In The Trap (Jenny)

Her eyes look strange in the mirror. Wild. Bigger than usual.

Her hair seems disarrayed. The few wisps escaping the French twist take on special significance, the fly-aways pointing in all directions like her racing thoughts, like the panic fluttering in her chest.

She runs the water over her hands, smooths the flyaways, poke ineffectively at the thicker wisps. Now they are wet, still sticking out, still drawing attention, but darker, more solid, more serious.

Those eyes are still wide. She closes them, tries to breathe deeply.

She has to think.

Still on her lip, the memory of hardness in moisture, the first innocent bump which began her descent into Hell.

She presses her lips with her fingertips, trying to obliterate the sensation, trying to return to the time before it happened.

Someone enters the restroom, and she quickly turns off the tap and dries her hands.

The other woman doesn't look at her as she finds a cubicle, and Jean is alone again with the wild-eyed woman in the mirror.

The background is dark – this is a fashionable hotel, and fashionable bathrooms have dark walls. The bright panel of lights surrounding the mirror throws her pale face into stark contrast. She has to do something.

Inspiration strikes, and she scrabbles in her bag for her compact. Blush is what she needs, blush and lipstick. Then she will look less ghostlike, less like she has seen a ghost, more like the woman who came in here when they arrived, all atingle with expectation.

A hotel, finally. After an almost endless series of dates involving coffee, kisses, and frustration. Tonight would be the night – or so she had thought.

David was a great guy in so many ways, she thought as she powdered her nose.

Then she remembered.

Nausea rose, making her pause and lean on the counter, breathing deeply.

What am I going to do?

She had overlooked so many clues. They were there, but she didn't want to see them.

He wasn't really comfortable in social situations. He didn't want to meet her friends. He was intense, very intense. Let's face it, she thought grimly, on some topics, he was flat-out fanatical.

But so good-looking, and so sweet and considerate. She had never dated a man who would hold doors for her, carry her groceries, and fix things around her apartment. And all without expecting the obvious in return.

Not that she would have minded, after the second date. In fact, she had been concerned at one point, that he might be gay. Until he kissed her.

Three months of flirting and uncertainty until he kissed her.

But then, like a dam breaking, he poured out his love for her, his devotion, and she expected ... well, to kiss her and say all that, and then to just leave. Suddenly. Awkwardly.

She had written it off as shyness, or possibly inexperience. She knew he hadn't had a serious relationship since his high school sweetheart dumped him.

All signs, damn it, all hints she could have recognised, had she not been do damn blind.

The nausea was subsiding, and she stiffened her spine and started powdering again, keeping her attention firmly focused on her makeup while the other woman flushed, emerged and watched her hands.

Jean had to resort to reapplying eyeshadow and mascara to stretch it out until the other woman left.

Then she was alone with her question. What am I going to do?

Stupidly, she had fallen for the guy. The thought of being without him, of never pressing against his naked chest, of never seeing his naked body, the thought of going on alone, caused a searing pain under her ribs.

But the price was clear.

After that bump against her lip, she knew she could never look forward to a delightful gradual expansion of their relationship into nakedness, sensuality, and sexual passion.

That was not on offer.

She had pretended not to notice the bump, excused herself, almost running to the bathroom, because she had to get some space. She had to think.

It was Valentine's Day, and instead of a seduction, David had something else in mind.

How could he do this to me?

She had already been in here far too long. But she couldn't go back out there. She couldn't face him. She couldn't look into that gorgeous face, into those loving, hopeful eyes, and let him know that she had found the ring in her champagne. That she had found the ring, and felt immediately betrayed, manipulated, and trapped.

We haven't ever made love, she told herself for the hundredth time. How could he possibly ask this of me? How could I possibly know what to answer?

She had run out of makeup to reapply. The minutes were still ticking.

Outside in the restaurant he sat at their table, with the candles and flowers, watching the bubbles form and rise in her slowly warming class of champagne.

Waiting.