Chapter 2: Tease and Denial
The bathwater was scalding, just how she liked it. Lia sank into the bubbles, the citrus-and-salt scent of her bath oil rising in the steam. She could still feel the ghost of his stare on her skin, a tactile imprint. She replayed the moment of his shuddering inhale, the way his shoulders had tightened when she pushed him back with her foot. A warm, private thrill unfolded in her stomach, unrelated to the heat of the water.
She took her time. Washed her hair, conditioned it, shaved her legs with deliberate, slow strokes. The bathroom filled with a humid fog, blurring the clean lines of the tiles and the glass shower. Outside the door, the apartment was silent. A beautiful, strained silence. She wondered if he was still on the rug, or if he’d moved to the couch. If he’d touched himself, thinking of her. The thought was amusing, but unlikely. He was too scared of breaking the rules.
When the water cooled, she rose, dripping, and wrapped herself in a thick, gray towel. She stood before the mirror, wiping a clear streak through the condensation. Her cheeks were flushed pink, her green eyes bright. She looked… pleased.
She didn’t rush. She blow-dried her hair until it fell in a smooth, blonde cascade. She moisturized her skin, paying extra attention to her feet, massaging the cream into her arches and between each toe. The plum polish was unchipped, perfect. Finally, she slipped into her robe. It was silk, the color of dove feathers, and it whispered against her skin as she tied the belt snug around her waist.
She opened the bathroom door. A wave of cooler, dryer air hit her, carrying with it the faint, sterile scent of the apartment and something else—a nervous energy, like ozone before a storm.
Tom was on the couch. He’d moved, then. He sat stiffly, his hands clasped in his lap, staring at the dark television screen. The Thai food containers were on the coffee table, neatly arranged, unopened. Her black Pradas were still side-by-side on the rug, exactly where he’d left them.
“You didn’t start,” she said, padding barefoot across the concrete floor. The coolness felt good under her soles.
“Waiting for you,” he said. His voice was hoarse.
She chose the armchair opposite him, tucking one leg beneath her. She let the other leg stretch out, her foot resting on the edge of the coffee table, right beside the food. The robe’s skirt fell away, revealing her leg from the calf down. The city lights had begun to wink on outside, casting a blue-tinted glow that made her skin look luminous.
She picked up a container, peeled back the lid. The smell of basil and chili filled the air. “Pad kee mao for you, right?” she asked, as if this were any ordinary night.
“Yeah.”
She took a bite, watching him over the carton. He hadn’t moved to get his food. His gaze was locked, not on her face, but on her foot. On the way her heel pressed against the glass tabletop, on the subtle curl of her toes.
She ate slowly, savoring the heat of the noodles. She wiggled her toes, a lazy, absent-minded flex. His eyes tracked the movement with a focus that was almost scientific.
“Your food’s getting cold,” she murmured.
He didn’t hear her. Or he did, and it didn’t matter.
She put her carton down, wiped her mouth with a napkin. She shifted in the chair, drawing her knees up to her chest. The robe gapped, offering a fleeting glimpse of her thigh before she rearranged the fabric. She rested her chin on her knees, her feet now planted on the edge of the chair cushion, soles facing him.
They were bare, vulnerable, and utterly on display. The high arches, the smooth pads, the neat row of plum-tipped toes.
“Tom.”
He flinched, his eyes darting up to hers for a second before falling again, helpless.
“Look at me.”
He forced his gaze up. The struggle was plain on his face. His pupils were wide, dark pools in the dim light. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
“You’re staring,” she said, a gentle, chiding tone. “It’s rude.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” She uncrossed her legs and slowly extended her right foot towards him, stopping just short of his knees. “What are you thinking about right now?”
He swallowed. “Nothing.”
“Liar.” She rotated her ankle, a slow, circular motion. “You’re thinking about my feet. You’re thinking about how close they are. You’re thinking about what they smell like after my bath. You’re thinking about how soft the soles must feel.”
Each sentence was a soft, precise hammer blow. His breathing grew audibly ragged.
“You want to kiss them, don’t you?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The answer was in the tense line of his shoulders, in the white-knuckled grip of his own hands.
“Go on,” she whispered, her voice a venomous kindness. “You can say it.”
A long, tortured pause. Then, a broken whisper. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes… I want to kiss them.”
She smiled then, a radiant, terrible smile. She pulled her foot back, tucking it safely beneath her again. “I know.”
The rejection was a physical thing. He actually swayed slightly, as if she’d pushed him.
“But you can’t,” she continued, picking up her food again. She took another bite, speaking around it. “That’s not your privilege anymore. Your privilege is to want. To look. To suffer how much you want it.” She pointed her fork at him. “Eat your noodles, Tom. You’ll need your strength.”
He moved like an automaton. He retrieved his food, opened it, lifted a forkful. But he ate without tasting, his eyes constantly pulled back to her feet, now hidden, now teasingly shifting under the gray silk.
Lia finished her meal, contentment a warm glow in her chest. This was better than any painting, any sculpture. This was live art. A performance with a captive, desperate audience of one.
She stood up, collecting the containers. “I’m going to bed early. I have a studio day tomorrow.” She walked to the kitchen, disposed of the trash. When she returned, he was still on the couch, a statue of unmet need.
She walked past him towards her bedroom. At the door, she paused, one hand on the frame in a perfect echo of her earlier exit from the bathroom.
“Oh,” she said, as if remembering something unimportant. “The shoes. Put them back in my closet. On the top shelf. And don’t just place them. I want you to polish them first. Every scuff, every speck of dust. Use the kit in the hall closet. I’ll know if you rush.”
She didn’t wait for acknowledgment. She entered her bedroom and closed the door, leaving him in the twilight of the living room with his hunger and her impossible, gleaming task.