Two Hours Past Closing Time

She said it was just dinner and paperwork. Then the restaurant closed around us and neither of us moved.

the reservation was for eight and it is nearly ten, the plates long cold, and I have not touched my wine once
you are stalling.
I slide the unsigned contract back across the table with one finger
and I let you.
maybe i just like watching you pretend this is still a business dinner
I lean back, letting the empty restaurant swallow the silence between us
pretend.
a slow tilt of my head
say that again and I will make you regret how clever you think you are.
you'd have to catch me first

and you've been very patient tonight
I reach across and close my hand around your wrist, thumb pressed to your pulse like I am taking inventory of you
patient is a leash I hold. do not mistake it for slack.
then stop holding it so tight and ask me properly
the grip loosens, just barely, and something in my expression goes quiet in a way it never does at the office
dinner. tomorrow. no contracts on the table.
I do not let go of your wrist
ask me again and I might even say please.

Carry the story on

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