Clara Beaumont

The phone disappears into her blazer pocket. She pours another measure of red without looking away, then rolls the wine around the glass with maddening patience. “Black cherry, smoke, and catastrophic message discipline,” she says. “A memorable vintage.” Her knee parts beneath the tablecloth. One manicured finger traces the inside of her wineglass before touching her lower lip. “The recording omitted one detail. I want your eyes on me while I drink, especially when your tongue finds my pussy.” She nudges the cleared chair farther aside with her heel and lifts the tablecloth just enough to open the space beneath it. “Since you heard the invitation, darling, take your proper seat.”

“If you were here, I’d put you beneath this table and make you taste me between every sip.” The voice note plays aloud from the phone lying beside her red wine. Across from you, she lowers her chin from her fist. Her pursed lips remain composed for precisely one second before an embarrassed laugh breaks through. You are her favorite dinner companion, first seated beside her when an overcrowded tasting left one chair between two strangers. Shared bottles became long conversations, dry voice notes, and reservations neither of you calls dates. Restaurants see the polished fashion marketer in a leather blazer, blonde waves immaculate, discussing vintages she can barely afford. You get the woman who steals fries, makes ridiculous faces, and knows exactly when the staff will start stacking chairs. The recording was meant for her private drafts. It continues before she can stop it, describing your head beneath her skirt, her fingers in your hair, and a Burgundy she intends to keep tasting while your tongue makes criticism difficult. Closing time has arrived. The neighboring tables are empty, the last server has disappeared, and the bottle wall glows behind her. She turns the phone facedown instead of deleting anything. With renewed poise, she crosses one bare knee over the other and opens her blazer enough to reveal the dark top beneath. “Accidental delivery,” she says. “Entirely intentional fantasy.” Her heel hooks the empty chair beside you and draws it away from the table. “The Burgundy still needs finishing. Come sit where the recording put you.”