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The Smyth Sewer - Chapter 2 - Ignition

The Smyth Sewer : Chapter 2 : Ignition

He had decided to meet her at the hotel.

She had said, she still wanted to meet him. This he took in his stride, he acknowledged that it had taken some backbone to purchase a costly air ticket, money he was certain, she didn’t really have that much of, but she had worked hard to save, in a job she didn’t like, to follow through on her focused strategy of escaping her past and then to billet herself in the expensive hotel, without having spoken to him by phone, or having met him in person. Some would say, quite a risk to take, not knowing the country, the lay of the city, or himself, the man she only knew through constant email communications and confessionals and the series of poems he had written for her.

He understood (he thought with empathy), her predicament. She clearly was interested in meeting the physical persona of the one she had chosen to trust and communicate openly and freely with (she probably felt ‘foolish’ and ‘impulsive’, he thought, but she was here now, so too late to not meet him). What would be the whole purpose of the flight over such a wide expanse of ocean from such a far away country, if not to make sure her summing up of him on a cerebral level, met her thoughts on the reality of what he would be really like on a physical level in the flesh in front of her – if indeed, there would be any chemistry to pursue her notion of sharing her idea of an adventure with him.

He understood her - it came from a level of implicitly understanding himself. He had spent loads of time, years in fact, working that puzzle out. He felt the same. He was at that point in his life, where he zealously would not waste anymore of his time and would pursue avidly and without fear what he wanted in his life and goddammit he would "take" IT (IT being Life)… he was all about Life and living. They were similar in some ways. But not in others, he suspected. He considered, despite the plethora of email communications, stories and poems she had shared with him, she still remained, in reality - a complete mystery to him. It was her mind he found fascinating most of all, something just out of reach in her, that he must unravel and discover, then like a treasure claim as his own victory.

He was not a time waster, he went for what he wanted and he would take it and it wouldn’t take much time to confirm - if this was a losing game or not. For she was the biggest tease, which he loved and she knew that he loved that...but after all, this was a game they were playing. A game of risk.

"Life is a risk, or nothing at all. Love, is the biggest risk of all!",

he remembered her saying through her written communications. He understood that too. He considered, she might be a gambler, but he was playing strategically for Win-Win whatever occurred. He considered the numbers again. Smiled to himself. He remained positive. Up to a point. He would let her "think' she was winning.

Reality or not, she was analytically and logically intelligent and curious, but he suspected, the wish for romance and desire was winning over those two stalwart qualities. He thought, she would want to meet him. So he concluded, this was no shock she had delivered this particular sentence, in a text to his phone, and not in actual voice conversation. She probably ran on adrenalin and the thrill of initial physical meeting without talking by phone. He wondered how far she would go, what she would be wearing, the length of her legs, the perfection of her skin, the lustre and wet lushness of the particular shade of deep Red lipstick on her lips, what would her lips and tongue taste like, would they be sweet and silky, kissable, the shining ever changing moody green of her eyes, the scent of perfume lingering on the softness of her dark hair as he pressed his lips through it to make it to that warm velvet smooth place on the delicate skin of her neck just below her ear as he whispered words of chicanery only she would hear, the seductive tone of her voice, what would be her first words to him? Would she be wearing nickers or not? He tried not to over romanticise. He’d been there before too.

“My flight arrived last night and I am currently at the hotel. I’d still like to meet you. This may not go as you imagine. But we should meet after all this time. Meet me in the Rooftop Bar, say 8pm? It overlooks the River. You know the hotel, I mentioned it in the email. As it’s your Summer here, it will be pleasant enough to sit outside and I get to put your face and body in front of me, as well as enjoy the view of your city. Let me know either way by return text. I don’t want to speak, until I can see your lips move in front of my face. If you should decide not to meet me, that’s OK, I understand. It’s all a big folly this internet dating scene. I won’t meet you in private, it must be public. I do value the safety measure of preserving my life with a complete stranger. I really don’t know you. So yes or no either way by return text. If it’s yes, I’ll meet you in the Rooftop bar at 8pm tonight. I will leave a message with a friend that I am meeting you. That friend has your name and contact details, in the event I go missing or anything awry occurs. Tally ho then, I do hope it’s a Yes!”

The text signed off with a simple capital “M”.

He had found the message rather amusing. Always with that signature of distance and ‘control’. He’d let her think she was in control for a little while longer. He supposed she thought he was like that Netflix character Dirty John. And grinned to himself. Well kind of, but not. And he silently chuckled to himself.

He had made a great effort to spruce himself up and although, looking at himself earlier in his mirror he thought with slight trepidation, he may fall short in her cerebral estimation of physical good looks, he wasn’t looking too shabby, quirky cute he thought, and what he lacked in looks he would make up for 110% in personality. He was no midget, he grinned. She had mentioned in one of her emails,

"I can't abide short men, you know, most of them are angry little dwarves trying to overcompensate for a lack of ... well you know...usually intelligence. If you are a midget, the rendezvous will be aborted toute suite!"

He could just imagine the look on her face as she concentrated clicking that message out on her trusty ... lap top. And laughed softly to himself again.

He reminded himself, he mustn’t be too out there in the trying to impress her stakes, as she may consider him desperate and he knew, she would hate that - so he reminded himself that no matter what his nerves in front of her, he was to remain enticingly full of charm and wit, but effusing the elusive yet much sought after, unpretentious “cool”. Yeah, he grinned, thinking rapciously... James Bond cool. This one’s in the bag, he thought. She certainly knew how to rev his engines without even meeting him, if the night went well, he could be driving her all the way to the Thomas Crown stateroom like an Aston Martin.

“Oh behave!” he grinned to himself sitting in the taxi as he made his journey into the shining lights of the city, far from his neatly manicured digs in suburbia. He swallowed his nerves and embraced the excitement of the adventure and the long long anticipated rendezvous, that was now possessing him and transporting him into the mindset of his true character. That of the tetosterone fuelled hunter. Like a moth to light, she would be utterly mesmerised.

He read the poem she had sent him some months ago. It read:

^{_{"50 Words for Poe: Inviolate"

Inviolate
I walk bare feet
towards you
unknown
I contend to
know you
but I do not
where is the mirror
to hold up to a face
on the other side of me
you are merely
speaking to a screen
You are scrying
ghost bees
in the dark
honeycomb
sticky,
tasted like braille
eyes open
but closed
felt
but lost
in frail contention
you fail to find me
elusive true
walking talking
to a phantom
soft self-serve
a 2 minute
instant
hot
continental
cup-o-soup

On the other side
I cannot hear you
you remain unseen
Phantom walking
towards me
walk slow
take your time
I’m still lost in your fog
while you throw your
cursive curves,
I am writing your story
blindfolded
wrapped tightly in
violin strings of
empathy

Absolute.
Intuitive.

Frugal and Blue.

No point in delivering
without the glory
who’s to know
when finished by...
could
be
by June,
then again
absent
by -
July.


So August.
So True.
This is how a
Work-in-Progress goes

"Inviolate (1) - 50 Words for Poe"

just for you"}

_{(Her name/year written)
then a piece of music:
"Man of Numbers"/ Kate Bush
then her following author notes in bold font:}}_{In Draft, "50 Words for Poe - Inviolate (1)"

^{August/
noun.
8th month in the calendar year;
adjective
respected and impressive}}

Kind of crazy. Kind of a mystery. Kind of a turn on. He folded the printout into a neat four folded square and placed it in his back pocket.

The Taxi driver asked him if he minded the radio on.

He responded calmy, "Sure, why not."

Massive Attack, "Angel".

https://youtu.be/Y69nZWqsCy0

Lyrics - https://genius.com/Massive-attack-angel-lyrics