* * * * *
“Happy birthday Mrs. Hollins.”
I handed her a half-dozen roses. While a cliche, it was always appreciated. Eyes spread wide, she kissed my cheek and said, “They’re beautiful. Please come in.”
And while her eyes had spread wide, they were no match for mine. Mrs. Hollins’ red dress snugly fit her slender form; her small breasts perfect in the built-in cups. The back was open; there were no straps, just a tie around the neck. And, as I followed her into the house, I focused on her butt; it formed an impeccable bump in the back of the dress.
And the shoes: red stiletto heels that buckled around the ankles.
The dress screamed fuck me, the shoes hollered the same thing, and later her moves on the dance floor would be exclamation points. If it was going to happen, it would happen tonight. I was going to make my, and Jennie’s fantasy come true: I’d fuck her mother.
In the living room she handed me a glass of wine, put the flowers in a vase, studied them, moved one flower half-an-inch, another a quarter-of-an-inch, leaned forward, took a long whiff, chin in hand studied them, moved two more flowers, and said, “They’re lovely, and you’re sweet and thoughtful,” kissed my cheek – her perfume was light and airy – pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, and said, “I can see why my daughter’s so enamored with you.”
“A beautiful woman deserves beautiful flowers, and you look spectacular. Jennie asked for pictures.”
I took several of her, then several of us together, my arm around her shoulder, her arm around my waist.
Jennie texted, said we were a good looking couple, instructed me to show her Mom the time of her life.
* * * * *
I held the door of my newly cleaned jalopy for her, then her chair at the hole-in-the-wall Thai restaurant where we’d never run into any of her crowd. She asked my advice, ordered it, complimented my choice. We shared dessert, went to the club, danced fast, danced slow, and later, as I drove her home, she leaned her body into mine.
* * * * *
I handed her a glass of wine as she moved a couple of the flowers, moved them back, moved one other, and said, “That’s better, it’s been bothering me all night. What do you think?”
I said, “I think you’ve got it,” held my glass up.
“To you, on your birthday.”
Touching her glass to mine she said, “To a wonderful evening, I can’t remember a better time. Why don’t you put on some music, come sit with me. I need to get off my feet, it’s been years since I danced in stilettos.”
“Well, every guy there’d vote in favor of you doing it again.”
“Michael, are you flirting with me?”
“Just getting started.”
Mrs. Hollins sat, took off her ruby heart-shaped earrings, lay them on the table next to the couch. I put on some soft jazz, said, “Foot rub?” she said, “I’d like that,” and I sat on the far end of the couch as she pirouetted until her back rested on the arm and her feet were in my lap.
I unbuckled her shoes, laid them on the floor, worked her feet; we chatted, she drank her wine. When her phone pinged she signaled me to keep working, picked it off the coffee table, held it up — it was Jennie on FaceTime – then turned it back towards her and said, “Hey babe, how’d the interview go?”