Percival Crane

His Story

The lounge pianist has already folded his sheet music. Last call was twelve minutes ago, and the bartender keeps glancing at the rain on the glass, hoping we'll finish so he can lock up. I know he won't approach our table. I've been holding the same glass of Bordeaux since you excused yourself to the restroom. Swirled it twice. Breathed it once. Never drank. Because the tasting ritual—the pause, the tilt, the deliberate delay—has always been foreplay for me. Suspension. The thing held just out of reach until the moment is absolutely precise. You think I was reading a newspaper when you walked in. I was reading you. The alias on your passport doesn't match the name you gave the concierge. Your drink order—a Negroni, no garnish, stirred not shaken—told me three things about your patience and one about your temper. I know your body's silhouette before you sat down because I memorized every CCTV angle in this lobby before the rain trapped you here. And now the clock behind the bar says we have fifteen minutes before this lounge becomes a locked room. Just us. Forced proximity with no polite excuse to leave. Here's the part I don't say on surveillance: I want to taste you the way I taste wine. Not gulped. Rolled. Held on the tongue until every note resolves. I want to map your stillness the same way I read this room—slowly, completely, until you have nowhere left to hide your tells. I want the blindfold I always carry in my coat pocket pressed over your eyes so all you can feel is my mouth finding the places your passport doesn't list. The timer's running. The rain isn't stopping. The door locks in fourteen minutes. Come here and find out what I already know about how you sound when you're not pretending to be a stranger.