"Tabatha?" I heard breathless giggling on the other end of the line. "It's me. Toby Ziegler," I added, just in case.
"Hi, Toby."
"Hi."
Silence.
"Toby?"
"Yup."
"You're quiet."
"Yup."
"Did you call for a reason?"
"Yup."
"Why?"
*To hear your voice.* I stumbled over my words. "I--There's a thing, on Saturday. Are you...would you like to go?"
Tabatha's giggling again, only now it's at me, I think. I squeeze my stress ball a little harder than necessary. I can't keep from smiling when she finally says, "Depends. What kind of thing is it?"
I give myself a sharp mental kick. "It's a reading. Yeats. At George Washington." *Speak a full sentence, dammit!*
"I love Yeats." I
can hear her smile and it makes my stomach clench. I'm getting into
something here, and I can't for the life of me think of a reason not to.
* * *
I tossed my jacket over the back of the chair, loosening my tie and disposing of it as well. As usual, I had to analyze every word, every gesture from the evening.
We did go to the poetry reading, and dinner afterwards, and drinks after that. My fate was sealed when she ordered a single malt scotch on the rocks. When we got back to her apartment, she invited me in. Sitting on her couch, I let my eyes roam. She watched me, saying nothing, until she reached over and brushed her hand across my cheek. I jumped slightly and she tilted her head, resting it on her palm as she studied me.
"You're scared," she said, slightly amazed. I shook my head but Tabatha countered with a nod. "Yes you are." Smiling at me, she added, "I'm a poet, Toby, if there's anything I know, it's human emotion."
I turned my eyes away but she drew them back simply by staring at me. Resting her hand on mine, causing a searing heat, Tabatha smiled gently. "It's okay. The mixed signals were there the other night, when I had my little breakdown." She laughed a little. "I...we can take our time," she offered, squeezing my hand. "You're a gypsy."
"I'm a gypsy?" I raised one eyebrow, expressing my doubt.
"You need time and space, I know. You're a free spirit, a gypy," she insisted. "But I like you, Toby. I like any man who puts me on the top of his To Do list."
I had to smile. "Tabatha..."
"But you have to promise not to say my name."
"What?"
"Because when you say my name, it just makes me want you." She brushed my cheek again. I didn't jump this time.
"Sorry."
"Don't be."
"I'm not."
Tabatha closed her eyes and leaned her head back, laughing. When she rolled her head forward and looked at me again, she was biting her lip in the cutest mannerism I have ever seen on a woman. But maybe I'm biased.
Our eyes connected and she began to recite quietly, "The finest tapestry takes patience and the ability to wait, for each thread to support the bigger picture and the larger purpose. And in the fearless, reckless pursuit of intimate love, it is not the destination. It's the journey."
"Keats?" I guessed.
"Amanda Marshall."
"Who?"
"Stick with me, Mr. Ziegler. I'll teach you things."
*I bet you will.*
THE END
