Hate the Game

She was a flickering amber light in the shadows, a subtle beauty nearly consumed by the night around her. She listened intently to her suitors, knowing full well I was her audience. We had met before, only once for a mere moment. She had approached the bar waiting for her sister and suggested a wine whose name I can't pronounce. 

"If you want to make it 'til Tuesday, Monday nights are for wine," she whispered in my ear as she tapped her fingers along my shoulder, debating whether or not to tell her story. But her sister walked in and whisked her away and now I had a second chance to decipher my runaway Mona Lisa.

Courage married my adrenaline and I practically galloped to her table, the silver knight off to steal his queen. Mid-laugh, she looked up at me and stood, and I almost fell over in shock, completely out of body and mind. I stammered then quickly pulled myself together, "You recommended a wine for me once, and I can't say that I enjoyed it or remember its name, but I must have you. I mean, yours." 

She placed her glass on the table, abandoned my competition, and whispered once again in my ear, "You were right the first time."

I hate to say it, but as the story goes, we were alone in her apartment before the night was over and I couldn't resist letting her run her fingers through my hair, the fingers I had felt so long ago brush against my shoulder only as a memory. She twisted through my Shirley Temple curls and danced her nails down my cheek. Her hands were warm and welcoming except for one icy finger dressed in white. I immediately pulled away in disgust, how had I not noticed before? She rolled her eyes in reply, buttoned up her shirt, and as she walked out the door she turned around to say, "When you took the wine I gave you, I knew you weren't man enough to play."