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To Have Henna

Henna is a woman, as ordinary as a woman of her genetics, ability and genius can be. Ok I lie, Henna is everything but ordinary. Sitting in the only occupied booth with loud music blasting of the stereo and half-drunk slobs tripping over each other in attempt to reach her hoping for all their sorry asses are worth that the man sitting opposite her is not her lover but her father. It’s a loud bar and she’s dressed for the occasion. It’s girls’ night out, she wears dirty-jean shorts, with her long honey legs exposed down to her strappy heels, an off shoulder loose top that exposes the strap of the lace bra that barely cover the globes residing above her heart. Its summer but the club is well ventilated and the music is loud. The girls she’s out with are on the dance floor oblivious to their mate’s current where abouts. Drunken half-wit sluts, all they care about is ensnaring the first fool gullible enough to be charmed by their tight derrières shaking in time to the techno beat. But I digress, back to Henna. She sits there, the epitome of indifference. The loud music doesn’t seem to bother her one bit, the slobs attempting to gain her attention virtually nonexistent to her. She sits there looking for all the world like a modern day Cleopatra. Back straight, eyes forward, legs crossed at an angle, chin raised and not a crease on her face to show any sign of frustration. Sitting opposite her is the man the slobs hope shares only a platonic relationship with her. His grey streaked hair against his tan skin makes him seem old in a regal manner, but looks can be deceiving. His good looking and well built. Tall and clean shaved. The man was George, her husband of three hours i.e. me. I look at her and have to suppress the smirk that almost crossed my face. She sits there, my ice queen waiting for me to be the first to say something. She’s got guts, I’ll give her that. It takes balls for a woman to ditch her husband less than an hour after saying “I do” simply because tonight is girls’ night. I’m still in my tux, tie off of course. I know I reek or the whiskey I’d been throwing back all evening to calm my nerves and I couldn’t be bothered on bit -After having to explain to everyone who’d taken time out of their week to come celebrate our marriage with us and have to explain that my very new wife went dancing- I was more than just a little fazed. We’ve been staring each other down for about two whole minutes now. There’s so much tension between us I’m like a human vibrator fueled by anger and something close to insanity and admiration. The girl’s got spunk. Her eyes shift from my face to my trembling fingers on the table “You’re angry. Why?” she doesn’t even bother to look innocent, she continues to stare at me with that bloody blank look of her. “I got married today” I answer, “I should be on my plane heading to France buried up to my nuts in my wife while she tries to remember her name with her face against the window.” She raises an eyebrow and moves forward so I get a closer look at her. “So the honeymoon was in France. I love France. I schooled there for a year you know. It was… nice. I’d like to go there sometime.” She moves back against the seat and turns to look at the guys attempting to get past the body guard I’d ask that she go everywhere with. Julius. He was good at his job. I owed him a bonus for this particular time. “I think we should move. This is uncomfortable for Julius.” She turns back to look at me “There is café not too far from here. I want a muffin, preferably chocolate.” she looks me over “You need coffee, you’ve been drinking.” There was no request anywhere in that statement, nor question or command. This was Henna’s way, she never asked for anything. She simply stated things. Not suggested and certainly never ever asked. Without waiting for a response she tapped the wall that was Julius, within seconds she was moving hustle free through the crowd towards the door. She did not even bother to check if I was following. Standing by the door of the car, the sporty Mercedes she’d always referred to as mechanical representation of my dick the first night she’d allowed me to pick her up, we did it in the car before arriving at the restaurant. Julius opened the door for her, I closed it. She passed the keys to her Dodge to him through the window. As we drove to the café she fiddled with the radio skipping through the tracks on at a time. “You know you can simply tell the stereo what song you want to play.” It skipping tracks habit was irritating. “I know, I’m just undecided on what I want” “No shit” at that he track skipping stopped and the radio went off. “I don’t want music right now. I wanted to go to girls’ night though but that’s down the drain.” Turning in her seat she faced me with her whole body. By now I knew every inch of it. Henna’s father was Indian while her mother was African. The word exotic didn’t even begin to describe her. Smooth skin with a tone most common in East Africa and long thick hair she wore curled and a body that had every man -sometimes women- within sight of her drooling every liquid his ever ingesting out. It didn’t help that she was a globally famous model. “Right now I want to have a chocolate muffin and get some coffee into you. It is after all our honeymoon night. I would the first time I make love to my husband to be special rather than it be a drunken moment he’ll barely remember in the morning.” I stopped the car. Turning to look at her I said “Listen here Henna, you can be a bitch I get that but you don’t leave me during the reception to go for girls night then make demands about what our wedding night should be!! I have half a mind to gag your ass and drag your kicking and screaming to the damn plane!! You’re my wife not some spoilt little princess with an ass too hot for her own good!” He was shouting, something he did often when it came to Henna. She infuriated him. He loved it. And so she -without a care for the pedestrians ogling the car and peeping through the windows- unbuckled her seat belt and straddled his lap. In a distance he was aware of the flashing cameras and the “we love you Henna’s” her adoring fans were screaming outside the car but at that moment none of that mattered. In that moment her big brown eyes soften and a slow sultry smile began creeping up on her face. They were nose to nose now. With her on his jaw she whispered “I love you dear Husband” she giggled and kissed him before he could respond. Her kiss was so tender he almost choked on emotion. She pulled back and nibbled on his ear. “Now dear husband, drive us to the airport. I do believe we have a honeymoon to get to.” As she got off and went back to changing tracks I found my admiration for her almost over whelming. This woman, my wife was the coldest and most insane bitch known to walk the face of the earth. And many men wished they could have her though they knew not of her nature. She drove him insane and half the time he barely understood what she was doing. And made no sense that they were married at all but they were and he loved her, neurotic as she was. Laughing out loud he turned the car and as the crowd around the car parted. Speeding down the road towards the airport he forgot all about being mad at her for leaving him their reception. Fuck it, he had her, he was happy.
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