Love, Selfish Love

AUTUMN, she has so many fond memories of this time. It’s the beautiful multitude of colors everywhere you look, cold weather and long nights around bonfires with your favorite people, hugs that last forever, pumpkin spice smell on everything.
And those eyes.

Azure-gray eyes; the color of the ocean before it storms, a hard to notice ring of gold around the center, like the calm rays of sunshine over the briefly still waters before the sea becomes wild. Full of secret hopes and hidden passion. Reserved, so that the innocence of perfect excitement could be preserved. So beautiful...

Passione Segreta; a word her grandfather likes to use.


At least, that's what it used to mean to her, she thinks as she sips on her drink, carefully luring her mind out of its trance as she glances out the window the the view of Lake Michigan, empty and void with the lights of the city balancing on the surface; you wouldn't even know there was a body of water there save for the minimal ripples that carry the lights in rolls, as numerous as the unseen stars in the sky are. The way this city can change in the midst of the night to a waispy muse by day to a temptress by night never fails to amaze her.

That's the excuse she administers herself. She's always been good at deceiving her own mind. It comes naturally--she is manipulative, charming, mysterious--and that is exactly why she is out of her element tonight.

He asked her to meet him, and she's still not sure what she's doing here. She's arrived early--the only way she can ensure that she has a slight sway in the way the night goes. This was my choice. I want, she tells herself. I didn't have to--I wanted to.

The reasoning behind her desires leads her to think about her conversation with him earlier; she goes over it for the fifth time since setting foot in this place. He had asked to take her out to dinner--she had refused,but had not been able to give an excuse. It was one of the things he was more stubborn about--chivalry. He told he politely insisted that she join him in his short but always mindful way when he had been pushed, and she knew she had no choice but to accept.

She loved the properness with which he could speak. The roll of his tongue and lips over certain words to enunciate them just right. The way he could say her name. She shudders the eliciting thoughts from her brain and concentrates on her surroundings.

It is here in this atmospheric and quiet restaurant and bar--the Renat, of the prestigious Waldorf Astoria. She's staying here. She sits alone, third martini of the night making its slow but gradual way past her full lips, the first thing you can notice about her is her petite figure. She's of short stature, but her frame is made of gracious curve. Her face is covered by a wall of medium length platinum blonde hair, she wears a black dress, the length to her knees and of a high neckline, but sleeveless, made of a type of cashmere to warm her on this cold of nights. A little black dress, without being too oncoming. She sits facing the bar and the door, watching presently with slight tipsiness. She thinks this is rash--dangerous of her.

That's when she sees him; he's also early. He walks in, alone, wearing a sports coat over a sleek white shirt, a green tie slightly loosed around his neck. His sense of fashion now finally fits comfortably in his personality, and he moves in this ensemble like he was born in it.

He sees her, and begins to make his way over, but not before giving his coat at the door. He rolls the cuffs of the shirt up, making his way over, everything sleek about his appearance save for the smile. Her breath hitches as she sees it once again aimed in her direction. One thing about him that will never change.

"I'm terribly sorry to keep you waiting." He says, his voice holding a worried tone.

"Its alright Patrick, I had nothing else to do so I decided to be early." She responds, smiling as forgivingly as she can so he doesn't dwell on the idea he is at fault.

"I'm glad you came." He says appreciatively, sitting across from her and giving the polite smile over to his true smile. What he doesn't say is 'I thought you wouldn't.' "You look beautiful."

She tenses slightly in her legs crossed over the other, but she knows better. The statement is mostly polite. Mostly. Her lips want to give pass to a truthful response, but just then the waitress appears to take his drink order--to which he responds whatever the fine lady will have, and a Scotch, single malt. Neat, please..

"Actually, I'll have the same." She nods and sends the waitress off with smile shorted by a tight lip.

He is amused by her order, but doesn't say anything, he just looks inquisitively at her, still unable to hold down his smile. "So, what will you do when you return home?"

"I, I hadn't really thought about it." She responds lightly, putting her glass to her lips again to down the last of her martini. He watches her, and she can't help but uncomfortably notice his eyes linger for just a split second on hers.

"I, I'm going to go back to New York." She says slowly, and notices he seems to be wanting to hear more. "Probably spend a few days with Prince. And you're going to go back to LA, and you'll spend time with Penny."

Mentioning their respective dogs--her Prince, a sweet and even-tempered Boston terrier, and his Penny, a sassy little Pomeranian, brings a twitch of the corners of his lips and a light to his eyes. Few things make him happier than his Penny.

"Chicago will always be our home," he says with a nostalgic smile and a nod. "It's always going to be home. I can't tell you how much I miss it when I'm gone.

"Yeah well. There's nothing really for me in Chicago." She says tightly. Her mind is dancing devilishly around the idea that every time he says 'Chicago', he doesn't only mean 'Chicago.'

Just then, their drinks arrive, and the waitress asks if they are ready to order, to which Patrick glances at Audrey who skews her lips, handing the decision back to him, and then he glances back at the waitress. "If you would give us just a little longer, thanks."

She responds with a 'very well' and disappears. They seem to be paid well to develop elusiveness and prompt service when necessary.

Audrey quickly takes her whiskey and after a toasted 'cheers', quickly downs hers, to which Patrick responds with a laugh.

"Just like our high school days." he teases, and Audrey can only nod in agreement for fear of her actual intention being discovered.

"So," she changes tact, feeling the liquid courage coursing in her and making her less cautious.

"You'll go back to LA...you’re going to be busy.” She affirms with a nod. “You’ll be touring, promoting—you’ll barely have enough time to yourself.”

“We can keep in contact—I mean, I want to see what happens with…" he stutters over his words, realizing that she's blazing through the chit chat. "I’m going to miss you.” The last line hangs for a split second in the air before he too-late realizes what’s going to happen. She’s going to run. His face hangs in apology of his accidentally slipped honesty as exactly what he predicted happens.

“I’m sorry,” she announces, standing quickly from the table and tucking her jacket over her arm. "I can't do this, I have to go." She turns and bolts for the door. The medium heel of this boot is something that does not hinder her-specifically why she chose it. She makes her way through the lobby as quickly as she can, her coat clinging forgotten to her arm. She doesn’t have the time to properly envelop herself in it. She’s got a few seconds that he will give her the chivalrous head start before he follows her.

The windy city is giving no misjudgings as she steps into the eternally chilly night of Chicago, the cold clinging to her skin like an everpresent coat of secrecy. It reflects the way she feels inside most of the time; cold and calculated. It’s only a second before a night breeze catches her and now she’s hit with a chilly blast, her skin shaking in protest, and then she’s frozen—because of her own mistakes.

She’s been outside all of two seconds when she hears collective footsteps of the Italian leather he seems to favor lately, making their way over the concrete over the quiet traffic of the city and catches her arm as she turns back to her, spinning her by her arm and she is not startled, as she heard him.

"Audrey--please." He says, and she turns to look at him, her eyes are stone cold.

"Patrick, you know it never ends that way." She says, her lips wanting to curve into a smile for the sake of keeping up appearances, because she’s not sure what happens next. "You know it, I know it…it never just stops...there."

"I..." His blue eyes falter, but he can't help but speak truth when he's face to face with her. “I can't let this be the last time I see you. I can’t do it again. I need you.”

When the words leave his lips its all the affirmation she needs.

She can’t stop herself from crushing against his frame, her lips hungrily finding his as his hands circle her waist. She had wanted to do that so badly and finally, she had nothing to hold her back. Finally she pulls away, their breath coming in heaves, pooling heat into the cold air.
"Then you better come with me." She says as evenly as she can.

She's cutting straight to it tonight--she needs something from this. Needs to know if the feelings are true--after being lied to for so long a bit of truth is like seeing a bright light after being locked in a dark room and fed nothing but your doubts and fears.

The longest they can hold out is the elevator—and she’s drawn to him again, bodies crushed close so no heat escapes. He pushes her back gently into the rail for the elevator, the cold metal and glass behind it pressing cold into her back, but she can’t feel it; everything is numb except for where his body is, and there is is burning. Burning and ripping and searing desire. He puts his hands on her hips as she begins to fight back, pushing against him. He stops and puts his lips to her earlobe, an old trick.

“You should have stayed away from me.” She hisses, not maliciously but truthfully. She really wants to curse the integrity she has left. But she can’t—she may be wrong, but she’s not entirely selfish.
"I couldn't," he says, still holding her around her hips, and yes, she can think about little else besides his fingers with their stubby nails pressing into them hard enough to leave little crescent shaped traces, his lips on her ear, nibbling the lobe in between his teeth and his lip, and kissing a line to her chin, forcing her to expose her neck to him in what she would like to think is a power play, to him it is showering her with affection. Either way, when the doors finally open it’s a blurry commute to the convenience of a room—and a bed.

They lay together, bodies intertwined under dark purple satin sheets, their limbs cast to each other, when she wakes. Her body is covered in a sheen of sweat, and almost immediately by subconscious, she realizes it is because he is a furnace when he sleeps. If she wakes him by accident, pulling away slightly, he will sleepily mutter this is because their bodies are trying to become one. She’s never sure if he’s fully awake when he mutters this, and how serious he is when he says it, but she’ll never tell him how safe that makes her feel. She moves slowly, sliding on the sheets to the edge of the bed. He stirs; being a heavy sleeper, he hardly ever wakes, but often will mutter and sleep talk. He mumbles now, intelligibly, and turns slightly more onto his stomach, pale shoulders reflecting the slight light from the silver moon spanned outside the sliding door to the balcony, which is opened just a crack; the walls of the room cast in the line of light. The numerous candles are burned low in puddles of judgment—of the time spent here.

She sits, alone in being awake, in the hotel room in the aftermath of what they had committed; any multitude of memories swirling and twisting in her mind, threatening to crash over her head in waves of emotion and submerge her into the depths. She shakes her head and her eyes alight on something glinting on the nightstand; she carefully lifts it, turning it between her palm, and sets it down with a slight clink, and there it sits, the gleaming symbolism of everything they are doing is wrong; his engagement band.

This is not the first time--nor will it be the last.