She wore a satin ball gown, in a rich sumptuous plum; its elegant folds sweeping like a wave to the floor; her shoulders shimmering with the tiny beads that decorated the see-through lace sleeves.
He was captivated. Captured. Seized and appropriated.
Moonlight streamed through the window radiating against her skin, her cheek, her neck. She shone. And when she smiled, she dazzled. She dazzled him. Like a sharp burning shaft of light that blinded him with heat and light and energy.
For twenty minutes he sat alone and stared, beyond grateful for his solitude because he was speechless. Without speech, without breath.
And then she is walking towards him and he knows he must tear himself from the sun. He swings back around to the bar and lifts his previously abandoned glass. She has a legend this evening and he won't break it.
She asks the barman for a gin and tonic and when he inquires which brand of gin, she simply smiles and says "you choose,"
"Nolet's reserve, madam, would be my suggestion."
She nods with grace.
"Good choice," says Harry, looking up at her.
"I have no doubt, " she replies, looking away, running her fingertips across the lace on the inside of her forearm, smoothing it down.
"Beautiful dress," he adds.
"Thank you," she says shyly.
He holds out his hand, "Harry…"
She takes it.
"Sarah."
"It's a pleasure to meet you Sarah."
He has not released her hand and she has not withdrawn it.
Nor has he taken his eyes from her.
"Your drink, madam."
"Thank you."
"Would you join me, Sarah?" asks Harry.
She glances, surprised at his invitation and looks back at the Chinese.
"They look happy enough," he says, without loosening his eyes from her, "and not very much seems to be happening this evening."
"You think it seems quiet?" she asks, realising this is about the operation.
"I'd say it's not quite matched up to expectations." She understands.
She nods and moves to the chair beside him.
"Apart from meeting you, of course," he adds with a smile.
"Oh, a charmer?"
He shrugs and looks slightly abashed, which makes her smile all the more.
"Are you not going to ask me if I come here often…?" she hesitates, as though his name has slipped her mind.
"Harry."
"Harry, yes,"
"I'm hopefully not quite that predictable….but seeing as you asked, do you come here often?"
She chuckles and begins to tell him about her role as a translator for the foreign office and how she has been tasked with attending upon the Chinese trade delegation. She laughs as she tells him some purely fictitious tale of misunderstandings and literal translations causing near diplomatic disaster.
And he listens wondering if she could look any more beautiful. Wondering how his mood has become consistently more dependent on her presence, both here and now and daily on the grid. Wondering how when he is lost she shines like a beacon on the bay, guiding him home.
He can't describe it …how overwhelmed he feels.
He realises that she has stopped talking.
"Are you alright?" she asks.
And he knows he is staring and that he hasn't breathed in too long.
He sucks in a lungful of air as slowly and subtly as he can.
"No, I'm not at all sure that I am," he says.
The concern spreads over her face and her hand reaches out to his arm, "Shall I get someone?"
"No point."
"You look unwell."
"I suspect I've never felt better."
She removes her hand, looking questioningly.
"Sorry, I can't begin to explain it," he offers.
"I have a colleague here from the foreign office, his name is Adam. Would you like me to find him?"
"No, thank you."
She looks caught in confusion, troubled, particularly when one of the Chinese delegation wave her over.
"Go," he says, "I'm fine. Really."
"It was nice to meet you, Harry."
She gets up,
"You too, Sarah," he takes her hand, "Maybe some other time, we might …?"
She squeezes his hand and shines those eyes and that smile upon him, "I'd like that."
He watches her walk away, the only light in the room.
Apologising to the group for her absence, a force, greater than herself, pulls her eyes back to the bar.
He is gone.