Dark Jeans, Dark Eyes Ch. 01

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Married mom with issues gets hot Latin lover.
1.3k words
3.78
23.6k
11

Part 1 of the 8 part series

Updated 10/16/2022
Created 06/03/2013
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The first time we got together, I almost stopped it from happening. Or, actually, I thought that I should probably stop it, but the heat was far greater than I was, a tangible thing that wrapped around my whole being and consumed me. I wanted that burning, that smoldering, that desire. I wanted him.

We met at the federal building. Homeland Security, to be exact.

I was still wrestling with my redress number, having ended up on a TSA list when some shitbag of a suspected terrorist used my identity – and now I could no longer fly commercial without a hassle. It was amazing what I had to do and where I had to go to get this taken care of – I mean, c'mon, Social Security? But whatever. I was pushing the paperwork through, by myself, no attorney, no letter to my congressperson. Almost without fail, they'd see the grumpy white chick with the tattered birth certificate and every single current – and expired – passport and drivers license (I even brought all my W-2's for the last twenty years, plus a couple of shitty letters from the IRS), they'd sigh, and acknowledge that I was the victim of a fraud. Then push the super slow-moving paperwork through to the next government department to sign off.

We were sitting together in the waiting area, deep within the bowels of government cubicle hell. I noticed him, gave him a grimace.

Attractive man. I mean, attractive in all the ways he was unusual. More than likely Latino, and I felt like I had seen him or someone who looked exactly like him in some throwaway movies and TV shows in the 1980s, maybe even early 1990s. He had sharp, angular features, dark eyes, the most sensuous mouth I could remember seeing for awhile – which made me immediately uncomfortable, almost embarrassed, so I dropped my eyes, let them drift down his thin, wiry body. He wore black – black jeans, black shirt, black leather overcoat (today? It was flipping hot out there), black cowboy boots that looked like they were made from something exotic, maybe snake or lizard.

He was sitting, sort of slouched down into his chair, his ankle on his opposite knee, his face leaning into his fist as it was propped on the arm of his chair. The picture of ease, or at least don't-fuck-with-me. I wanted to touch those lips, stroke and kiss that jaw, taste his tongue – and wrap my legs around his waist.

Slap. Mentally, I slapped myself. Hard. This is not something I do. I'm a forty-ish wife and mom, recently laid off from my job, dealing with my kid's school (he's hyper-active, and probably dyslexic, and now he seems to be allergic to everything at the ripe old age of five), my husband's illness (liver problems, which also sent him into rehab) and a pile of financial issues. Did I mention that we were robbed in January? Yeah, life is sometimes like this.

The least of my problems is my happy position on the no-fly list, but that's what I'm dealing with today, because I'm sick of it. I need to be able to spend a lot of money to be abused by the airlines to go some place I can't afford and feel better for two seconds before the credit card bills come in. Okay?

Now I'm fantasizing about fucking a complete stranger, all the things I'd like to do with him. Geez. It has been a tough couple of months. It's no wonder I'm grouchy. I pull out my mental calendar and calculate where I am between periods, wondering if this is more hormonal than anything. PMS and Homeland Security sound like a terrible combination.

I look away, flip idly through my file again. Must think about practical things, worry about making payment to prior job's health insurer to keep our coverage, next tactic with school district, accommodating spouse's schedule of multiple twelve-step meetings a day. Practical things, nagging things, un-fun things.

When I look up at him again, he's still watching me. I mentally decide he needs a black cowboy hat. His long black hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and my face is suddenly getting hot.

Oh, whatever. I'm a dumpy old lady now, or at least I feel like one. I can engage him in conversation without it being too forward.

"So. What did the terrorists do to you?" I ask.

"I'm sorry?" he responds, his voice deeper than I would have thought.

"I ended up on a no-fly list. What are you in for?"

"Oh," he coughed. "I'm – a permanent resident now, finishing up some things toward – citizenship."

"Congratulations. I think," I say, letting sarcastic mom and disgruntled citizen color my words. "Where were you born?"

"Dominican Republic," he replies, slowly, as if he doesn't really want to reveal this much to a stranger.

"You're lucky. That's a lot more cool and exciting than Fresno. Where I was born."

He's looking at me as if I'm a nut. At that moment, he gets called in, and I wish him luck. He nods to me, studying me for a long moment.

My business went a lot easier than I expected. I'm not entirely sure why. I got the sign-off, a person to call if I had any more hassles. I was contemplating what I would do next, thinking I might give myself a little break and go out to Venice or Santa Monica for an hour or so, then work my way home. I needed the space in my head and my life, and my spouse could just deal.

He was standing by the elevators. I gave him a tired smile, but I felt more at ease with things.

"Do you want to get some coffee with me?" he asked.

"Definitely," I replied, without even thinking about it.

He gave me an address where we could meet, though I mostly followed him there. It was a pretty little place, kind of a hole-in-the-wall, with brightly colored walls covered with mirrors and decorated with skeletons in various costumes. I loved it immediately.

His name is Juan. He introduced himself to me, and led me back to their patio, which was beautiful and green with tons of plants and sheltered from the harsh sun. There were small fountains and the soothing sound of water.

Apparently, he was a regular, conversing easily with the waitress in Spanish and getting us two coffees, which tasted of cinnamon and vanilla. It was arguably too warm for coffee, but we were in a shaded, cool place, and I wrapped my fingers around my warm cup and inhaled the spices gratefully.

It was far too easy to talk with him. We exchanged details about our lives, and I fearlessly told him I was married to a sick man, unemployed, and had a child with some health and learning issues. I didn't whine, and I didn't act like the battered heroine; I just told it like it is, with a grin and a shrug. This is my life. Not exactly what I signed up for.

He, on the other hand, was fascinating. He had a parent who was a diplomat, and he had lived a lot of places in the world. He had been a model when he was much younger, and I was right, he was an actor, and I had recognized him. He had even been a model and muse for a surrealist painter of some renown.

Where we found common ground was in a love of design and art, the aesthetic beauty to be found in the physical world. I also talked about my studio, where the husband and I created, the outsider artists I knew, the museums I loved.

Juan was telling me about his house, the bungalow he owned and thrived in. I didn't say in so many words that I wanted to see it, but he must have sensed my enthusiasm.

Five days later, I visited him at his house.

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4 Comments
AnonymousAnonymousalmost 11 years ago
SUPERB

Wonderful series. Hope you keep writing !

AnonymousAnonymousalmost 11 years ago

Well im dominican and i didnt expect a long haired cowboy character...

IlizaDanilIlizaDanilalmost 11 years agoAuthor
Thank you...

I posted this so many days ago I was pretty sure it was never going to go live on the site. Chapters two and three were posted at the same time, so I'm impatient for the *really good parts* to get out there.

AnonymousAnonymousalmost 11 years ago
*****

Well-written opening chapter. Truth kind of writes itself, but not always this well.

Five.

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