“Dirty minds think alike.

I wouldn’t know, of course,” the man adds quickly, downplaying the truth lurking behind his eyes.

He swallows the whiskey — dry throat, sure, but mostly to buy a few seconds of respite and invite a counter-quip.

She plays along. Out of appetite, not because it’s the right thing to do. “So, we can add thought-diviner to your list of skills,” she jibes playfully.

Her lips balance at the edge of a smirk — the kind he might interpret in multiple ways. A shadow of uncertainty flits across her brow. She wonders what he’ll make of the riposte. Still, she decides to meet him halfway.

They let silence in while each carefully sifts through the things better left unsaid. She mirrors his move, taking a sip of her rosé, careful so it doesn’t break her lipstick. Appearances convey meaning, too.

“Oh, I’d charge a pretty penny for your thought,” he feints.

His move is tentative. Fishing for truths. But in doing so, he surrenders the initiative.

She sees it, but the space between them is charged with enough tension that triggers her craving for more. It’s instinctive, like seeing a painting of two intertwined lovers only half-drawn. Of course she wants the rest of the picture.

“The question is, what use are they?” She doesn’t want to make it easy. This isn’t where submission occurs. Not yet.

He watches her watching him. It’s her mind that is the prize, he realizes. The rest is gravy.

“I am a firm believer that some things are better left unsaid,” he offers. “They are better experienced in the flesh.”

As the words leave his mouth, he knows they’re wrong. They feel cheap, too eager. They deaden the intent. A flutter of realization he’s not the one in control.

She’s growing mildly irritated — not at his unsubtle coaxing, but something deeper. Wouldn’t it be nice, just this once, to read someone’s mind? To get to the point. Yet the dark recesses of his mind are appealing. Perhaps they mirror her own.

“I actually think that especially the dark thoughts have a space in the light. Perhaps you’d be surprised what happens if you give them air.”

He makes a show out of raising an eyebrow. It throws him. Not a confession. Not a challenge. An invitation? He places a hand on the table. Not quite in the center, but close enough.

A sudden clatter of cutlery from a nearby table snaps their gazes apart. But they weaved a magnetic pattern, and it’s not yet time to disengage.

“You surprise me,” he concedes. “Not many dare to venture into the dark. Most prefer to hide in the light. I applaud the daring.” He is redirecting, letting her dictate the direction and pace.

“You said so yourself. Dirty minds think alike. We don’t get to meet our matches nearly often enough. I’m incorrigibly curious.” She stretches languidly, confident in her admission.

“Oh, I think I can match you. Flaw for flaw,” he trails off, pretending to think, but the next few steps are already charted. “Let’s play a game. One question each. We’ll each be the judge of just how far gone we are.”

“Alright. I have to warn you, though. I’ll know if you lie,” she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly, because while this is still a game, she knows her mind well enough to be able to imagine his.

He’s well and truly hooked, and he knows it. He’s falling further into obsession. The descent is familiar. He also knows that there are some depths that won’t be so easily plundered, raising his confidence.

It seems a fair deal. She’s the one to proffer her hand, igniting contact.

He takes it in his. Shakes it.

He has soft hands. Not the type to harbor twisted thoughts, but they’ve already shared that truth.

“First question,” she presses her advantage. “If you had to choose between curiosity and fidelity, which one do you pick?”

He pretends to ponder his response, but it comes to him easily enough. “Curiosity.”

Then, after a beat, a rush of questions. “Also, fidelity to what? A person? An ideal? Myself?”

She smiles wickedly, snaring him. “Careful, you’re bending the rules we both agreed to. One question only.” Then, because it feels right, she cranks up the difficulty: “We should also add, one-word answers only.”

Touché. He bows his head, smiling. She bested him. Yet he appreciates she’s sticking to the rules, not pressing him to explain further. Darkness doesn’t come to light instantaneously. It needs to be coaxed and cajoled. It’s too reliant on safe words. His turn.

“Now you choose one: passion or restraint?”

“Worship,” she breathes, the word barely audible. She can hear all the possible follow-up questions crowding his thoughts. Rules are rules, though.

Nearby, another patron laughs hysterically — barely altering the current at their table.

“With eyes open or eyes wide shut?” She’s unafraid of theatrics herself. By now, notions of “safe” don’t matter anymore. He gets the hint.

But he rebels against it. He’s not good with rules. “I confess I like to watch.” His mind continues down a beaten path. He doesn’t mind others watching, too. For now, however, only half-truths.

“Tsk, tsk,” she clicks her tongue. “Again, with the rule-bending.” But she also sees he’s unveiling more than he probably intends. He doesn’t seem fazed by it. He just shrugs.

“My turn. Why the domineering?”

She keeps her poker face, just barely. In that moment, she feels seen. Naked and exposed to scrutiny. The rules didn’t account for open-ended questions.

“Last round!” calls the waiter, uninvited, signaling the curtain call.

“We’ve run out of time, it seems,” she says, feigning disappointment. She hopes there’s a follow-up.

Neither realize that they’ve been holding hands all along.

….

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