Special Thanks to Mark for helping make this story even hotter then it was before he branded it with his flare for making it sizzle. This Dance is for you.
What an unexpected night. First my day was brightened when the front office announced Mark was here to see me, a salesman, who came every six months or so to try to convince me to leave my current supplier for his company. All to no avail, my supplier and my company's owner are old friends, but I always enjoyed my conversation with the tall, distinguished looking man, a few years older than me.
As always, he takes my rejection gracefully, but again with a smile, says he'll try again. At the door he stops, “Kat?” I look up. “Would you be interested perhaps in meeting for a drink tonight?”
My stomach flutters, there is nothing more I'd like. But how many times had I gazed at his wedding ring wishing it weren't there. Now, my eyes go to it, hopefully to convey my concern. It isn't there, my mind screams.
“About six months ago,” he explains. “This isn't a date. I don't do that yet. But I'd enjoy adult company. My weekends are with my kids. My days with co-workers. I'd like to spend time with someone I choose to spend time with.”
I hear myself agree to meet him at the Irish Pub down the street. I call my friend. She agrees to take her kids to my house, and wait for my children to get home from school. “Will I be spending the night in your house?” she teases. I feel myself blush as I tell her no.
“I should change the locks on you, so you can't come home.” she says laughing. My best friend. We call each other the Single Mom Support Group. We are there for each other. What I'm asking of her today, she's asked of me countless times. She's a lot more confident in the dating arena than I. “The problem for you,” she's always telling me, “is you are waiting for love to come along. A girl can't make love come along, but a woman sure has a lot of influence as to when sex comes along. And sex will make him come back. And maybe if he comes back enough, love will come along too. At least, you'll save on batteries,” she kids.
Drinks become dinner. I listen to his woeful story, the dissolving of a marriage. I've heard it before, lived it myself, and I know that the telling softens the blow a bit. And it works, some, for him. He relaxes, and we end up at a place with a dance floor. It's been ages, since I danced, but I love moving my body, with him. I think of another kind of dance I've always wanted to do for a man.
There are more drinks, too many. We are too drunk to drive. We discuss it seriously, adult enough to not push it. His house is nearby. He offers me his guest bedroom. With it, is what I suspect is a bogus assurance to behave. He's a man after all, hurt, drunk, and if his eyes tracing my body on the dance floor are not lying, he's attracted to me. But as women have done for eons with men, we hear their lies, hope they are not lies, but are ready to deal with them if they are.
He settles me into his guest room. He kisses me goodnight, almost chastely, less a kiss than I'd given him if we'd been able to part company back at my car. He's so sweet.
