Unspoken

candles of varying sizes.
    “Come here,” he said softly.
    She felt wary, didn’t really know what he wanted. She sat down cautiously, some distance away from him.
    “You’re so beautiful. Do you know that?” he said gently.
    He moved closer. Took her hand and played with her fingers. She hardly dared look at him. He put one hand on her leg. It felt warm and heavy through her jeans.
    He left it there, not moving.
    “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.
    Cautiously he tugged at a strand of her hair.
    “And you have such lovely hair, black and shiny and thick.”
    He leaned back and stared at her.
    “Your body . . . it’s perfect. Do you know how sexy you are?”
    She felt anxious and uncomfortable but couldn’t utter a sound. No one had ever said anything like that to her before.
    Suddenly he pulled her close and kissed her. She didn’t know what to do, just sat there, motionless. Her head was spinning from the wine. His mouth pressed harder against hers, and he tried to open her lips with his tongue. She let him do it. His hands began groping under her shirt, sliding up toward her breasts. She felt his weight as he bent over her. Then his hand reached one of her breasts. She was frightened by his reaction. He moaned and whimpered. Started getting rough, tugging and pulling at her bra. His tongue whisked around in her mouth. Suddenly her thoughts were crystal clear. The only thing she knew was that she had to get away.
    “Wait,” she said. “Wait.”
    He didn’t seem to hear but just kept tearing at her clothes.
    “Wait a minute. I have to go to the bathroom,” she added to make him stop.
    “But I just want to touch you a little,” he cajoled.
    “Please, wait.”
    He put his hands on her back. They were sweaty now, he was sweaty all over. They sat motionless for a moment, and she listened to him breathing hard.
    Then he loosened his grip. It seemed as if he were giving up.
    He held her away from him and fixed his eyes on her breasts.
    “Do you know how beautiful you are?” he whispered. “What are you doing to me?”
    He began groping her again. Even rougher than before.
    “No,” she said. “I don’t want to.”
    “Just a little. You can just give me a little.”
    He pushed her down onto the sofa, pulled down her zipper, and took a firm grip on her jeans, pulling them off with a jerk. They were so tight that her panties came off with them. She was completely exposed and realized that she didn’t have a chance. She stopped struggling and lay still. He pushed her thighs apart.
    Then she started to cry.
    “I don’t want to,” she screamed. “Stop it! Stop it! ”
    All of a sudden he seemed to come to his senses. He let go of her.
    When he drove her home, he didn’t say a word the whole way. She didn’t, either.
    Against all odds, Emma had agreed to meet him for lunch. Johan had finished the interview with the county governor, which meant that he was free for the rest of the day. He was supposed to fly home in the morning.
    They had agreed to meet at his hotel room. She didn’t dare go anywhere else.
    Grenfors had called to talk about the story Johan had been assigned to do back in Stockholm; it sounded totally uninteresting.
    After the phone conversation, he sat in an armchair and looked at his watch. He had twenty minutes until Emma arrived. Should he order lunch now, to get that out of the way? It was probably a good idea. If the food was delivered faster, they would have more time to themselves. He grabbed the menu and scanned the selections: toast, Caesar salad, sole on a bed of spinach for two hundred and forty kronor—scandalous. Hamburgers with pommes frites—couldn’t they just write French fries for once?
    What would Emma like? What did she eat? Shrimp, shellfish—no, not shrimp soup. Pasta Bolognese—a fancy way of saying ordinary spaghetti with meat sauce. Something light, but not too light. But maybe she was super-hungry. How about an omelet?
    He started to sweat. He would have to take a shower. Without making up his mind, he punched the number for room service. What did they recommend? What’s fast, good, not too heavy, and not too expensive? Meatballs with cream sauce and lingonberries—sure, maybe not very elegant, but what the hell.
    He ordered two portions and then tore off his clothes. Fifteen minutes left. Would the food come on time, or would they be interrupted in the midst of this longed-for rendezvous? At least he had been longing for it—as for