A woman dressed in a mustard-coloured velvet dress, holding a white wine glass, gazed half-heatedly at the ice sculpture in front of her.
Looking at the impressively shaped six-foot tall artwork, her gaze languorously smoothed over the subtle shape of the figure.
It was Poseidon, she decided, noticing the large trident in the Greek god's hands.
She remembered how deeply the myth of Medusa Gorgon had moved her back in the high-school days. In the story, Medusa was a beautiful priestess serving at the temple of Athena, the god of war. Poseidon, seduced by the maiden's beauty, had forced himself on her in the holy house.
Enraged, Athena punished Medusa for desanctifying her temple by turning her into a grotesque monster with a nest of snakes adorning her head. She was cursed with a deathly glare that petrified all men who looked into her eyes, encountering the abyss of heartbreak and terror.
Misaki rolled her eyes at the obvious direction of her thoughts. Way to make the goddamn ice sculpture about yourself, Ayuzawa. Years ago, since her father had deserted her family, her distrust towards the male sex had not been much different from the mythical creature's. Also, Misaki thought amusedly, her hair was getting long enough to be considered a nest of snakes as well.
As a teenager she had come a long way to re-evaluate her prejudices and learn to relate to men again. She had been lucky to have gotten a fair amount of assistance in that at the time, she thought grimly.
Her thoughts were interrupted by an applause that broke out around her. A quintet band had been playing soft bluesy tune on a mildly elevated platform. Misaki sighed softly and turned her back to the ice sculpture. She clapped along awkwardly, her wine glass getting in the way.
"What a night," she murmured under her breath and took in the scene displayed in front of her .
Other guests were clearly enjoying themselves more than herself, she noticed.
Statuesque women and elegant men talking and tittering in subdued tones as the gigantic candle chandelier swarmed the room in a sensuous subtle atmosphere. Really, Misaki thought. A candle chandelier? So predictable and cliched for a pseudo high-art scene.
The exhibition was displaying artwork by a promising young artist Hayama, an old friend of Shintani's. The show celebrated modern Tokyo's urban culture. Scattered across the walls of the gigantic gallery were the blow-outs displaying bus-stands, busy streets, squares showing people minding their business.
Misaki had barely endured the cavalcade of Tokyo snobs nodding knowingly at the black-and-white photographs "portraying the angst of fragmented post-modernity and indifference".
Not her thing, but she had been unable to turn Shintani down when he begged her to accompany her. Begged? More like seduced her into it, Misaki thought and took another sip of her drink.
In the apartment
''He will kill me if I miss his first exhibition'', Shintani said as he dragged her suitcase into their bedroom.
Misaki kicked off her stilettos with a small sigh of relief and turned to face him.
He had just propped her luggage against the wall and was now taking off his thick jacket, revealing his muscular chest. Somebody had been working out in her absence, Misaki could not help thinking appreciatively.
''I know, but I'm just back from a twelve-hour flight," she said, slumping down on bed, unbuttoning the top of her shirt, "The last conference absolutely drained me, I'm exhausted..", her voice trailing off.
Even as she said these words, she knew she would give in. A month ago she had been obliged to abruptly leave to Switzerland for work and ended up missing Shintani's birthday as well as their seven-year anniversary. She was in no position to turn him down now, she had to admit to herself.
Meanwhile Shintani had been shrewdly observing her face. The years of companionship had made him an expert of her facial expressions. After all Misaki had always been so transparent, her features so eloquently reflecting her inner dialogues and emotions.
He was always blown away by the complete change her personality underwent in her professional life, wherein she adopted a reserved, steely demeanor.
It was, however, a mere facade which her career demanded. How could a human rights' lawyer breeze through that unforgiving world - as successfully as Misaki did - with her genuine personality?
With him and around those she loved Misaki was an honest, generous and earnest person; but in the world of law she was a fierce, determined go-getter. Such a polarity of her identity and her superhuman ability to smoothly maneuver between the two lives never failed to render him speechless with awe.
"So, is that a yes?" he drawled with a smirk, approaching her at the bottom of their bed where she half-sat, propped up on her elbows.
"Keep smirking at me like that and it'll turn into a no", Misaki's eyes followed his movements. He knelt in front of her, his face shifting into a sweet, yet cautious smile,
Slowly, with his eyes never leaving hers, he slid her skirt with his large palms up her legs, to her thighs, his hands finally resting on her hips.
Misaki's breath hitched, her glare turning darker. Shintani's smile widened as he pressed his thumbs in the indentation below her hipbones.
He knew her weak spots, the way the skin on her hips was particularly sensitive. He knew his firm grip on them always gave her a delicious sense of helplessness. Whenever they made love, he would dig his fingers fiercely into those spots, while observing her face to gauge out her reaction. Right on cue, like clockwork, she would gasp and arch her back.
Misaki did not like being manipulated, but as she observed Shintani's face disappear between her thighs, she let go and laid back. Feeling his warm breath against her most sensitive spot, she stroked his brown hair with one hand and inhaled sharply.
At the exhibition
Misaki felt a pair of arms snaking around her waist in a confident embrace. She turned her head sideways and rested her cheek on his, without wavering her gaze from the band.
"I've paid my dues. We can go now, if you like", murmured Shintani and planted an apologetic kiss below her ear.
Her lovely face, he observed, looked slightly pinched up from fatigue, her smoky eyelids slightly lowered. He could tell her mind was swimming from exhaustion. The tired expression on her face, however, added ten-fold to the insane attraction he felt for her.
"Don't worry, this isn't so bad", lied Misaki and smiled reassuringly. A white lie, because at least the music was soothing and the wine was excellent.
She finally turned to face him and saw him looking at her mouth. She was wearing burgundy red lipstick, which accentuated the liquid shine of her thin mustard dress.
Shintani found momentarily overwhelmed by his desire for her. He stroked her back and brought their bodies closer until her chest subtly grazed his.
"Lets go home", he murmured and smiled when Misaki complacently put her glass on the table in silent agreement.
From the other end of the room a tall blond man had been observing the small intimate moment, his hair shadowing his face. His gaze followed them, as they walked discreetly to the door, the woman's high heels clicking against the marble floor. After they disappeared, he twirled his whiskey inside his glass and quickly gulped it down.