Usually, I exchanged homemade meals for companionship. They cooked, I lingered. I loved to watch someone transform raw materials and unfamiliar spices into one cohesive dish. I would begin by trying to prattle on about something inconsequential and hovering, but usually tapered off as I took a seat at the table, preferring to study looks of concentration framed by steam or puffs of flour. There is something very similar about becoming lost in a narrative and becoming lost in a recipe. You get so caught up in the chopping, stirring, grilling, side dishes, hors d'ouevers, and desserts that you forget the big picture until it all comes together to form one harmonious flow of sustenance.
Today, my breakfast and prose was served up in pre-packaged form. I was on my second bloody mary and Peeta was rubbing his temples in aggravation, trying not to look up at me as I read over the latest pile of lust and bravado that would be okayed by his editor regardless of my input.
"So," he began tentatively, releasing his worried hands to trace circles on the table with the condensation from his water glass, "I take it you had a rough night."
I continued deliberately scratching against the papers in front of me with my red pen. Watching the red ink bleed slowly into the fibers surrounding the jumbled sentences and sentiments helped me forget the way my body rose and shook at his will, a helpless marionette.
"You know your silence just allows me to fill in the blanks on my own…"
His eyes bore into me, his fingers still tracing suggestive patterns in the moisture gathering around his cup.
My eyes snapped up challenging his irritatingly cobalt orbs, "What is the one rule I ask you to follow?"
He grinned, "Never interrupt your 'process'…" His grin was soon a smile, "though it can't be all that hard to rip me to shreds. You're just so damn good at it!"
My fingers curled tightly around the pen anchoring me to the table.
"That was more of a general warning Mellark. Nice try."
I hadn't moved my eyes from his, refusing to be the first one to break the stare. As usual, he won. His taunting smile broke my steely reserve and I rolled my eyes heavenward.
"Rule number one: keep out of my personal life. I act and rationalize how I like; my impulses and needs aren't finding their way into one of your bestsellers."
Though Peeta looked slightly shattered, I wouldn't take back my rule. He should know by now that I talk in my own time, not whenever he needs inspiration or someone to chastise. After I had read over enough of his prose, and found more than just a coincidental mentioning of my peculiar and often neurotic habits within his leading ladies, I began withholding the more vulnerable details of my private life.
It's not as if I cared that he fantasized about me in some way, I didn't even care if I was slightly romanticized and buried within a fleeting paragraph. I gathered that he had some sort of infatuation with me in high school, and after that faded away into an unadulterated friendship we did nothing more than tease each other about our non-existent love affair. Whatever fantasy he had of me existed only in sixteen year-old memories and hardly concerned me now. What I hated were his heroines. They were simpering, self-conscious, flimsy beings. They were often damaged and would succumb to the first man that roughly bent them over a table as long as it made them feel desirable. Usually they would throw an emotional fit of some sort afterwards as the main character stared off stoically, wishing he could feel the same pain she felt. Inevitably, all he could feel was hollowness.
Sure, one of his characters had a weak spot right under her left knee that made her legs buckle just like me, and another only smoked cigarettes if she was mulling over something she didn't want to talk about, but these were the scraps of me he could have. What he wasn't allowed to touch was the distressed girl who looked for resolution last night. The girl who gave herself over to every twinge and lustful sob. The girl who demanded that her lover leave soon after she released herself so she could break down in peace. That girl was a complex version of the character he was continually attempting to recreate; his girl was trying to prove that she was worthy of love and desire, and this girl just wanted to prove that she could feel something beyond a fierce impulse to survive tinged with anger. This girl knew she was infinitely dynamic and powerful, but was trapped in an unreliable frame everyone underestimated. If he wanted to write about another lithe, lost little girl looking for the hands that would bring her to life, he needed to look elsewhere.
"I don't see it, that section got rave reviews in the office." Peeta was slumped over on the table, his fingers once again wearing a deep hole into his temples, now bright red from irritation.
I circled a sentence in bright red, "A woman would never do that." I poked at it defiantly.
"What do you mean?
"She wouldn't ask for her pants back and wink. I'm not even sure she would want him to look as she got dressed."
"Why not?" His gaze was clouded and lost.
"Have you ever tried to put on a pair of tight pants? You have to sort of shift your weight from side to side, and then when they hit your hips you do this spastic hop before sucking in your gut and buttoning it all up."
He took a deep breath, "alright, what about this part, the section that you practically tore open with your stupid red pen of death." He was clearly frustrated, and I didn't want to test his patience, but I knew we had to solider through the last paragraph if I wanted to get out of here anytime soon.
"Cut out the part at the end, you know, the bit that describes all the grand sweeping metaphysical garbage involved in the action. Just leave the deed, the bare-boned facts. Leave some breathing room for interpretation."
"What are you talking about?" His head was now on the table, his hands stretched out before him, a cheap diner martyr.
"Look, I just think you could do without all the lofty euphemisms. They're our age, it isn't about some transcendent verb; it's about plumbing and sticky truths."
"I don't necessarily understand why getting at the 'truth' has to be the sole objective of every piece of writing. What about fairy tales, or science fiction?"
"You can use fantasy to arrive at a basic truth. But this only arrives at ego stroking and an impossibly satisfying orgas-"
"Stop. We already went over this. I am not discussing the literary merits of dirty laundry and cellulite."
After a tense few heartbeats, our places had been cleared along with any leftover animosity. I handed back the precious pieces of prose to Peeta and he gathered them up anxiously, stuffing them back into a folder in his messenger bag.
"There's something that's been on my mind." He looked at me, eyebrow slightly crooked, "I thought today might not be the best day to ask considering how I found you this morning…" at this I lightly kicked his shin under the table.
He winced slightly and continued, "but seeing as how you're already 3 drinks deep I figure why not…"
"Oh for Christ's sake just spit it out Blondie." I may be buzzed, but I wasn't in the mood for games, and I desperately craved a cigarette, something I could only partake in after we left.
"You always criticize my sex scenes. It's usually pretty damn brutal." He looked at me for some sign of repentance, but I merely shrugged my shoulders.
"So tell me, as an intelligent, contemporary woman, how should I be writing these intimate moments in a way that will satisfy my female readers?" His look was challenging, but the spiced vodka had made me bold.
"Honestly, it comes down to one essential element of sexuality that I just don't think we'll ever agree on."
"Oh, and what is that?"
"The girls in your novels get off on being 'taken.'" He shrugged almost imperceptibly, urging me on, "even if that means being humiliated in some way." His mouth dropped slightly, but he didn't argue.
"Now, maybe it's just me, but I don't want to be humiliated… I want to be empowered by desire. What fun is sex if you know you'll never have the chance to be dominate and demand what you need?"
He leaned in closer, but his look was still challenging, "Have you ever considered that you've worked in the romance department for so long that your views on sex are warped?"
"I'll give you that." I sighed and leaned back into the booth. "After reading about how Reginald rips open Anya's bodice, only to find her bosom heaving with trepidation and desire day in and day out, it starts to feel a little cliché."
Peeta's smirk grew and he began strumming his fingers against the table, clearly invigorated by my response. "Alright Everdeen, if clichéd romance isn't your thing, what do you fantasize about? Clearly not Reginald…"
I laughed softly, leaning in and settling my elbows on the table. I knew I'd regret it later, but at this very moment, all I wanted was to spew ever bit of honesty I had left in me and get a rise out of the cocky man across from me. If he wanted to pick up our ongoing game of provocative chicken, then I was more than game.
"Honestly, the more sickeningly sweet and tender the shit I have to edit is, the dirtier my fantasies get.
"Enlighten me."
"Fine," I settled in closer, giving him a good look at my cleavage and forsaking the rational part of my brain.
"Sometimes I fantasize that I'm in a seedy night club, glowing red and full of shadows I can't make out." He leans in closer, clearly intrigued.
"They call out my stage name and a slowly make my way over to the pole." His eyes get incredible wide at this, now very intrigued.
"I don't see anyone's face while I'm on stage, because I'm doing it for me and only me. It makes me feel good. I jump up on the pole and wind my way down." I let one of fingers trace my lips, giving the illusion that I am completely lost in thought.
"I slowly remove my shirt while one leg wraps around the silver anchor in front of me and I lean back, arching my back."
Part of me begins to feel bad, I'm clearly making Peeta a little bit uncomfortable, but he asked for it, and it's not like he's backing away from me. In fact, he just keeps leaning in closer.
"Eventually, I begin crawling towards the front of the stage, and at the very end, I see my lover. I nearly reach him when I roll over, lying on my back, legs spread in front of him. I inch my tiny skirt down my legs, and all that's left are my satin panties and bra. I slowly rise and sway my hips back and forth in front of him, before I stand up and make my way back to the pole." I see Peeta trying to stifle a gulp, his adam's apple twitching in his throat.
"The song is almost over, and I grind myself against the metal, starting to get off, not caring who sees. At the very end of the song, I drop my ass down in front of a random patron behind me, and slowly bring it back up as he tries to grab me and pull me back towards his lap, but he can't. I spin around once more and then saunter off stage, back to my dressing room, where I have my way with my lover, gripping his hair tightly and pulling him into me."
"Shit." Peeta whispers, shocked and nearly breathless
"I know," I chuckle and bat his arm playfully, "that's what happens when you let a woman stew in a world full of "perfect" romance." I pull back and look at him innocently, biting my lower lip slightly; "she just wants to get a little raw and filthy."
Peeta is still speechless, and I laugh even harder now, "let's get you home to your girlfriend before you combust lover boy."
I leave the booth and head for the door as Peeta follows in a daze. The walk back to my apartment building is quiet, and I smirk as he tries to keep a straight face. When we finally make it to the door I finally turn to face him so I can finally put him out of his misery.
"Peeta," I make sure I'm looking him in the eyes, "You want honesty? I'm tired, ambitious almost to a fault, and perpetually at a loss for what I really want. Honestly, my reoccurring fantasy is someone rubbing my back as I sprawl out on the couch and try to forget about my day."
His blue eyes are still searching my face, looking for queues that let him know what he should believe and what he should forget.
"Feel free to use the stripper scenario in one of your upcoming chapters though," I lean in and give him a chaste kiss on the cheek, "see you on Monday champ, and say hi to Clove for me."
He remains still as I punch in the code to my building and disappear behind the heavy door. As I climb the stairs I wonder if he'll think of me after his girlfriend falls asleep tonight.