enraptured me since the first time I saw her.
“Stop staring?” I chuckle. “That’s like asking a man to look away from a naked woman. It can be done, but he won’t like it one bit.”
She rolls her eyes, and I know that she hates when I do this, playing the cad just to see what reaction I’ll get from her next. I smile and take a sip from my wine, eager to take the point when I’ve scored it. I’ve always liked playing games — they make me feel alive when few things ever do — but Clarissa? There’s just something about seeing her squirm a little under my scrutiny.
It’s all the more arousing since I’ve yet to find the proper way to seduce her. Flirtation is a fine game, but it doesn’t quite work with my Clarissa. She stares at me as if she can’t decide whether to laugh or frown at my attempts to charm my way past every scrap of clothing. The one time I kissed her had been more accident than anything else: I had been drunk…