Complicity [h.s]

23

Aven Brooks

The champagne coats my tongue with a gentle sip, the carbonation rolling down my throat with a tart burn. I much rather have something stronger for a night like tonight; vodka, tequila, gin. But I have to be a lady tonight, I have to come off as submissive tonight. I'm a perfectly poised little champagne drinker tonight. I need to sit with prestige posture and legs crossed like the desired bachelorette I am who's desperately in need of her knight and shining armour. I'm a princess tonight.

"You sure are ravishing," The bachelor by the name of Patrick, sits across from me at the table for two at the most expensive restaurant in town.

Sipping from my glass, keeping my eyes on him behind the candlelight, I take my time before responding. Once I put the glass down, I start tapping my fingernails on the table.

"Ravishing?" I say with slight amusement.

Radishes.

"Mhmm.." He nods in agreement. 

Slicked back dark hair, clean-shaven face, dark eyes, a pearly white smile. He's covered in riches; a gold Rolex, rings, an expensive grey suit with a black undershirt. He's very dapper and tall. Older than me, maybe in his late twenties so I guess this could be worse. My father has definitely set me up with a lot older. I can count the amount of 40-year-old's I've sat across from at this table.

At least Patrick is younger.

But just as uninteresting.

"I haven't been called ravishing before." I run my finger along my eyebrow. "At least in a long time."

"No?"

"Maybe from one of my father's old friends." I shrug, gently grabbing my glass again.

He glimmers a small smile, sipping on whisky.

"Are you calling me old, Ms. Montanari?"

"Well, I don't seem to know anything about you yet. You're the eligible bachelor of the week."

"Of the week?"

"Mhmm..."

The restaurant is quiet despite the full tables, everyone's conversations as dim as the candle lights. The atmosphere is what you expect from a late-night restaurant in the heart of New York—sexy and suggestive. I get set up on dates here quite often, every table always has a nameless man in a suit with a ten on the other side. Gentle violins play in the background.

There are cream candles lit at every table, yet ours have been out since we've sat down. Not just one, but all of them.

"My father says you're a very hard woman to keep up with."

"Is that so?" I sip my champagne again.

"Yes, you're quite independent."

"And what makes me independent?"

"You just seem to come off like you're not potentially looking for a husband."

"Well, I was married once before."

"I was told." He nods.

"I'm sure it was the first thing you were told about me, right?" I chuckle.

He smirks into his glass, taking a sip.

"I don't mind."

Before I get to respond, A waiter comes by with a lighter leading right to our table full of burnt-out candles.

"Apologies," he takes the long lighter to the first wick, trying to bring it back to life. It doesn't seem to go as planned for him though, his lighter isn't working. It must be out of fuel. He tries a couple of times before apologizing again. "I must need a new light."