I’ve been staring at the door for over twenty minutes, desperate for it to open.
I’m willing it to move, but it remains motionless.
She’s running late. She must’ve been held up. Probably giving a bit of extra attention to someone else. That would be typical of the woman. She’s rarely on time and always makes a short but genuine apology when she arrives.
The door opens. I hear a click of heels that announce her arrival.
I love the sound. Crisp, classy and confident. It’s a pretty good summary of the woman.
My eyes are focused on the floor by the door. Which shoes will she be wearing? The stiletto court ones with the red soles? The leather ankle boots with tassels on the side zip and a scuff mark on the back of the heel?
I’ve built up a pretty good idea of her shoe collection over the weeks and have my favourites. Her footwear is invariably sexy and today’s are probably the hottest of the lot, sky-high sling-backs.
My eyes move up her legs as she makes her way slowly towards me.
She looks so good in heels. They pull her calves tight. They make her long, slender legs look incredible. They push her hips in and her enchanting arse out.
Sheer black stockings drag my gaze up towards a short, tight fitting skirt, which contrasts with a crisp, white blouse.
Her hair is pulled back as you’d expect in a place like this. Matching strands are left loose and sway in the most sensuous of ways as they brush each of her cheeks. ‘Come on,’ they are saying, ‘look at me’.
Oh, I’m looking all right.
Black eye-liner sweeps beyond the corner of the lid, extending a wink to all who notice. Her long lashes are laced with mascara, setting off her hazel irises brilliantly. She applies it immaculately. There’s never a smudge.
And the colour coordination is perfect. Her lipstick matches her nail polish. I’m no expert, but I think the colour’s called nude.
No colour could be more appropriate for ‘Dr Kitana’ – as she encourages us to call her. Her second name is hard to pronounce. I saw it on her lanyard, memorised and mastered it. It catches her by surprise when I use it. Her face erupts into a glorious smile. A smile with nude lips.
God – what would I give to see the rest of her nude right now?
“I’m sorry to be a bit late. Got held up,” she says without looking at me.
She picks up the board clipped over the rail at the bottom of my bed and runs a long finger down the digits and data that express the entirety of my existence these days. What is she looking at? Oxygen levels? Pulse? Blood pressure?
I’m…
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Jonathan Aldfrith
