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Rendezvous - Short Story by David King

When I woke up, she was looking at me.

“Let’s do it again,” she said.

And we did.


When I woke up, she was looking at me.

The blades of the fan above us turned slowly in the humid air.

“I want you,” she said, soft and husky.

And I rolled toward her.


When I woke up, she was looking at me, eyes melting in the hot orange light.

“Let’s do it again,” she said.

And we did.


I tried to remember how we got here, to this room with its slow turning fan, deep shadows, and hot orange light.


A road. Night. Lines flashing by in the headlights. Was she with me then? No. The car around me had been empty.

Lines flashing by, one after another. Hypnotic, mesmeric


And earlier—but still night—my fingers tapping a computer keyboard.

Looking up through the window in front of my desk to the apartment opposite.

A handsome young man, a beautiful young woman, seen through their lit-up kitchen window. Her legs around his slow thrusting flanks, her fingernails digging into his back. Rivulets of blood.


Why couldn’t they close the blinds? Why did they have to flaunt it in my face?


Lines streaking toward me in the headlights, one after another. Sudden, large raindrops spattering the windshield. The wipers flicking back and forth...


The young man thrusting harder. faster. The young woman’s face rolling in ecstasy.

Why couldn’t they close the blinds? Do it in the bedroom? Why flaunt it in my face when all I wanted was to be her guy and fuck her like that?


Thunder. Lightning. Raindrops splattering the windshield. The wipers scraping. Lines looming out of darkness and disappearing under the bonnet.


The kitchen window, lit up like a department store at Christmas. Or a vertical cinema screen, full of empty promise.

My fingers hovering over the keyboard. The cursor blinking on a blank screen. A thousand ideas, falling half-seen like raindrops out of the sky.

She came to the kitchen sink then, in front of the window, and poured herself a glass of water. Looked up as she drank, and we stared at each other across the darkness.

A sudden sound—the scrape of a shoe on wood—caused me to look around. An envelope had been pushed under the door.

When I looked back to the kitchen window, she was gone.


Raindrops splattering the windshield. The wipers flicking back and forth. Lines appearing and disappearing in a cone of silence. Was it real? Was it a dream?


I ripped open the envelope, pulled out a sheet of notepaper. Her handwriting glowed rich India Blue. A date, time, address. The scent of promise.


The young man’s flanks grinding. Her eyes closed, lips parted, fingernails clawing his back, and blood trickling from the wounds.

Did I dare? Was I good enough?


Too late to back out now. The woman was staring at me from behind the rain-spattered window of a roadside cafe. And I was staring at her from behind the dirt and rain-streaked windshield of my car. Darkness all around, my computer keyboard and her kitchen window a hundred and eighty kilometres behind.


Rendezvous. The tang of illicit passion.


She got up and left the table and when she reached the passenger side of my car, I imagined her high-heeled shoe leaving the glistening tarmac. She was Lauren Bacall, I was Humphrey Bogart. She was Sharon Stone, I was Mickey Rourke. She was Brigitte Bardot and I was Jean Paul Belmondo. I would have lit a Gaulois and exhaled a stream of cool blue smoke except I didn’t smoke and never had, and that didn’t feel right in this noirish setting.



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