Read Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play for Free Online Page A

examining his
bone structure and that makes walking away even harder: a sharp and
well-defined jawline, a Romanesque nose and an upper lip that forms into that
perfect pouting ‘v.’
    Be still my beating heart …
    Classic sculptures of the male form come to mind,
Michelangelo’s David or Prometheus; he could give them a run for their money.
If she were alive, my mother would tell me to be careful what I wish for, but
he is what I wish for and I thank my lucky stars that he’s here,
impatient and waiting for me.
    I exit the building, taking in the fresh evening air,
preparing myself for my grand entrance; I re-enter via the foyer, pausing to
look around. I catch his eye and he removes his hand from his pocket and
fastens his jacket. He’s all smiles and fuck-me eyes and my heart starts to
beat through my clothes. I’ve simply got to calm down.
    Dodging the other theatre goers we move towards each
other; I feel like a moth being drawn to an irresistible flame that will
incinerate me with its smouldering beauty, but I refuse to give-in to the
temptation to skip or run, I refuse. This is it.
    He reaches for me with both hands and takes hold of my
shoulders so I can’t look away. Just as I knew they would, his eyes burn into
me, he’s assessing me like I’m some kind of precious object or oil painting.
His gaze rests on my face and I can’t shake free: it’s like a gravitational pull
and, as hard as I try, those dazzling flecks of blue and green hold me captive.
    With a thankful sigh, he declares, "Miss. Parker
you look stunning." Before resting his mouth a millimetre from mine, he
says softly, "I knew you would."
    Another great line, he’s really good at this.
    I find my voice. "You look pretty good yourself
Mr. Stone. Thank you for the invitation and the compliment."
    He offers me his arm. "Would you like a drink
before the play starts?" He places his hand over mine as if we’re an old
married couple. It feels warm, firm, protective.
    "That would be nice." I’m becoming more
self-assured with every step. He seems to think we look good together, and who
am I to question his judgment. I lick my lips, anticipating the drink, my mouth
is so dry and I can feel the moisture leaving the corners and a sticky residue
forming.
    "What would you like to drink, Miss Parker?"
His words have such a rich cadence that I can hear them ringing in my ears
after he’s spoken. I’d forgotten the refined way he articulates his words, like
they’ve been cultivated over time: the English language is in safe hands.
    "Dry white wine please, and it’s Beth."
    "Very well, it’s dry white wine and it’s Beth
from now on," he declares, brushing my left arm with the knuckles of his
right hand. His touch causes the hairs to stand up on the back of my neck and
my back to straighten.
    Is he doing it on purpose?
    He hands me the wine, turns to face me and offers a
toast. "To new beginnings ..." Strangely, as if on cue, we present
matching smiles.
    "To new beginnings ..." But I so want to
say, ‘Look I know I was rude the other day ... but before I can get the words
out ...
    "… You’ve managed to get here in one piece
without your glasses, I see." He seems to be finding something rather
amusing.
    “Yes, who knew... just don’t ask me to read you
anything off the wine list."
    What a stupid thing to say, why would he ask me to do
that …
    "I’ll try to remember." He winks at me, so I
sip my wine and try to avoid those probing orbs of iridescent light.
    I remember the flowers. "By the way, thank you
for the lovely bouquet and the Samuel Taylor Coleridge poem; that was a
surprising addition. It gave me something to think about." I’m feeling a
little braver and turn to engage him. "But I suppose that’s why you
included it?"
    He refuses to be baited. "I’m glad you liked the
flowers and enjoyed the poem, it’s a favourite of mine and, before you ask, no
it’s not one I save for occasions like that. It was a one off, just for
you."
    I