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Calamari
by K. Rachael
was halfway through the calamari appetizer of a mediocre Italian dinner when the door blew open and he stepped inside. Covered in rain and topped with wild black hair, his slight frame arched in on itself as he waited for the hostess. As I watched, he reached up to push the hair out of his face, and I saw wide amber eyes dart to and fro, surveying the room. What, I
wondered, could this fairy changeling want with us mortals on a dreary Sunday night?
"So I'm not sure if I like him or not."
Michelle's voice dragged my attention back to my own table. She was crumbling a piece of bread onto the tablecloth, ignoring the calamari.
"We've been out three times, but I just
don't know if I should do anything with him yet."
"Mmm," was my vague response as I turned my eyes toward the entrance again. He was gone. No, he was seated alone at a table across the room, scowling down at the menu. He's too pretty to be alone, I told myself, he's waiting for someone. Some delicate fairy girlfriend, no doubt. His long legs were crossed at the ankle like a little girl; I imagined a female version of himself kissing his instep, running her tongue between his toes. They were probably a matched set, slender and pale -
"...to me?"
"Huh?"
Michelle bristled with irritation. "I asked if you were listening to me. Apparently not. What the hell are you looking at over there?"
"Nothing." I didn't want to admit I had been fantasizing a mate for a lonely stranger, so I turned the conversation back to the intricacies of her own social life. As she chattered on, I tried diligently to focus on her voice. Her potential mate seemed to possess everything but sex appeal. While she critiqued his skinny arms, I turned my head toward the fairy boy to compare, and almost knocked over the olive oil. He was caressing the edge of his empty plate with one finger and looking straight at me. As our gazes converged, he bit his lower lip and returned his eyes to the menu. All at once our entrees arrived, Michelle's cell phone rang, and she excused herself to take the call.
Alone at the table, I stared down into my dish of tortellini. I was hot in the cheeks and tingling all over. So maybe there was no pixie girlfriend. I didn't want to consider the possibilities. I was not the kind of girl who picks up scruffy boys in third-rate restaurants, but I couldn't sit gaping at my pasta forever. As I brought the fork up to my lips, my eyes wandered back to him.
He had uncrossed his ankles and filled his wine glass with the cheap house Chianti. His eyes were on me again. He made no move to turn away this time, but took a long swallow of wine and ran his fingers lazily through his hair with the complacency of one who knows his own beauty. Unconsciously, I pressed my hips against the wooden seat and arched my back slightly. He noticed and responded with a raised eyebrow. Between my legs a telling dampness began to spread. I chose to abandon pretense and join the game.
First I turned away from him and laid down my fork. Feigning carelessness, I reached down to the napkin laid across my lap, swept it aside and parted my knees. Then my hands moved up to the sweater covering my light summer dress -
I undid each button, head modestly bowed, and shrugged it off onto the chair behind me. As I reached for my fork again, one thin strap slipped off my shoulder. Only then, disheveled and brazen, did I raise the fork to my mouth
and turn to face the boy as I licked marinara sauce lewdly from each tine. He smirked and mimicked my lasciviousness, tracing the rim of his wine glass with the tip of his tongue. An audible sigh must have escaped me, because the
family at the next table abruptly ceased their conversation.
I flashed them an apologetic smile and tried to regain my composure. After fixing my strap and smoothing the napkin back onto my lap, I speared another forkful of pasta and turned back to the boy. The smirk had vanished; in its place was an expression of fierce urgency. He mouthed something at me. I shook my head in confusion. He repeated it, slower this time, his lips carefully forming the words, "I want to fuck you."
I froze in astonishment, fork poised midair, until Michelle's abrupt return startled me into spilling tortellini all down the front of my dress. I stumbled to my feet, muttered an excuse and ran for the bathroom. Glancing at the boy's table on my way past, I noticed that he was missing and wondered where he'd gone. The thought went no further until I stepped through the bathroom door, locked it behind me and saw a movement out of the corner of my eye. Then the lights flickered off.
Cold hands grasped my shoulders, turning me around. A long graceful tongue lapped at the front of my dress, licking the sauce-spattered fabric clean. Teeth closed roughly on my nipple, hot breath scorching my skin. "Please let me fuck you," said the hoarse voice of my changeling boy.
I buried my fingers in his hair and yanked his mouth up to mine by way of reply. We sank down onto the floor, panting with impatience, scrambling to undress. Finally he pushed against me, filling me, and flesh merged with flesh against the cold bathroom tiles. When it was over we lay gazing at each other in the dark, deaf to the sound of angry diners banging on the door, caught up in a fairy world of our own.
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