Lisa is not her real name - at least it isn't the name her parents gave her. She was born in India and although her name, when she told it to me, was beautiful it was a little more than I was going to be able to wrap my tongue around. Besides, I liked the name Lisa. I liked her legs and I liked her smile. She was forty, maybe a few years older and although it was evident in the lines of her face, her legs lied to you. She knew this, she wore tiny shorts and skirts and dresses with long slits up the side. They were marvelous and as we lay together, I chose to lie at an angle across the foot of the bed so that I could run my hands along the long muscles and dark skin of her legs. Occasionally it would tickle and she would smile or jerk. It was a pleasant way to spend the afternoon.
"They seem sad. The best ones do anyway." She said to me. She was propped up on what had to be more than ten pillows. She had a laptop balanced on her belly and thighs. She was reading my stories. There were several dozen of them. After the first few she had asked me to give her the word versions. She would read each story quickly, in seconds, and then begin proofing it for me.
"I've been told that before." I answered her. "I think I write when I am depressed." I had actually put some time into contemplating it myself.
"This one is beautiful."
"Which -- Wait -- Never mind."
"I am serious. You need to publish these."
"Knock yourself out. I'll give you half." I felt bad the minute I said it.
"That doesn't seem fair." She said. "I don't know what the going rate is but it's not half."
"I don't know what it is, if you go through the trouble of proofing them, formatting them, all that, I think it's more than fair." She looked down at me. I had been staring at her. Her eyes peered over black rimmed reading glasses.
"How many are there?"
"Hundreds."
"But these are the best."
"Depends on who you're asking. Everyone likes different ones."
"Which is your favorite?"
"Padme." I told her.
"I don't have that one."
"It's not done." I had moved my hand further up her leg. I was no longer tracing the lines of the muscles in her thigh but was instead teasing the soft flesh along the hem of her shorts. The shorts weren't particularly tight and as I smiled at her, my finger found the lace panties where that marvelous thigh met the rest of her body.
"What happens in it?"
"A man seduces an exotic beauty with his words." I traced the hem of her panties over the front of her leg and then back down, past the warmer areas and lower, as far as I could before her ass met the bed.
"How does it end?"
"Sadly." I said. She responded by closing her eyes. Firmly I pressed my hand into the leg of her shorts. It was warm, I was intently aware of the folds and features of the landscape I was exploring despite being blind to it. She parted her legs slightly and when I pressed the right spot her lips parted slightly.
"I don't want it to be sad," she whispered. Neither did I, although I was certain it would be.
We had met months before in a fast food restaurant. It was after a game our son's high school team had won by a large margin. I was eating with my boy. She had three in a carpool. The three she was shuttling were a year younger than my son in years and many younger in maturity and they played like children at a table of their own as my son and I discussed Julius Caesar and if he wanted to pursue a classical education in college. I was aware of her, the attractive brunette sitting beside us, but didn't take note that she was also aware of us. My son cleared away the wrappers of our dinner and she spoke to me. It was only an introduction. We made small talk when my son stopped at the other table.
"They grow a lot between freshman and sophomore year." I said in response to a compliment she gave me about him. She said she hoped it was true. I will be honest. I was fat, out of shape, haggard. I was aging myself prematurely with drink and nicotine. There was a time, ten years ago perhaps, when a woman as beautiful as Lisa could have been mine with a little effort but I looked at her now as a pleasant distraction and a reminder of what life had once been like.
The conversation waned. She seemed to have gone back to the book she had been reading on a tablet. "This seems totally awkward to say but your calves have spectacular definition. I have let myself deteriorate so badly, do you have a trainer?" I had been constructing that line in my head since we had started talking. I needed a compliment, always start with a compliment, and compliment something men don't normally notice. Shoes, or accessories were always good, thighs were too intimate, calves or arms were better. I was surprised I had actually said it.
"Thank you," she said quietly. It wasn't dismissive, as I had expected her response to be. There was earnestness behind it. She said she went to the mega gym that had recently opened. There was only one in town. I passed it reasonably frequently. "Give me your number and I will text you my trainer's number. I get free sessions if you say I sent you." I joined the next morning.
We saw each other from time to time. Four months and twenty-five pounds later we went to lunch. Lunch was followed a week later by a hike together. I allowed her to go ahead of me when the terrain became more difficult. I enjoyed watching her. After the hike I suggested drinks and she said it was a sweet offer but she didn't think it was a good idea. I understood. I told her I would see her at the gym. She teased me, "Only if I don't see you first," and I hoped the broad smile across her full lips suggested that she was only teasing.
I took a long swallow from my water bottle and standing at the trunk of my car stripped out of my sweaty shirt and pulled on a clean Tee. I tried not to watch her slide into the driver's seat of her car but I couldn't help by spy when I could. I heard it start. She backed out of her spot. It had been fun.
I had thought she was gone when I heard the crunching of a car on the granite behind me. I ignored the car until it stopped directly beside me. I glanced only briefly but when I saw it was hers I turned. She had the window down. The look of her face was a delicate mixture of pleasure, pain, curiosity and excitement.
"Thursday? Happy hour?"
"Yes." I said. I didn't know if my schedule was clear but it didn't matter.
"That wine place on Park?"
"Sure. I like their flatbreads." I answered. I am not a fan of flatbreads. If you are going to eat a flatbread just get a real pizza. I just knew people in general like their flatbreads.
"Five -- five thirty?" she suggested
"I'll see you there."
She smiled as she pulled away.
She was sitting at the bar when I arrived. When I went to sit next to her she moved me from her right side to her left. "My dress is a bit much," she whispered. "I have been getting looks." She nodded at a table of older fellows sitting off to our side. I had to see for myself. I had noticed the bright colors immediately but now, looking at her more closely I observed her leg, the dress was slit so high along her thigh that it actually made the bend at her hip when she was seated. It was such a long delicious stretch of chestnut skin I was, if for only a moment, speechless.
"I think you look spectacular."
She smiled at me. "Spectacular? I was going for elegant/sexy," she looked down as she said it in what I suspected was an artificial modesty.
"I think you were successful."
