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“We’d like to start with a bottle of wine,” he said happily.

At the restaurant, I couldn’t help but watch how people ordered. Some asked for food as if it was a feast, enjoying the cadence of dishes they were setting up, while others, like this man, ordered stooped slightly over their table and pandering to me as if he didn’t want any trouble. He had a cheap sharkskin jacket whose patterned clashed with the basic, thin patterned shirt. His pants were of the same plastic material as the jacket and were cut to suit – well – any buyer. The restaurant usually didn’t attract this kind of customer, but every night brings a surprise.

Perhaps what did get them inside was his guest, she was beautiful. Thick brown, straight hair the color of rich chocolate. She had tied it back with a simple bone pin, but the decadent waves of mole tumbled and curled in the bun. Her complexion was somewhere far from here, Iranian, I believe, arrogant tight eyebrows that seemed to hate the candles and soft, red lips drawn in a contemptuous frown. Her hands were clasped tightly across her lap. It was apparent they had fought, she didn’t want to be there, or the price that she agreed to was not enough to buy her company and her attention.

There is no mystique without its victim. “When something is hidden,” Big Berto would say, “something is lost.” He was a fat poet, that one.

But he was right. And the worn red walls and dim lighting created some mystique. But what gave it its color was the appetites of its customers.

One night – or was it morning? I was helping the kitchen team clean the dishes when Berto passed by and opened the back door that lead to the alley. In walked the tallest, darkest man I had ever seen. He dressed in a black shirt with white pearl buttons and a dark purple three-piece suit that clung to his thin frame. His eyes were wide, and his gaunt face stared straight ahead, walking through the hot steamy kitchen like a zombie. Julio bumped my arm to stop me from staring, urging me to get back to work. But looking down, trying to avoid it all, I saw his hands dripped with blood, and his shoes left pooled outlines in the puddles on the porcelain floor. He was flanked by silent men who floated soundlessly around him and out into the dining room. He ordered Şanlıurfa Escort the broccoli rabe and ziti and waited extra long as I ground a dark cloud of black pepper onto the plate. I’d never taken him for a vegetarian.

“Would you prefer red or white, sir?”

“Well… you see… I don’t know… what do you think, honey.” He threw his wet glance at her. He smiled encouragingly hoping that question would draw her out of her cloud.

“What do you recommend?” She asked me. Her eyes were hard. Old. Angry.

“I can bring you a list, and we decide from an area?”

“That sounds very good,” she said without a smile.

I returned with the list a moment later.

He was imploring her in weak whispers to uncurl from the flower of her anger.

I went back to the kitchen and waited quietly over soda water. The pace of the restaurant was more marathon than sprint. Only a handful of tables and no one ever seemed to be in a rush.

My mind wandered back to her. Her in her oxblood dress wrapped around perfectly shaped breasts. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and my mind wandered down around her tummy and navel and then her hips as they sat on the chair. I wondered if she was wearing underwear. She smelled like the flowers you’d see at a beach or on a highway.

A hot splash snapped me back to the kitchen. I looked up to see all the crew staring at me. I looked down to see the contents of a carbonara striping my uniform.

“Oh shit! we’re sorry!” Terezio yelled out.

“What the fuck guys?”

“Did you see the plate?” asked Terezio, it went “wooooo…” he drew an arc that had it sailing through the air and barely missing me.

“We got extras,” said Ernesto, the line chef. “Change in the bathroom.”

By the time I hung the spare pants and pressed shirt on the hook and pulled off my pants down to bra and panties, there was a knock at the door.

Then someone jiggled the doorknob.

I didn’t panic. The bathrooms were unisex, and it was common for someone to try one knob, see it was locked, and go to the next. Discreetly hidden under the lip of both sinks were the necessary feminine products. Berto also had me fill them.

I did panic when the door opened.

It was her.

In Şanlıurfa Escort Bayan her hand, she held a small hairpin.

She fell back against the door. She had the same disdainful look in her eyes as she studied my body.

“Can I smoke in here?”

I motioned to the fan.

It wheezed on as she pulled out a tin of brown cigarettes and lit one.

“Did you spill something on your clothes.”

“Yes, there was another bathroom.”

“I wanted to talk with you. I cannot talk with girls so much.”

“I have to work.”

“Well, you are talking with customers, and you are changing clothes, and you are doing it at the same time. So you are working very hard right now.”

“Yes, I guess so.”

I bent to get my pants.

“Wait.” I felt her touch my shoulder. Her breath crossed my back. I smelled the smokiness of her breath. Honey. Tobacco. Cardamon.

I felt heat under my skin.

“You are so beautiful,” she whispered.

Her finger flipped off the strap of my bra. She kissed my collar bone with wet lips.

My head swam. Her hair filled my senses. I pulled the bone pin from its hold in the back and her hair tumbled into my hands.

“Beautiful,” I whispered back.

Our mouths pressed against each other. Her strong tongue found mine and coiled and twisted in my mouth. I tasted the delicious tangy flavor of her cigarette.

“Please,” she begged, “Hurry, we do not have much time.” She undid her dress and flung across where mine hung.

I pulled off my bra.

She reached under my panties to pull me close to her.

My hands swept across her body, hard and muscular and sensual. I felt the ripples of her ribs, the tense arch of her back, I stroked and caressed her shoulders.

Her lips went from my neck to my breasts.

She kissed me hungrily, opening her mouth wide and taking me mouthfuls.

She grabbed the cheeks of my ass in her hands and pulled me against her. Her tongue twirled and sucked on my nipples.

I dove face into her hair. Wrapping my arms around her head as she kissed and nuzzled into me.

Her hands came around my hips to find my vulva. She cupped it in her hands and stroked it lavishly. I weakened, almost hanging Escort Şanlıurfa from her as my legs opened and welcomed her touch.

We tumbled together on the floor. She let out a reckless laugh and then arched her body to dive between my legs. Her hair tickled my thighs as her tongue wetly swept my pubic hair and lips.

I signaled to her with a groan. Her feet were dainty and perfectly manicured. I kissed the tops of them as they pointed and curled, cradling her hard calves in my hands. Her soft, glowing skin legs smelled of rose, saffron, and turmeric.

Her tongue split apart my lips ever so slightly. It swirled and tickled and tasted. It swept and flicked and teased.

My head swam on its journey up to her, crossing sweet smelling knees and tremoring thighs. I was groaning again, holding on, wanting to return what she was so generously giving me but tempted to let go and fall into the warm, comfortable pool of ecstasy.

My fingers found her.

She cried out hoarsely.

I opened her wetness and licked her bean with my tongue. Another cry from her flung from deep inside.

I hadn’t the time to massage or relax her. My mouth burrowed and painted her. Her perfumed muff of hair mixed perfectly with the tangy juice of her womanhood.

She rolled on her back and grabbed her breasts with both hands. Her face wrung with anticipation.

Her body tensed and strained into a curl.

“Oh!” She cried a warm splashed reached across my face.

“Oh!” she said again as curled into a fetal position, her body wracked with an orgasm. Something came out of her mouth, a strangled, joyous relief of a phrase of some Middle Eastern language. She had scraped her knee from the effort.

The light flashed off and on.

Big Berto.

They flash the lights to see if the occupant is conscience and is reminded to leave.

“Oh no!” she said.

We scrambled up, quickly putting on our clothes. Panties. Bra. Dress.

She helped me into my pants.

I tied the back of her dress.

She had her shoes on.

I had my shirt.

I grabbed a feminine napkin from under the sink.

Terezio opened the door, making sure to jingle the key very loudly.

He took one look at the feminine napkin and abruptly shut the door once again.

“Berto has table five ready,” he called softly through the door.

“Have the Cannonau,” I said to her.

A moment later, I was back at her table. She was more relaxed. Her skin was glowing. She was smiling and he was basking in her radiance.

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