Wanton

At the pub, his behavior was not sordid, his actions unquestionable. She was in the mood for some distinct mischief, so she led him on. Hoping that down the line, he would misbehave. Fudge the lines just about enough for both of them to cross it, into each other's territory. But it was to be a timed activity, strictly. She should seduce him till say 1 o'clock and if that works, she could spend most morning in bed considering it would be Saturday. She was sure in for some hard partying, life abandoned in the week had to be lived all at once on a Friday night out. A surfeit of fun was to be had. 

She stared into his eyes in one quick glance, to try and read something, anything. Were her tricks working. Her mild brushes against his elbows. Fingertips touching across the table. Downcast glances and stolen glares. Stories locked in eyeballs, told in seconds, intentions half-revealed. She couldn't take an educated guess. Even from past experiences, he was mysterious. He probably wasn't up for it anyway. Soon she would have to move on.

She was pretty tipsy. Her eyes must have let go of her secret. His face appeared unusually sharp in the colored streaks of lights on the dance floor. His eyes were softly piercing. She was so attracted, she was fumbling. There was this overall niceness about him though. It felt rare in a way, though she understood she hadn't known him more than a few days, it felt as if he wouldn't hurt no one. But the question of hurt never arose in her flings, they were detachable at the snap of her fingers. She danced some and then back at the table, made sure she didn't tumble her glass of red wine or his of whisky, on-the-rocks. 

Light seemed to diminish rapidly, the girl friend she had come with had left long ago after leaving her a text that she was on her own. But she had been on her own for a long long time now. The battery of her phone was at 3%. Soon, she would be all marooned amidst the crowd. She should judiciously use the remnant charge to book herself a fucking Uber. And just go home and forget she even tried. The maroon top she was wearing felt loose. Her skirt felt short. She felt unbearably naked. Clearly, she had misplaced her jacket somewhere. She walked from table to table to look for it, it was already half past 2. From the tables she visited, she looked back and caught him looking at her, intently. Ah, red handed. 

Was it too late? Too many chances taken and lost. Would they make it till the morning? Or a little beyond that, breakfast of poached eggs or an awkward brunch, perhaps. She swayed back to their table to find him intoxicated and in-waiting. They could let a little bit of wanton into their night, perhaps.