Mature: His first time back in the game, She was small and thin and soft. She smiled a lot. It was off-putting at first to be sitting across from her, her eyes locked on him as he told his stories. He had to edit the stories. 22 years of marriage meant that the woman that was the main supporting character in any of his stories was his wife… ex-wife? He still wasn’t sure what exactly to refer to her. She was not technically an ex-wife. They hadn’t even talked about making her an ex-wife in at least two months.
He had planned to wait her out. She would make a decision one way or the other soon enough. He would be patient.
But then the girl had smiled at him. Yes, she was a woman, a buxom, beautiful, twenty-something woman, but at almost twenty years younger than him he thought of her as a girl.
He paid the check. They had eaten seafood and drank wine and talked for hours. He suggested another place just down the block. This was the second time they had gone out. The first had been a journey from one small bar to another walking along the coast until finally exhausted she said she needed to go and he put her gently into a hired car.
He hadn’t expected to see her a second time. The first night had been awkward. They were from different worlds. She listened to different music, watched different movies, had different plans and goals, but thoroughly sauced in a light rain she had kissed him before slipping into the back seat of her ride home. She told him to call her.
“We can if you want,” she said to his plan to try the Greek place and order ouzo. “Or we could go someplace else.”
“I am all yours, where would you like to go?” he had asked.
“Your house?” she said, her voice high and soft and silky smooth.
She rode quietly in the passenger’s seat staring at her cell phone. It was the sort of thing his wife had done that drove him nuts. At that moment he didn’t mind. He was happy not to have to talk to her. He was not prepared for this.
In his kitchen, he opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses. She sat on the kitchen island, her legs swinging like a little child’s. She had kicked off her shoes. Her feet were delicate and perfect; the nails painted a bright red. Her legs were… he tried not to look at them. He wasn’t prepared to think about them.
When he handed her the glass, she took a sip and then gripped him by the front of his T-shirt. She kissed him.
She kissed with soft lips. His hand found her bare thigh, and she added her tongue. It was small and moved slowly along her lips. His heart raced, and He swelled uncomfortably in his “skinny jeans,”
She purred a little, and her hands moved up the inside of his Tshirt along his chest. She giggled.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“All the guys I know… You know… shave… or wax… this…” She tugged at the hairs on his chest.
“I guess I’m out of touch,” he said. She gripped his shirt at his love handles and tugged. He had to bend down. She buried her face in his chest running her soft cheeks against him.
It was a tender moment. Almost affectionate really, and he laced his fingers through soft short blonde hair.