She looked at her watch as she got out of the taxi -- 3:12 p.m., over ten minutes late.
Damn that New York traffic. He's such a hyper-sensitive, paranoid, demanding, perfectionist snob, he'll probably take it personally.
She tried to look into the window of the restaurant to see if he was already there, but it was so sunny out she could only see the reflection of the tight white button-down blouse she had finally settled on -- they had discussed her breasts so much online, she had to let him get at least a sense of what he'd been missing all these years, even though it was only going to be a quick friendly coffee and dessert together while he played temporary hooky from work.
Damn that New York lawyer job of his.
After a short debate, she decided one more button couldn't hurt anything. Let him have a little more cleavage, it's the least I could do for a miserable exhausted overworked sex-starved old friend.'
Then her eyes wandered down the window to the short plaid Catholic school girl skirt that she had bought just for the occasion. But until now she didn't realize it was THAT short - halfway up her thighs. She suddenly felt like an idiot.
I can't believe I'm actually wearing this thing -- he'd better get a kick out of it. But the white lace panties, that's my own little secret he doesn't need to know. God Christy, you're such a good little prude -- what were you thinking?
She had to admit, though, she was still proud of those legs he used to chow down on like a famished kid having fresh sweet tender corn on the cob -- smooth skin, muscular calves, fleshy, shapely thighs. "Those Dorothy Hamill thighs," he used to call them, worshipfully, hungrily.
She entered the restaurant, a small warm friendly local Italian place, long and narrow in that New York way. It smelled great, of fresh baked bread and garlic and sumptuous sauces.
One restaurant after another after another, each with such a relaxed easy confident charm. What a city.
He wasn't there yet, thank God, so at least she wouldn't be starting off on the defensive.
"Ahh. May-uh I help you, young-uh lady?" So genuine, that smile.
How can they all be so rude and so friendly at the same time. What a fucking amazing city.
"I'm just meeting a friend for some coffee and dessert," she said. "I don't think he's here yet."
"Ah, Mr. Finkleberg, no?"
"Yes, that's right."
How did I ever fall so madly for a guy named Finkleberg?
"Then let-uh me show you to-uh your table, no?"
"Sure."
He led her to a cozy, narrow booth in the dark very back corner of the restaurant, the table covered by a classic long white table cloth. But the restaurant was almost empty and it was a glorious day.
"Can't we sit closer to the front? This is my first time in New York in so long -- I'd love to be near the window."
"Oh, uh, so sorry-uh, but Mr. Finkleberg, he like-uh the window too, but he say this-uh special table for-uh you today, no?" He gave a puzzled shrug. "I don't know."
"It's fine...as long as Mr. Finkleberg's happy."
He placed two dessert menus on the table. "Some coffee, yes?"
"That'd be great, thanks." He nodded, smiled warmly again and walked away. As he turned to go into the kitchen, there was Nate heading towards her, wearing a Yankees cap like he promised. But it looked kind of ridiculous with his "nice casual" work attire. At last, it was time for the hug - that first embrace they'd both been anticipating all these months.
"I'm so sorry," he said, as he spread out his arms. He hugged her like he was hugging Mother Earth herself. And he was a lot stronger and more muscular than she remembered.
"Christy..." He didn't as much say it as exhale it from the deepest reaches of his heart and soul and loins. Twenty years of built up "Christy" finally let loose all at once. And as he exhaled, she felt his breath on the back of her neck.
"Christy" again, just in a whisper this time that meant "Thank you Jesus for non-Jewish women." Now she remembered why she fell for him - she was drawn to him by a relentless primal undertow that was useless to resist.
Just a quick platonic coffee and dessert -- that's all you're gonna get girl, so don't even think about anything else.
When the hug finally, sadly ended he stepped back and really looked at her for the first time. Face -- two seconds. Down to the breasts -- five seconds.
Still a complete pig after all these years. Unbelievable.
And then further down.
"You bitch," he said, laughing, looking at her skirt. "You broke the rules." He may have been laughing, but she could see something else creeping into his eyes as he took in the luscious columns of flesh descending from her skirt. That same hungry, helpless look. He hadn't changed a bit. And neither had his effect on her.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Are you mad at me?"
"Furious. For this you need to be taken over my knee and spanked. Repeatedly." He slowly took off his baseball cap, like he was doing a tantalizing strip tease, to reveal his bald glistening dome.
She covered her eyes. "No," she said. "Anything but that. Please."
She was joking around, but damn, he was handsome. Not in a universal way, but as if he had been designed especially for her, according to her particular specs, even down to the way his whole face crinkled up around his piercing, playful green eyes when he laughed. She had hoped it wouldn't be the same after all these years because he had rendered all other men virtually irrelevant - and that had infuriated her for him to so effortlessly wield such unfair power - but it was the same. He had even aged according to the way she would have dictated, like a juicy grade A tenderloin. How she had hoped otherwise.
"I got my hot Vietnamese hairdresser to cut it especially short just for you," he said. "So I'd look even balder than I am."
"She did a great job, but spare me the details about the shampoo."
"I would never tell you what goes on between us when my head's hanging backwards over the sink. Very personal." He scooted into the side of the booth facing out to the rest of the restaurant and the sidewalk through the window beyond.
"Hey, I want to look out," she said. "I don't get to see New York every day like you do."
"Sorry, I get claustrophobic looking at the wall." She laughed, but was a little annoyed that he reserved the worst table in the whole restaurant, then had the gall to take the better seat.
"Fine," she said as she sat down, the backs of her bare thighs pressing against the cool plastic of the booth. She had forgotten how high a short skirt hikes up when you sit down. She pulled it down the best she could, but began to feel strangely vulnerable as her inner thighs kept rubbing against one another.
Then she heard something odd going on under the table. "Are you taking off your shoes?" she asked.
"Yeah, I hate these things," he said, while reaching down under the booth towards his feet. "Remind me of work. I take them off whenever I can."
"Your socks remind you of work too?"
"Yeah, them too. Don't worry, I washed my feet this morning." Then he placed his bare feet on her black patent leather shoes.
