all this time.” I’m not sure if that’s a selling point or not.
He puffs up, clearly pleased with himself. “You’ve just been with me and Bill?”
“Not just. But almost just,” I say, skirting the issue. Men don’t want to know the exact number, anyway. If they did, what would be the ideal answer? More than two (you have experience) but less than five (you’re not a . . . well, you know)? And who’s going to admit the truth, especially if it’s double digits?
I lean forward to take a taste from Eric’s spoon. Mmm, that’s good caviar. I run my tongue over my now-salty lips and make a sucking noise trying to get the wayward black roe out from between my teeth. Very attractive. When will God or General Mills invent a food that you can safely eat in front of a man? Everything either drips, crunches, or sticks to your molars.
Champagne seems pretty safe. When Eric takes a tray of thinly sliced chateaubriand from a side table, I decide to stick with the bubbly. He refills my glass for the second time. Or is it the third? What am I trying to do—be like one of those college girls who downs a bottle of tequila so she can claim “I didn’t know what I was doing” when she ends up sleeping with the guy?
More food keeps appearing, although I never see anybody bringing it in. Eric must be so rich he doesn’t just have a staff, he has elves.
Eric is as charming as I remembered him, and as the evening—or morning—goes on, I begin to relax. And not just from the champagne. I feel that magical mix of new excitement and easygoing comfort. The conversation veers from Eric’s brand-new business stories to old memories and we laugh as we catch up on almost-forgotten friends. Eric tells me that the party-loving wrestler who lived downstairs in his freshman dorm is now a missionary in Southeast Asia. I offer that the guy who won the college beer-chugging contest (fifteen cans in fifty-seven minutes) is now a pilot for United Airlines.
“But he doesn’t fly any major routes,” I quip.
Eric laughs and pops a cherry tomato into his mouth. “People change, don’t they,” he says. Then he looks at me seriously for a minute. “I heard about your little sister, by the way. All those years ago. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks.” He’s touched a nerve, but I swallow hard and decide to let it pass. Determined to change the subject, I quickly ask, “How’s your mom?”
“Doing fine. She just sold another one of her paintings. I’ve never figured out who hangs her stuff, but in Boca Raton, she’s hot. By the way, she still asks about you. She never forgave me for not marrying you.”
“A woman of fine taste,” I say, feeling comfortable again. So this is the advantage of an old boyfriend. I feel that first-date sexual tingle but I’m cozy enough to kick off my shoes and curl my bare toes up on the sofa. I snuggle a little closer and rest my head on Eric’s shoulder, taking in his subtle, rich scent.
“You’ve switched colognes. I miss the Old Spice,” I say, teasing. “Remember? You used to come back from crew practice and instead of taking a shower, you’d douse yourself with the stuff.”
Eric makes a face. “Not fair,” he says defending his way-back-when frat-boy hygiene. “I always put on deodorant first.”
“I know. A smell I’ll never forget.” I wrinkle my nose in mock horror. “Ban has been banished from my house ever since.”
“Now I use L’Occitane, imported from France. I hope you approve,” he says putting an arm around me and moving closer.
I don’t know if it’s the allure of the moment (and the hundred-dollar skin lotion) or the appeal of the past (and the remembered Old Spice), but I lift my chin toward Eric. And in case he doesn’t know what I’m angling for, I slide closer and kiss him.
The kiss seems to have an immediate effect because I feel a pounding vibration between us. Eric reaches down, sliding his hand over my hip and toward his own. The vibrating
He puffs up, clearly pleased with himself. “You’ve just been with me and Bill?”
“Not just. But almost just,” I say, skirting the issue. Men don’t want to know the exact number, anyway. If they did, what would be the ideal answer? More than two (you have experience) but less than five (you’re not a . . . well, you know)? And who’s going to admit the truth, especially if it’s double digits?
I lean forward to take a taste from Eric’s spoon. Mmm, that’s good caviar. I run my tongue over my now-salty lips and make a sucking noise trying to get the wayward black roe out from between my teeth. Very attractive. When will God or General Mills invent a food that you can safely eat in front of a man? Everything either drips, crunches, or sticks to your molars.
Champagne seems pretty safe. When Eric takes a tray of thinly sliced chateaubriand from a side table, I decide to stick with the bubbly. He refills my glass for the second time. Or is it the third? What am I trying to do—be like one of those college girls who downs a bottle of tequila so she can claim “I didn’t know what I was doing” when she ends up sleeping with the guy?
More food keeps appearing, although I never see anybody bringing it in. Eric must be so rich he doesn’t just have a staff, he has elves.
Eric is as charming as I remembered him, and as the evening—or morning—goes on, I begin to relax. And not just from the champagne. I feel that magical mix of new excitement and easygoing comfort. The conversation veers from Eric’s brand-new business stories to old memories and we laugh as we catch up on almost-forgotten friends. Eric tells me that the party-loving wrestler who lived downstairs in his freshman dorm is now a missionary in Southeast Asia. I offer that the guy who won the college beer-chugging contest (fifteen cans in fifty-seven minutes) is now a pilot for United Airlines.
“But he doesn’t fly any major routes,” I quip.
Eric laughs and pops a cherry tomato into his mouth. “People change, don’t they,” he says. Then he looks at me seriously for a minute. “I heard about your little sister, by the way. All those years ago. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks.” He’s touched a nerve, but I swallow hard and decide to let it pass. Determined to change the subject, I quickly ask, “How’s your mom?”
“Doing fine. She just sold another one of her paintings. I’ve never figured out who hangs her stuff, but in Boca Raton, she’s hot. By the way, she still asks about you. She never forgave me for not marrying you.”
“A woman of fine taste,” I say, feeling comfortable again. So this is the advantage of an old boyfriend. I feel that first-date sexual tingle but I’m cozy enough to kick off my shoes and curl my bare toes up on the sofa. I snuggle a little closer and rest my head on Eric’s shoulder, taking in his subtle, rich scent.
“You’ve switched colognes. I miss the Old Spice,” I say, teasing. “Remember? You used to come back from crew practice and instead of taking a shower, you’d douse yourself with the stuff.”
Eric makes a face. “Not fair,” he says defending his way-back-when frat-boy hygiene. “I always put on deodorant first.”
“I know. A smell I’ll never forget.” I wrinkle my nose in mock horror. “Ban has been banished from my house ever since.”
“Now I use L’Occitane, imported from France. I hope you approve,” he says putting an arm around me and moving closer.
I don’t know if it’s the allure of the moment (and the hundred-dollar skin lotion) or the appeal of the past (and the remembered Old Spice), but I lift my chin toward Eric. And in case he doesn’t know what I’m angling for, I slide closer and kiss him.
The kiss seems to have an immediate effect because I feel a pounding vibration between us. Eric reaches down, sliding his hand over my hip and toward his own. The vibrating
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