Messages are being sent. The tone is tentative at first, and they exchange stories; he asks of "him", she asks of "her". Coincidence follows on coincidence and they laugh in amazement at how the universe has brought them together. She still wonders; aside from the remarked on similarities, there are even more that she notes but does not speak of. A mention of a name, just in passing, that was a name from his life for so long. A place referenced, again in passing, but wait - how does he know that small detail? She doesn't remember telling him, but perhaps in the daily exchange it is there.
The conversation flows - full of talk of books, art, and music. Full of laughter. There is something here, an attraction, a certain tension. He makes a small joke, a double entendre and so the flirtation begins.
The conversation becomes a dance, back and forth, to the music of their words. The tension grows, flirtation becoming desire. There is mention of a meeting, perhaps, an anonymous encounter, nameless, faceless.
A story within a story - he sends her a thesis, written by a doctor of his acquaintance, outlining the various ways that anonymous encounters could be carried out. She laughs in delight, in sheer joy at his cleverness, and suggests that perhaps one of the esteemed doctor's methods may indeed work.
The dance continues on. It is, for all the passion simmering just below the surface, a dance of some restraint. This is not the liquid body-on-body motion of a type found in a small, smoke-darkened club in a hot South American city. He steps in, only to quickly step back again, revealing then recanting. So much like the other, she muses, remembering it was that which made her say goodbye. It was not their physical distance that spelled the end, but that, seemingly, of his heart.
Another door stands firmly closed, and she wonders if anyone can find the key.
A new story unfolds within their story. The flirtation, the dance, takes on a life of it's own and the two develop characters for themselves. It is easier to reveal their growing want through stories they tell each other of erotic adventures, at least at the beginning.
The conversation flows - full of talk of books, art, and music. Full of laughter. There is something here, an attraction, a certain tension. He makes a small joke, a double entendre and so the flirtation begins.
The conversation becomes a dance, back and forth, to the music of their words. The tension grows, flirtation becoming desire. There is mention of a meeting, perhaps, an anonymous encounter, nameless, faceless.
A story within a story - he sends her a thesis, written by a doctor of his acquaintance, outlining the various ways that anonymous encounters could be carried out. She laughs in delight, in sheer joy at his cleverness, and suggests that perhaps one of the esteemed doctor's methods may indeed work.
The dance continues on. It is, for all the passion simmering just below the surface, a dance of some restraint. This is not the liquid body-on-body motion of a type found in a small, smoke-darkened club in a hot South American city. He steps in, only to quickly step back again, revealing then recanting. So much like the other, she muses, remembering it was that which made her say goodbye. It was not their physical distance that spelled the end, but that, seemingly, of his heart.
Another door stands firmly closed, and she wonders if anyone can find the key.
A new story unfolds within their story. The flirtation, the dance, takes on a life of it's own and the two develop characters for themselves. It is easier to reveal their growing want through stories they tell each other of erotic adventures, at least at the beginning.
