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First Night
by Limey
Yes. She had irritated him right from the word GO. That morning when first he had laid eyes on her she had ... No, no. Now, be fair!
The first thing his eye had fallen on, between the station and the bus stop, had been as always a very trim pair of ankles which were terminating two of the dandiest legs ... Slim and long in black small-net stockings they had led him upward until stopped by the too-short miniskirt.
God. It used to be low-cut ... then topless? Now they went in for high-cut and ... no, only a brave man would venture bottomless.
In time he had changed his mind about that miniskirt. In fact it hadn't been short at all. It was a fiendishly clever fraud. She wore it just the right length so that the long black-clad legs had pulled his imagination out into the open.
And those woman-sized hips below such a woman-sized waist could put flare into even a sugar sack.
The bit that followed higher up had always pleased him immensely. He liked them with tight clothing - to look at - but he didn't care to walk out with it. This girl was an expert all the way down the line and she drew that line very cleverly.
When he had arrived at the top he was already resenting this woman who tricked his senses, turned him inside out, made him do what she wanted. He had found himself looking into a pair of brown eyes. They were big and almost devoid of make-up. They were very round and very innocent eyes. They were held apart by a short tipped-up nose that invited hin to press it. But gently ... yes, very gently.
The nose rode a mouth that defied him to describe it. It had looked large yet in fact it was quite small. It had looked soft and yet it was strong. It was dark, definitely red, but was devoid of make-up. It had appeared moist but he had felt sure it was dry. The only thing about it for sure was that it ought to be kissed.
Then, as he looked again, those great doll lashes had swept down and to the side as she averted her gaze ... and was gone.
That precisely was the point at which he had first become irritated. Why do women dress in that manner unless they want to be looked at? If they can't meet your eye ...?
He had wanted to go back for another look. If, indeed, she was not using make-up then those lashes had to have been real? That size? But then ... well, she wasn't using make-up.
The 'bus was ready to go. Going back was not an option. So that was all that he had seen; a mouth, two eyes and eye-lashes. She had evaded him completely, slipped away like a dream in the night. Unlikely that they would ever meet again. And at was never his way with women!
The next morning, still trying to picture that face, he had approached the station exit with anticipation. Looking back on the incident there was definitely a funny side to the whole affair. Had he realised that all day, all evening, all night and into another day his total thoughts had been concentrated on that one girl - he'd have gone to a doctor?
But, when train and connecting bus arrive together, mental portraiture is a luxury. He was still putting his season ticket thoughtfully into his raincoat pocket when the bus had sailed by and he was obliged to call upon that celebrated sprint style.
WOMEN ! Without warning one of them had stopped dead right in his path. He drove a foot hard into the pavement and swerved viciously but she dropped her case, made a grab for it and a collision had become inevitable.
Why should they always need to be cared for? His twelve stone on that wisp of starvation would not have left enough for a decent sausage. He'd wrapped his right arm around her, hauled her up to himself, twisted sideways and broke their joint fall with his left hand.
He had also broken his left wrist.
As he nursed the hand she had made solicitous apologies: "I'm so sorry. I should have looked. Is it badly hurt? Let me look. No, never mind the bag." But he had been able to answer with not a single word. It was THE face ... AND the lashes were real!
But what in tarnation was she doing going one way yesterday and in the reverse direction today?
She had called a taxi, taken his arm, taken charge, ushered him into the hospital like any hen with an errant chick. And he had exacted revenge by insisting that she had dinner with him that night - one handed !
That was now - how long ago ?
Lying on his back across the bed he lit a cigarette and watched her at the mirror. In just a bra and black net tights she made a picture for any man. Funny creatures. She had always been so correct, so strictly proper; but now, with his brand on one finger, for him alone she undressed without hesitation. He was irritated because he knew she did not mean to excite him.
She released her hair to let it hang about her shoulders in a thick shining curtain which swayed rythmically as she plied her brush. A bit, just a bit, too vigorously he thought? He wanted to join her and take that brush - it would feel very good to lay it over those tresses. But he was unaccountebly irritated and resisted the urge.
Over her shoulder he could see her face in the mirror. Despite his rings that flashed on her finger he still could not record and hold those features. The lips, not too full and not too coloured, were slightly parted. The eyes were large, wide open defended by superb lashes.
She swung the hair over her shoulder and continued to brush it in front of her. She was looking back at him through the mirror and it was only then that it burst on hin that there was something different in those eyes. They held steadily on him, the did not move, they did not turn away.
It reminded him of something. Something he had seen elsewhere. A picture or a film? A bird hypnotised by a snake ? Ye gods; that was not love that looked at him - it was fear !
He snapped upright on the bed. This was not a women but a maiden.
With a single swipe he stubbed-out the newly kindled cigarette and crossed to her. His hands about her hips almost closed around the tiny waist. If she shied she did not break away but the eyes remained fixed on his reflection.
He bent so that his chin could rest on the softness of her shoulder, his lips close to her ear. The scent of her turned his voice hoarse: "I have a jewel, a gem, something beautiful that looks exactly like a brand-new wife. But so beautiful that hardly dare to touch."
Her lips opened yet wider, her eyes began to move and to glisten. The body that had seemed so taut under his hands began to soften. Continuing the magic she turned in his arms to lift a face which, from being so pale, suddenly flushed with a crimson tide which swept up from and then back down over neck and shoulders.
She gave herself to him as she sobbed out small inarticulate words; her hands squeezed and searched him. Loved him. It was a shock to hear his own voice answer in like vein.
He did not kiss her. Now, while he awaited her recovery, it was his turn to be afraid. Here, in his arms, he held something he had never before encountered, from a world he had not known could exist.
Lightheartedly, irresponsibly he had trampled among corn on what, so unexpectedly, had been revealed as holy ground. Love, innocence, beauty, femininity with its weakness and its strength, courage, all rolled into one had been handed to him on a plate.
He trembled with the realisation that, with a ham-fist, he could have shatterred a precious platter.
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