There are certain perks working in the media industry; one of which is comps -- complimentary goods, gifts, or services. I fanned a pair of concert tickets for one of Leta's favorite bands in front of her and said, "Friday night, you and I are going on a date."
"That's sold out!" she said, her eyes brightening over the laptop screen.
"It is." It had been sold out thirty-seconds after the tickets appeared online. Even with both of us trying from our respective computers, we hadn't been able to secure a pair. However, a radio station I did graphic design for had been able to secure five pairs. Sometimes getting what you want was as simple as knowing the right person to ask.
"When can I expect you, sir?" she said from across our breakfast nook.
"Seven," I said.
On Friday I took evening clothes -- jacket, dress shirt, slacks, and a tie -- with me to work at the studio. I had to shoot stills for a local restaurant and layout copy in Dreamweaver for an Internet catalog. I was ahead of deadline on both projects, however, so it was a comfortable working day. I finished the photo work-flow by two and worked until four on the catalog. I caught up on email and billing until five. I showered. I dressed. I called for a car.
I could have easily driven the mile to our home. It's what I would have done for a regular date night. But a taxi took away the distractions of driving and parking and let me focus fully on the evening and Leta. Plus, I liked that delighted smile she had whenever I surprised her like this.
"Did you lose something?" she said, indicating the taxi, as she exited the house. She wore her little black dress and heels. Her hair was up off her shoulders. She held a pocket book which matched the dress. She looked delectable.
"No," I said. I held the cab door for her, enjoying the brush of her scent as she slipped past me. "I know just where I left it."
The driver dropped us at a tiny restaurant a block from the concert venue. It had once been a house but was now converted into a bistro with French leanings. We sat on their patio and dined on sauteed chicken and chevre crepes -- their specialty. We drank pinot gris. The day gave way to the evening around us, the hint of fall coming on the air. The restaurant busied, but our corner of the patio felt calm and peaceful. I reached across to touch Leta's hand. I looked into her eyes. We talked about geekery and I listened to the anticipation ramp up in her voice as we talked about the concert to come.
Then it was mere steps to the venue, an old meeting hall turned into a waypoint for the more eclectic acts passing through town. It was small and tight, like a dance hall, almost claustrophobic compared to the arts center downtown. Inside you felt the crowd and the band. And you felt the heat quick. But this was rock and roll. Well, the rockin' swing and ska of the Cherry Poppin' Daddies. That room quivered with the horns. It beat to the drums. It thrummed to the bass.
After three encores, it was over.
"Thank you," Leta said as we stepped out.
"You're most welcome," I said. I called for a car on my cell phone and was glad to cool down in the few minutes it took for it to arrive. We put the windows down for more cool air and Leta nuzzled against me, my arm around her. She hummed one of the songs to herself.
"Want to dance?" I said.
"Not in front of the driver," she said.
"No," I said. "Behind him."
I saw her thinking about it and I smiled at her in the near dark of the cab. She nodded. She moved so that she was straddling me, the hem of her dress lifting high on her bottom. I put my arms around her, drew her close, and held her steady. I swayed as she hummed. I felt the warmth and softness of her close to me. The press of her thighs against mine. The press of her breasts against my chest. I nuzzled between her ear and shoulder and kissed her throat.
I held her to me with one arm while my other hand slid along the smooth dress down to her bottom. How odd it is that her skin can feel both cool and warmth in the same touch. Cool in finding her flesh, warm as it stays with mine.
With the next turn I wildly dipped her to one side and pulled her back to her giggling. Then she eased against me, lightly against me with the subtlest grind of her hips. I saw the fire in her eyes and I kissed her. Her movement became less subtle now. I heard it as much in her breath as I felt in it her hips. Pressing against me. Pressing against me. And me pulling her tighter to me with the one arm, the other hand stroking her bare thigh bunched against me.
I cannot say when the car stopped. I only noticed when the driver cleared his throat, and that could have been at least a day or two later in the evening. Leta carefully extracted herself from my lap, her hands tactful in smoothing her dress over her bottom in the dark as she exited the cab. Then, laughing, she walked quickly towards our door. I paid and tipped our driver, then followed her to the house at a less deliberate pace.
She'd left the door open for me, but was nowhere to be seen in the half light of the single lamp in the living room and the light over the oven far past the dining room in the kitchen. I looked towards the stairs and listened for her above.
"Are you hiding?" I called out.
Nothing.
I left my jacket on the stair post and started up.
I called out to her at the top of the stairs. Nothing again. But I saw our bedroom door half open in the low light of the single lamp in the hall. I walked towards it.
"Leta?"
