Meeting Hannah Ch. 01

(Note: This is a two chapter story with both chapters here. I hope you enjoy this adventure across the thin line of reality and fantasy.)

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I hadn't been to New York City in over twenty years, and in fact, rarely leave my cabin in Maine for any cities. I shop at a local food co-op in our small town, pick up mail a the post office, sometimes get a bowl of soup or a cup of coffee and exchange greetings with friends and neighbors then head home, happy to drive down the long dirt road through the woods and walk the path up to my quiet life.

I had just completed a book of poetry and my brother told me about a group he belongs to at the library that once a month has a guest speaker. Each member arranges an evening and it was his turn. He urged me to come to New York and give a reading. At first I wanted to say no I didn't want to deal with all the hustle and bustle of New York, but didn't respond—thinking about my garden and other reasons I shouldn't go, but then remembered a philosophy of mine to say "yes" when ever possible, unless there is a moral conflict or it's impossible.

He said, more insistently, "Come to New York and give the reading, it will be good for you." Finally, the desire to read my new poems and get away from my solitary life for awhile came over me and I said I would come. When I hung up the phone, I couldn't believe what I had agreed to do.

So, the sudden opportunity to visit my brother in New York and give a poetry reading brought me this chance to taste a piece of life I had never experienced before or since. Whether it was random or haphazard circumstance, I can't say—that's part of the mystery—but coming to New York and meeting Hannah that afternoon in the cafe around the corner from my brother's apartment took me into a realm of reality, I am still trying to understand.

I arrived in New York on a Thursday evening and took the train from the airport, then a subway and a bus to Riverside Drive where my brother lives. I was completely dazzled and overwhelmed by he visual sensations of lights and sounds, of people rushing, advertisements, horns and sirens, department stores filled with shiny merchandise, tall buildings and theaters. In contrast to my little town in Maine, I saw people from so many other cultures, so many shapes, sizes and colors—rushing, carrying packages, briefcases, talking on cell phones, listening to i-pods. I was swept along by the whirl of people on the go. There was so much to see, I didn't know where to look first and felt like I did when I was twelve and went to the circus.

The next day, while my brother had several appointments, I took the opportunity to explore the neighborhood and stopped at a little café called the Left Bank for a cup of coffee and a treat. My poetry reading wouldn't be until eight that evening, so I had the whole afternoon to myself. I had my journal where I write my thoughts and feelings everyday. The café was busy with people coming in quickly, getting a coffee to go and hurrying out. Most of the tables were empty. My table was by the window so I could glance outside at people passing. While I was writing, a young woman with long dark curly hair walked in. She had a canvas bag over one shoulder. She put her bag down on a table next to mine and went to the counter to p-lace an order. Standing there, she glanced at the pasteries, looked back at her table and at me. I had stopped writing—my pen paused on the page. Our eyes met briefly but I quickly looked away. I guessed she was in her early thirties and wore a long full wrap-around skirt with a colorful Indian print. It came just below her knees. She wore clogs and a soft textured white peasant-like blouse that revealed her shoulders. She had a small lavender scarf tied lightly at her neck. When she came to her table carrying her coffee, our eyes met again, briefly. I noticed her dark lively eyes, olive skin and wild flowing hair and thought she looked like a gypsy with her large silver dangling earrings.

She took a book out of her canvas bag and placed it on the table. She then put the bag on the floor next to her, sat down, crossed her legs and looked around the room, glancing quickly in my direction. Our eyes met then she looked away. She took a sip of her coffee and opened her book.

I remember writing in my journal how it felt with this exotic young lady sitting at the table next to me. I enjoy looking at people but rarely am I so captivated by a person as I was with her. Every few minutes, I stopped writing and glanced over at her, watching as she read, her fingers holding her coffee mug but not drinking.

I continued writing, struggling to concentrate on what I was describing and not look at her, but there was something about her presence, her contained energy that caused me to glance over at her. She was not pretty in the classic way—she had a narrow, pointed nose, a small mouth but full sensual lips, an angular shaped face, high cheek bones, but I could feel her lively spirit and I was drawn to her in a way I can not explain. I felt there was something mysterious and hidden about her that made her beautiful and drew me to her, like a moth to a light.

I am an extremely shy quiet person and it is not in my nature to strike up a conversation with someone I don't know—especially a young woman who must be a least thirty years younger than me. But there I was sitting at my table wanting to burst out of my reserved personality and invite myself to sit with her.

She was reading her book with deep concentration, but every time she turned the page, she would look up to glance around the room and our eyes would meet, then she would return to her book and I would return to my writing. In my journal I was describing this scene with me sitting at a table next to this exotic looking young woman, our eyes meeting. When I wrote, "Her dark hair, falling past her shoulder is lovely next to her olive complexion, but it's her large dark eyes that draw me to her. "I have to meet her. I have to meet her." It was the urgency of that last sentence that startled me. I often see a woman that I think looks attractive, but this was different. Why did I write, "I have to meet her?"

I put my pen down, reading over what I had written when I heard her voice. I turned and looked at her. Again our eyes met, and she asked, "What are you writing?"

At first I wasn't sure how to answer and so I repeated her question, "Oh, ah. What am I writing?" I glanced down at my journal then back at her and somehow found the nerve to say, "I'm writing about you."

"You are?" she asked, her eyes widened in surprise. "Why?"

"I don't know," I answered, looking at her eyes, noticing the slight smile on her lips.

Neither of us spoke, but, in that silence, there was no awkwardness—just curiosity. I took a deep breath and somehow found the boldness to say, "I think you are very beautiful. I wanted to describe you in words."

"Thank you," she responded and smiled. "I don't think I'm beautiful, so thank you."

Again, there was a silence, but we kept our eyes on each other. She picked up her coffee mug, brought it to her lips, but still she looked at me over the edge of her cup. I did the same thing, took a sip of my coffee, quickly closed my journal,keeping the pen in the book as a marker and looked back at her.

"What are you reading?" I asked.

"David Mamet," she answered, closing her book. "Do you know his writing?"

"Yes," I answered. "I've read a few of his plays. I like his language and how he writes dialogue."

"Me, too," she responded. "I love how crisp his dialogue is. It's like poetry—so spare."

"Let's pretend we're in a Mamet play," I said, surprising myself with that bold, spontaneous idea, somehow my usual shyness evaporating.

"Okay," she said and smiled. "Let's pretend we're in a Mamet play."

"Yes, let's," I responded, already entering the stylized manner of his dialogue.

"Yes, let's," Hannah said, picking up our game.

"Hello," I said, looking at her from my table.

"Hello," she said.

"You look sad," I said.

"I am sad," she said.

"Sad—too bad," I said. "Sadness is not what I want for today."

"I know," she said. "I know you don't want sadness for today."

"You do," I said.

"Yes, I do."

"What do you think I want for today?" I asked.

"You want me to invite you to sit with me but you are too shy to ask."

"You're right, I do."

She smiled and gestured to the empty seat across from her.

I was stunned by her invitation but smiled back, enjoying her dark eyes looking at me and the slight, playful smile on her lips. I picked up my journal and coffee and sat down at her table, our eyes meeting again.

"I'm Thom--Thom with an "h."

"Hello, Thom with an h."

"I'm Hannah with an h."

Hello Hannah with an h. I know your name has an h otherwise it would be Annah."

"You're right. And if it was a B I'd be Banana."

We both laughed.

"Are we being silly?" she asked.

"Yes, very silly," I said. "But thank you for reading my mind."

"This is a new way of meeting someone," she said.

I took a sip of my coffee and nodded, "Yes, I guess it is—especially for me. I never do things like this."

"Me either," she said. "I'm a very private person. I keep to myself."

"I do too," I said. "But I'm surprised about you. Your face is so open. I'd think you would have a busy social life."

"I don't really. I like being home—reading, talking to my boyfriend, taking walks along the river. I love going to the library, bookstores and museums."

"So you have a boyfriend," I asked.

"I do," she said.

"That's nice," I said. "Are you happy with him?"

"I am. Very. He's wonderful," she said, then asked, "Are you married?"

"No, I'm divorced," I said.

"Sorry," she said, her eyes and mouth losing their smile and expressing her sadness. "Has that been hard for you?" she asked.

"At first, but actually I'm fine with it. We just decided not to be in each other's movie anymore."

Hannah nodded. "That's an interesting way of thinking about it."

"You're not a New Yorker, are you?" she asked.

"No," I answered. "How did you know?"

"Easy—no one in this neighborhood looks or dresses like you," she said.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You look different—shaggy hair and beard, baggy sweater, a little unkempt--not slick."

"Oh, well, I'm from Maine," I said and shrugged my shoulders. "Not that everyone from Maine is shaggy and unkempt," I added.

"I like how you look," Hannah said. "You look interesting. "Not like everyone around here. "I like that."

"I like how you look, too," I said. "There's something mysterious about you."

"Mysterious?" she asked. "You're wrong. I'm not mysterious."

"Yes, you are. You have a secret self that no one knows but you."

"I do?" she asked, lifting her cup to her lips, her eyes looking at me.

When she put her cup down, I could tell she was thinking about what I said about her secret self. She smiled at me, her eyes looking into mine, indicating I had touched something in her and aroused her curiosity.

"Tell me about my secret self" she asked after a long silence.

"So, do you admit you have a secret self?" I asked.

"Maybe," she responded, a slight smile on her lips.

I smiled back at her, our eyes probing one another, fascinated by where this conversation was heading.

"And you, Thom, do you have a secret life—a fantasy world?" she asked, shifting in her seat, leaning forward, moving her face closer to mine, looking into my eyes, smiling. I noticed her large breasts pressing against the white peasant blouse.

I took a sip of my coffee, stunned by her question, uncertain of what to say. I kept my cup to my lips as if I was hiding behind it, but my eyes were on her smile and dark eyes and the glimpse of cleavage as she leaned towards me.

When I put my cup down on the table, she moved her face closer to mine.

"Let's talk about our secret lives," she whispered, "I'll tell you about mine, if you tell me about yours."

"So you admit it," I said, moving my face closer to hers, our eyes looking into each other's eyes.

"Yes, you know I do and I know you do," she said, her voice just above a whisper, our faces now inches away from each others.

"Are we still in a Mamet play?" I asked.

"No," she said. "We're in our own play. We are entering our secret lives."

I nodded my agreement and smiled.

"I'm enjoying this," she said. "Are you?"

"Yes. It's exciting, isn't it?" I asked.

"It is," she answered.

"Hannah, I think we have the same secret fantasy."

"Tell me. Tell me what is," she said.

"You want to be fucked by a stranger. Ravished." I couldn't believe I was saying this to her. I never use that word or speak like this.

"Hmm, tell me more," she said.

"Have you seen Last Tango in Paris?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered. "Get the butter."

"You want to be in an empty room or in a cheap motel with a stranger."

""It's a cheap motel with a coffee shop," she said, "in the middle of nowhere—neon light outside."

"Right. You and I have just met in a coffee shop late at night. You are wearing tight jeans and a tank top, no bra." I paused. "I'm now combining my fantasy with yours."

"I know you are. You like tight jeans on young women...don't you? You like to see their ass and the jeans tight on their cunt," she whispered, looking into my eyes, a sly smile on her lips. I couldn't believe her language—how she was talking to me, as if her secret self had taken over and merged with mine.

"Yes, tight jeans turn me on," I whispered—my secret self emerging.

"It's late and there's no one in the coffee shop but me and you," she says.

"Right. I just came in for a cup of coffee. You're at the counter and look up at me when I enter. Your eyes move up and down my body. Our eyes meet and you smile. I sit next to you and order a coffee."

"So, stranger, where are you from?" you ask.

"Nowhere. I'm just on the road going from here to there," I answered.

"Gotta name?" you ask.

"No," I answer.

Good, Me either," you say.

You swivel on your stool and face me. Your legs are spread apart. Your knees touch my thigh. You lean forward and I can see your tits under you low cut tank top. You notice me looking at your tits and smile at me. "What are you looking at, stranger?"

"You know damn well what I'm looking at," I say, smiling at you.

"Do you like what you see?" you ask.

"Yes," I say. "I want to lick your nipples."

"Hmmmmm—sounds good," you say, your hand touching my thigh, squeezing it.

Our eyes meet and then I look down at your crotch as you spread your legs wider.

"What else do you want, stranger?"

"What do you want me to do to you?" I answer.

"You slowly move your hand up my leg towards my crotch and say, "I'm horny. I want you to fuck me. I have a room here. Care to share it with me for the night."

"Yes," I say. "Lead the way."

We get up to go. I throw some money on the counter and follow you, loving your round ass in those tight jeans. You turn around and look at me. "Follow me, stranger," you say as we walk to your motel room.

Just then Hannah sat back in her chair and looked at me. She had that sly smile and then she really surprised me. "You're getting me wet, Thom."

"Good," I said. "We've entered each other's secret life, haven't we?"

"Yes," she said, biting her lower lip. "I'm hot."

"Me, too," I said.

"I've never talked to anyone like this before," she said.

"Me either," I said.

"Let's get out of here. I know a cheap hotel nearby," Hannah said.

"Are you serious?" I asked.

""Very," Hannah answered.

"What about your boyfriend?" I asked.

"He doesn't have a clue about my secret life," she said. "He doesn't know about my fantasies and all the toys I play with when he's not around or this sex internet site I'm on and my secret cyber lovers that fuck me when he's at work or out," she said, standing up. "Let's get out of here."

We left the cafe and walked swiftly. Her large canvas bag was hanging from one shoulder and I noticed several books in it.

"The hotel is about two blocks from here," she said.

While we were walking, Hannah's words about her secret life baffled and intrigued me. How could she separate one reality from her reality with her boyfriend? How could her secret life not be part of her actual life?

"How do you know about this hotel?" I ask.

"I just do," she said, smiling. "It's one of those places you can rent a room by the hour. It's for people like us, secret lovers."

"Have you been there before?" I asked.

"No, but I have wanted to go by myself. They have porn movies on the TV and I thought about going there and living one of my fantasies."

"So you've never really been there before," I said.

"No, this is the first time," she said, smiling up at me, her long dark gypsy-like hair flowing in the breeze as walked swiftly down the crowded street, weaving our way past people.

Finally, we were standing in front of a narrow building with a small green sign over the door that said, "Concord Hotel."

"Interesting name," I said.

"Yes, it's perfect for what this place is," she said—a smile on her lips—"harmony and agreement." She then stepped closer to me, her tits just touching my chest. "Rent us a room, Mister," she said, looking seductively into my eyes. I felt her heat and my cock was getting hard.

I went up to the desk and asked for a room while Hannah waited by the elevator. I glanced over at her smiling at me. I rented the room for two hours.

In the elevator, she stood next to me. We didn't speak as the elevator went past the second and third floor, but I knew we were both thinking about the secret world we were entering, wondering where this meeting would end. At the fourth floor, she leaned into me and said, "So Mister, what are you going to do to me?"

"You'll find out," I said and put my hand on her ass and rubbed it, feeling the crack as my hand moved from one cheek to the other, giving her ass a slight squeeze.

"Hmmmmm, that feels good, Mister," she said in a low voice as we reached the fifth floor. "This is our stop," I said. We got off and she followed me down the hall to our room. I opened the door and let her walk in ahead of me. I closed the door. Hannah put her canvas bag down then walked around looking at everything—the small bureau, an open closet with hangers, the TV, the bathroom. The curtains were open, letting sunlight in. Hannah closed the curtains then turned on a lamp. "I want to shut out the world but I like a light on when we make love. I want to see your face." She then sat on the bed and looked up at me.

"Okay, Thom, this is the deal," she said, spreading her legs. "We're going to do everything but not actually fuck. We're going to get hot and masturbate with each other. That's as close to real fucking as we're going to get. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I said. "This is fantasy land. You want me to be in your secret world where we fuck but don't really fuck so you feel you are not cheating on your boyfriend."

"Yes, this room is like a room in cyber space—it's not real but feels real-- do you know what I mean?"

"I do, Hannah, but it's a thin line and we might lose control and cross over from one reality into the other," I said.

"I know it's dangerous but we won't cross over," she said. "I won't let that happen. I'm always in control," she said. "Always!"

"And you think what we're doing is not cheating on your boyfriend," I said.

"I'm not sure. I know it's dangerous and on the edge, but this is what I want and need. I know it sounds confusing. And you think I'm crazy and maybe I am, but I want to be here with you. I want us to fuck each other with our hands. Can you handle that?"

"I don't know, Hannah. I can try but might get so hot I just take you. This is dangerous territory we're in," I said.