He leaned toward Sheila, and she leaned toward him. Their eyes closed as their lips puckered. He could feel the warmth of her skin as they drew closer. Then, the touch. Expecting the willing taste of her lips, he met the smooth, if disappointing, contoured wall of her cheek. He pulled away.
As his once rising passions gave way to the sinking dread of embarrassment, he fought with his injured pride. He knew Sheila. He’d never known her to lead him on. The quiet voice of his reason shouted over the booming din of his anger.
She was staring at something, he realized. Her body was rigid and cold. He followed her gaze. Looking out through the window, he saw that the rain had stopped. It had been one of those dull, drizzling days, and there was a meagre sort of sunset color to the clouded horizon. Then his eyes saw it.
<Is that the contact?> he thought at her.
“I think,” she said. He felt her troubled thoughts trying to break free of his control. He reached out and laid his hand on her wrist. To all the world, it looked like a lover’s gentle touch full of calming reassurance. It seemed to work. Her somewhat rigid figure relaxed as his fingers caressed her hand. No one saw the transparent ooze he was rubbing into her skin. He felt her resilience fall back into slumber.
<Give him the signal,> he prompted her.
“Garçon!” She waved at the waiter. They made eye contact. The boy nodded, and went out. So the kid is in on it too, he thought. How much does he know?
<Look at me,> he commanded.
She obeyed.
<Love me.>
He leaned in again, and she followed. Their lips met, and to all the world, it seemed a quite tender moment.
“I wonder if they’ll let me take you back home with me,” he whispered in her ear.
Tale Told 