“Sweet, Little…”
Andre smiled in the mirror, toothpick gliding from side to side between his teeth. He stopped to admire a cleaning he’d gotten on a whim, while walking through the city over the weekend. A boutique dentist. He couldn’t resist. The bubbly woman that buzzed him in showed her pretty teeth, as providing personal testimony, while taking Andre on a brief tour. He followed behind; just enough so that he could watch more of her walk, while still seeming interested. Monica stopped at the end of the hall, where to the left was a cafeteria for staff; it was quaint and clean, with a vibrant orange. Herringbone wooden floors; and as Monica turned to grab a green tea, cucumber and dragonfruit drink, she laughed at a joke Andre made, her hand lay on his chest. Her nails matched the walls, and her hair was short, seemingly trimmed by a mathematician with hands personally touched by the big man upstairs. Andre couldn’t help but to squeeze what she was also blessed with. Her lips stuck to his, ending in a nibble, eyes still closed.
Andre liked bookstores — what writer wouldn’t, when you think about it — and Monica liked good conversation, seafood, and a great smelling man who could teach her things she wanted to learn. They walked along the promenade of the new wharf — a DC gentrification project that, in all honesty, was a success — mainly because Andre approved of the bookstore; and a high-end Japanese restaurant sitting above a subtly swank hotel with marina views. Neither spoke of the burdens of work when they were together. Through a trip to said bookstore; then sushi and sake; the conversation flowed and danced between nerdy and flirtatious. Andre’s eyes would dart back and forth between Monica’s perfectly drawn lips, and sparkling eyes, the color of. ripe pineapple.
Andre kissed Monica on the forehead as he slid his arm, gently, from beneath her neck. He stretched his arms in a variety of movements; there were front and back circular motions, and grabbing of his elbows; Andre paid attention to his breathing, counting silently, and looking at Monica, still sleeping; he could tell by the smallest of snores. He chuckled, before dropping down for his first set of morning pushups.
Two weeks later, they would move in together. And two weeks later, Andre would go missing, seemingly a ghost. Monica would see him, two weeks later, on the same promenade; with the same hand placement around another woman. He’d told her she couldn’t believe her eyes. After all, Monica never actually approached the couple, or the man she thought was Andre. She walked by close enough; she knew the fragrance. She knew his beard, and the limp in his walk. She knew his shoulders intimately. Andre smiled and Monica melted in his arms.
