Less than an hour now…

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Will he be on time? He says is usually is; but who knows if he doesn’t lie and cheat about this? After all, we’ve never met and I can only go on trust from his emails, messages and pictures. But cheating is so easy: I do it myself all the time, pretending to be doing something sexy just to turn him on when actually I’m sat watching a boring television programme, a beauty mask over my face. But would he dare to cheat Me…?

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It’s the middle of the afternoon and the bar is almost empty. Tourists pass by outside, no doubt eager to take in the sights, or see the nearby zoo. Business men and women will all be working by now, having had their early breakfasts and moved on. Actually, I like it like this. Quiet, peaceful and elegant. I guess I chose well when I decided to make this trip yesterday.

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Will he recognise me? Maybe using his 6th sense he could feel I’m watching him or, at least, that someone is…

I’ve wondered so many times about how people feel when they do this; their anxiety, their emotions. A secret meeting with a lover in a hotel, hiding from their husbands or wives, from their co-workers, from their work commitments. It’s almost a parallel moment in their life, filled with adrenaline and excitement. I wonder what a person feels when travelling to the meeting place. Does their heart beat faster? Will they be rushing to get there? Will they want to hurry to escape their normal lives for as long as possible?

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Cary Grant could perfectly come in here right now. Wearing a classy suit, light grey with an elegant black tie, not too large. Walking in and looking around, feeling his heart beating faster, trying to hide his passion wondering if she is already here. He will walk slowly with that so sexy way of walking he had on his movies, male, confident and yet vulnerable, somehow anxious or a bit scared as no one can ever know he is here and most of all looking for her. As he walks to the bar and she will be sitting where I am now. She will be smiling and looking at him, knowing her power over him and remembering the little paper she gave him three days ago where she only wrote: ‘Thursday, 3:30pm, bar of Das Stue Hotel’.

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3:11pm…

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Mmmm… Katharine Hepburn is definitely luckier than me as her Cary Grant is here and mine is not, and yet my message was just as good. Men are just not what they used to be in the 40’s. They have lost the art of chivalry, of living in an elegant and gallant way that makes a women feel desired and loved. Gary Grant would have been here early. He would have made sure he did not miss her, or even worse make her wait for him. Sighing, I should accept the 21st Century is a different world, perhaps even a different dimension. I sit with my glass of Bordeaux and, as I’m getting bored, start to play with my heel.

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Maybe I’m not the kind of woman for an illicit affair. I don’t feel my heart beating or those butterflies in my stomach, just impatience and weariness to be waiting. I do admit it was fun to send him a message yesterday morning to make him clear his schedule and be here today at 3:30. But now I’m here I’m wondering if I shouldn’t be, like all other tourists in Berlin walking around, visiting the zoo and the Charlottenburg gardens instead of been here waiting and wondering.

 

Was it a good idea to suddenly book a flight to come here to see this man for the first time? Will I be disappointed when I will realise he may been cheating with my games and he will not be here as I requested?

 

My mind wanders again. I could always flirt with the handsome bartender if he doesn’t show up. Speaking of which, I should probably call him to fill my empty glass… what else can I do anyway…

 

3:26pm and still not a sign of him but the cute bartender is on his way. The power at the tip of my finger! One little sign raising my finger to catch his attention and a second one showing my glass to make him bring the bottle and come to serve me a new glass. Everything should be as easy as this. Instead we end having to plan everything and then worst, wait.

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The bartender approaches, carrying the bottle on his left hand. He has a long silhouette, an average but yet slim body. He is perhaps 35 years old, no older, and clearly has a liking for my legs. What a shy boy for looking but pretending he is not! I’m not sure it is required to stare at a customer’s legs as you pour a glass of wine. Maybe I should embarrass him asking if he likes my legs. Or maybe just look at him with a kinky smile while saying “danke” with my terrible German. I could add something more erotic to my “danke-smile” by lifting the glass up once poured and say something, hoping he will become clumsy. But perhaps it’s best to remain the distant, aloof, unattainable woman; making him dream to be invited to join me, like all these boys do.

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As the cute bartender was staring my legs (we can call that filling my glass of wine if you wish) I hear the front door of the Hotel opening and then someone walking on in. 3:36pm… if it’s him he is late. Cary Grant wouldn’t dare to be late I’m sure of that.

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The sound of the steps get closer, it’s a man indeed. Heavy steps, perhaps someone tired or fat.

As the bartender returns to his bar this man comes in. Dark grey suit and grey hair too. Walking slowly, a bit insecure and looking for something. He has the look of someone who is late.

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The man sits at the bar, looking discreetly around the place, clearly wondering something. Does he feel his heart beating faster? Butterflies in his stomach? The couple sitting across from me are still speaking in hushed voices as though reluctant to trouble the quiet atmosphere of the hotel bar. The other man in his late 40’s is still typing on his black laptop drinking some tea. A British businessman perhaps – even though it is not yet tea time. The man at the bar sees them all, and he sees me too. I’m pretending to do something or other on my smartphone and shiftlessly sitting on this yellow ochre couch. The man seems a bit lost and yet there is a kind of confident halo coming from him when he speaks with the bartender to order something.

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Looking at him I start to wonder about his current thoughts. His solid hands grab the glass of scotch the bartender has just served him. His hands are well used to having power: they a bit rugged and yet distinguished. He swirls the ice cubes in his glass of scotch, sips a drink, and smiles towards me. If only he knew…

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He takes his phone out of this trouser pocket and his assurance almost visibly vanishes. I can see his fingers manipulate the screen in such a sharp way: like he wants to repel something he know he must do. His other hand is grabbing his glass so tight now, he suddenly seems hesitating and vulnerable. If only he knew…

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Putting away my phone I turn my head slightly to the right, looking through the window to make my hair fall gently onto my chest. I look back at him as I pick up my refreshed glass of wine. The bartender is cleaning something close to the man, who now looks increasingly nervous. He glances at his wrist and I enjoy seeing his nervousness and doubt increasing. He knows. He is so late. 3:49pm already. After a new sip of scotch he turns again to his phone. Determined but also scared, he anxiously watches the people in the room. He seems very worried about the bartender.

 

Cary Grant would never be like this: nervously drinking a scotch on the rocks while Katharine Hepburn smiles watching him from the couch. He wouldn’t be there siting at the bar, he would be here, standing in front of her with a charming and devastating smile; speaking about whatever and nothing to catch her attention, demonstrating his desire for her. A glass of scotch in one hand and the other in his trousers’ pockets giving him a certain casualness aura, flirting with an appealing perfume of forbidden danger we can’t resist. Yes, Cary Grant would definitely not be sitting there with his phone doing a selfie with a foolish teenager face wile “no one” was looking at him.

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A few seconds later I slide my finger on the notification of an incoming message and saw that silly selfie. If only he knew…