The grass bends the same beneath my shoes as I walk across Cal Tech campus toward the open field. So why do I feel lost? He grabs my laptop bag from my right hand, intertwines his fingers with mine, and navigates us forward.
"My love!" I squeal joyously. I step to the side, catching a glimpse of the back of his head. His thick black hair gleams faintly under the light, each strand falling naturally into soft, unruly layers—a perfect blend of rugged and refined. His blue suit jacket flutters in the early April wind. He keeps walking, impassive face confidently forward, but his grip on my hand is firm and secure. My knees bounce with each step, a light dance of happiness.
Lizz approaches us with a confused expression. I wave sheepishly at her as we pass, then pout as I look back. I guess we're not having lunch together today. Sorry, Lizz. She veers left, heading back to the math building where she studies, instead of going to our usual grass picnic spot.
The black Aston Martin is parked illegally, arrogantly blocking the road at an angle. He opens the door for me, and as soon as I sit down, he shuts it. As I buckle myself in, Mr. Silence puts my bag in the back. A car honks, and a man yells, "Nice car!" The man waits for us to move, whistling appreciatively at the Aston Martin.
As we drive off, I unbuckle my seatbelt, lean over, and pull his seatbelt across to buckle him in. I can't resist pressing my lips against his freshly shaven slightly squared chin. "Don't distract me," Mr. Silence orders, keeping his eyes on the road.
I obey, but as soon as my butt hits the seat, he pulls into a parking lot. He stops the car and, with his hand rounding the back of my neck, turns me toward him, capturing me in a frenzied, passionate kiss.
Recovering from my initial surprise, I barely get a chance to enjoy the kiss before he frees my mouth. I whine, "I'm hungry. And I haven't shaved. I thought you said you'd be back tomorrow. But I'm so happy–"
Taking out his phone from his inner suit pocket, he calls Jason.
"Sir?" Jason answers.
"Ace is hungry."
"Yes, sir. It'll be ready."
"Hi–" I try to greet Jason, but Mr. Silence hangs up.
He steers the car and we speed toward downtown Los Angeles.
"I miss you," I say, then quickly correct myself. "Well... not really. I don't miss you anymore, funnily enough. I crave you... is that right?" I put an index finger on my chin, thinking aloud. "That's not right, either. I need you. No, that's not it. I want you. But I'll always want you. I love you–that's a given. What is this?" I keep talking, hoping it will provide some clarity. His blank face remains focused on the freeway while I try to process. "I'm hungry for you? But that's craving."
His sharp and angular jaw moves slightly, and I can tell his stoic mask is faltering.
"I'm obsessed with you. Nope. I'm addicted to you! Am I addicted to you? Or maybe to your cock?"
He holds back a smile as his lips twitch upward for an instant. Closer.
"I know... I want to crawl under your skin and melt into you, like molten silver fusing into a circuit board, connecting–"
He finally cracks a laugh. Feeling accomplished, I pull his free arm closer to my body and sit back.
###
Standing in front of the newest and tallest bank building in downtown Los Angeles, with the large logo "MM International Banks" perched atop, I know there's a five-star restaurant on the 70th floor with a 360-degree view of downtown spread below. Karla hasn't stopped talking about his desire to come here for both the food and the view since it opened two years ago.
The man at the front greets us, "Mr. Mason?" Mr. Silence nods. The man says, "Please follow me." From hostess clubs to apartment rental and now fine dinning, Mr. Silence uses Jason's name. Is Jason Mason his secretary or alibi? The suited man uses his badge to let us pass the security points. He taps it again to activate the elevator buttons and presses '70.' Weird, doesn't the restaurant opens at five? It's only one.Are they even open on Monday? When he unlocks the glass door to the restaurant, Karla's words echo in my mind: "There's a round bar in the middle of the restaurant, made out of 24 karat gold!"
It's completely empty except for the chef and three waitstaff lined up to greet Mr. Silence by the door, but my attention is drawn to the bar. My feet carry me around its gleaming surface, mesmerized by the intricate gold engravings along the wood. The gold doesn't just shine—it radiates, catching the sunlight streaming in and reflecting it like a soft, warm glow that fills the room. Every curve and corner of the bar shimmers with brilliance, the gold seemingly alive under the light. The craftsmanship is impeccable, each delicate carving on the bar's edge telling a story of elegance and luxury.
As I run my fingers over the smooth surface, I notice the slight texture of the gold leaf, perfectly applied, giving the entire structure an opulent yet inviting warmth. The gold is sophisticated, blending perfectly with the sleek, dark wood base and the matching color deep leather stools that surround it. Even in the quiet elegance of the room, the bar feels like the centerpiece of a royal gathering, quietly commanding attention without overpowering the space.
Then it hits me—there are no fancy folded napkins, silverwares or plates on any of the glass tables except one. The ivory marble floor, glass walls, and transparent glass tables and chairs give the space a coldness that forces all attention toward the warm centerpiece: the wood, leather, and gold oval bar. It's intriguingly fun, a cold, empty, transparent space sandwiched between the outer surroundings of a bustling metropolis, bathed in sunlight and nature's warmth.
As I circle the oval bar again, Mr. Silence sits at a table near the corner of the rectangular restaurant—the best seat, with the best view. A beautiful, sunny day with temperate California weather makes the view of Los Angeles behind him a panoramic, almost surreal experience. Yet, he sits with his back to it as he studies me instead.
I walk along the edges of the empty restaurant, glancing at the landmark that marks direction. His eyes, however, never leave me. He's been like this ever since we had sex. No matter where we are or what's happening, his gaze is fixed on me. I try to understand the unspoken words and see the worlds behind those orbs, but like the rest of him, I'm left with even more mysteries.
Maybe this is why I always feel your presence. What are you thinking, my love? Why do you study me so intensely? What do you see? What do you want to see? What are you feeling right now? I made it clear that whatever you ask, I'd tell you. But is studying me more interesting? Or are you as perplexed at my feelings for you as I'm at them?
He gets up as I approach, comes around the table, and sits on the opposite side of the table, the view spread out before us. The waiter pulls out my chair next to his, while another removes the one he left behind. Steam rises from the stream of tea being poured into my cup, whispering the scent of Sancha that I love.
My body leans left as he slides my chair by its armrest, bringing it flush against his. I start to turn, but the irresistible aroma of freshly cooked tomatoes mingling with seafood and spices pulls me in. The rich scent of the spicy shrimp pasta put in front of me beckons, each note teasing my senses, urging me to indulge. I dig my fork in and savor the delicious pasta. As I poke at the pasta for the fourth time, he rises. With one smooth motion, he pulls me up, sits down in my chair, and places me on his left thigh.
Still chewing a mouthful of food, holding a fork loaded with pasta, I notice there's nothing else on the table in front of us. With my mouth half-full, I mumble, "You're not eating?"
He shakes his head. I stuff more food into my mouth, but as I chew, his smoldering gaze fills my stomach with butterflies. Arm resting on top of the back of the chair, leaning his head onto the back of his hand, he's watching me again. Glancing at the plate of pasta and then back at him, I realize we've been like this ever since that night. He eats little and spends most of the time looking at me. Even though I'm as hungry now as I was those other times, I still lose my appetite.
I fill the fork with pasta and hold it out to him. He glances at the pasta, then at me. Like before, he eats the food I offer. In fact, it seems the only food he eats is what I feed him. What's wrong with us?
I stare at the food but no longer want it. I look up at the picture-perfect view, but it no longer seems beautiful. The three waitstaff stand in a line at the far corner, ready to serve but giving us privacy. When my eyes meet his, I feel full—full of everything. What's wrong with me? "Aren't you hungry?"
He shakes his head.
"When's the last time you ate?"
He blinks before his eyes dart right, then left, then back to me as before. "I had a protein shake this morning before my workout."
"How long ago was that?"
His wrist turns, and the Rolex shows 1:52. "Eight hours and fifty-two minutes ago."
Something's definitely wrong with us. I feel his forehead with the back of my hand, then check my own. Not hot.
"My love, are we sick? I've lost my appetite lately, too. Why are we—"
He stands up, lifting me in his arms, then turns to the waiter and says, "We're leaving."
Panic rises, I drop the fork and grasp his suit lapel, blurting, "I don't feel sick. I'm fine. I even ran four miles today. Don't take me to the hospital!"
"We're not going to the hospital."