Maggie's Story:
Maggie looked at her reflection in the mirror over the Ladies' Room sink. She wiped away a tiny smudge from her eyeliner that virtually no one else would have noticed. Dipping into her purse, she reapplied lipstick. It was a new neutral shade they called "Cashmere" that made her well-formed lips look full and pouty. She suppressed the sigh that often sought release when she regarded her face, now showing signs of maturity and some tiny fine lines. She knew she shouldn't complain, because even though she was now forty-five, most people took her for almost ten years younger. But still - Maggie could see the inevitable march of time, and couldn't help feeling a little melancholy.
To fortify herself, she spritzed a tiny bit of her favorite perfume on her breastbone before heading back out there. She was in the Ladies' Room of a fashionable lounge on the Lower East Side. Maggie's team at the office, a group of four women between the ages of 25 and 30, had chosen the venue. This was one of their quarterly team dinner nights; while Maggie had chosen the restaurant -- this time it had been a very hip Japanese place in Tribeca -- she'd left the after-dinner drinks choice to her team. They selected this ultra-cool cocktail lounge that required a reservation made by way of a secret, non-published phone number you could only get if you "knew someone".
Maggie was happy that it was nearly the end of the week, and that her team had this opportunity to unwind and relax. She wished she could do the same. Work had been very stressful for the last several weeks, as they anticipated the firm's earnings announcements. She didn't relish having to deal with all the communications necessary next week, once her firm's executive management announced that they'd narrowly missed expectations and would have to go through yet another belt-tightening exercise. The financial services industry has been struggling since the tough summer of 2008, and her role as the chief of marketing and communications had been a particularly challenging one for the last several years, as a result. Still, she thought, she should be grateful, because they were better off than many. An alarming number of her industry acquaintances had been downsized in recent years and were still looking for work.
As she made her way back to their table through the glamorous retro 1950s style bar, she saw that their group had been invaded by several men who seemed to be in their early thirties or so.
Great, Maggie thought, here we go. She resolved to say her goodbyes as soon as she finished her drink and leave the younger women to their fun.
It's not that she didn't date - since her divorce she dated quite a lot. She also was no stranger to the one-night stand. Maggie wasn't a prude by any means and had what might be characterized as a pretty healthy libido. It's just that in places like this one - clubs full of B-list models, C-list celebrities and Wall Street types in various states of inebriation - she would not even try to compete. Looking around, Maggie thought: I'm at least 15 years older and three dress sizes larger than most of the women here.
As she approached her chair, Allison, a slim blonde 25-year old project manager, who happened to also be one of her most intelligent and ambitious direct reports, exclaimed her delight at Maggie's return. Her high-pitched voice was loud from too much bourbon, but she still managed to be very lady-like. She introduced Maggie to the men who had joined their table, and one nearest to her stood and smoothly pulled out her chair.
Maggie only half-turned and caught a quick impression of the man that Allison introduced as Nick. She registered his height - he was very tall - and a mass of dirty blonde, stylishly mussed hair and dark clothes.
"Oh, thank you. No need to get up." She said over one shoulder, a rather mechanical smile on her face.
"Don't be silly. I was raised to stand up when a lady arrives." He countered. His voice was very deep and he exuded confidence.
What a player. Maggie thought. Try that out on someone your own age. This almost made her laugh out loud at the self-deprecation, but she quickly stifled the impulse. As she sipped her drink, she scanned the other men around the table and quickly assessed which of her staff drew their interest.
The one called Drew was focused almost exclusively on Allison. Maggie thought they'd make beautiful children. He was as dark as she was fair, and he had a similar patrician elegance. Probably also a trust fund baby, like her project manager.
The man named Paul was more of the 'boy next door' type: like a former football player with a marshmallow center who was everyone's best friend. He seemed to be about 30 or so, and Katie, her logistics manager, seemed to think everything he said was absolutely hilarious. Ah, the mating dance, Maggie thought with a sentimental smile.
To her right, Rob seemed intent on showing Jenna every app he had on his smart phone. They were now comparing their favorite music downloads. Maggie had witnessed how Jenna could turn a 350-lb Teamster into a quivering mass of jelly when she was angry, but right now she was giggling behind one hand like a Geisha. Rob had the look of an aging skateboarder-turned-IT executive, complete with the hipster eyeglasses. He was wearing a hoodie under his posh suede jacket, and sported a five thousand dollar watch on his wrist.
"Where's Amy?" Maggie asked the crowd in general. Allison answered for the group.
"She's over by the bar talking to Brad." Allison had to shout a little to be heard over the music that had just started playing. The lounge had a live band that evening - they played a sort of cool Latin fusion. Maggie had no idea who Brad was, but assumed he'd come with the rest of these guys.
She jumped when she heard Nick's voice in her ear. She'd almost forgotten about him sitting to her left.
"What are you drinking?" He asked. His arm was resting across the back of Maggie's chair as he leaned toward her to talk into her ear. When she leaned back to look at him, she came into contact with his lean muscles and flinched away almost as if she'd been burned.
His eyes moved from her face to his arm and back again. A sardonic smiled crossed his face, which Maggie now looked at for the first time. Dammit, she thought. How ridiculously handsome is this one? He seemed to be in his mid-to-late 30s, or perhaps even older. For a brief moment she felt bad for him. He was the odd man out at this table. She speculated that this didn't happen to him very often. But, Maggie reasoned, he would not be in a solitary state for long - not with that "kisser", as her mother used to say.
He looked at her, smiling enigmatically. His eyebrows shot up to emphasize the fact that he was waiting for an answer.
"I'm sorry?" Maggie asked.
He leaned even closer this time, his lips almost brushing her ear. "What are you drinking?" He asked again.
His voice was the kind of deep baritone that usually made Maggie's knees weak. When he finished posing the question, he didn't move back more than an inch or two - so his face was still unnervingly close to Maggie's. She leaned back a bit and again made contact with his arm - still curved across the back of her chair. This time she forced herself to be cool and allow the contact.
Despite herself, Maggie felt a tiny rush of sexual energy moving through her. She noticed that his eyes were dark, velvety brown and his skin glowed with a healthy tan - the kind you get from being on boats in the sun. He had very white, perfect teeth. A Palomino boy, she found herself thinking, and probably an actor. She thought he looked vaguely familiar and assumed it was because she'd seen him in some Indie movie or other. It pissed her off. This was the last thing she needed right now, some idiotic crush on a younger man who wouldn't seriously look twice at a woman like her. Perversely, Maggie decided it was time to play a little.
"It's a New York Flip." She answered, picking up the martini-style glass and bringing it to her lips. She didn't take her eyes off the Pony Boy, as she decided to call him. She watched him watch her mouth as she drank from the glass.
"Want a taste?" She asked, her voice rather husky. He seemed slightly surprised at the sexual innuendo. She feigned an innocent expression and held the glass toward him, a mischievous grin hovering faintly on her lips. She saw a slow, wicked smile grow on his handsome face. There was a danger there that Maggie found exhilarating, in spite of herself.
"Oh - definitely." He replied. He reached for the glass, but rather than taking it from Maggie, he closed his fingers over hers and drew the glass to his mouth, taking her hand along for the ride. His eyes were locked onto hers.
This son of a bitch is smooth, thought Maggie.
"Like it?" She asked, as he slowly released her hand.
"Delicious." He answered, a crooked grin on his wide, sensual mouth.
"We should order you one, then." She said, smiling, as she turned her gaze back to the table in general. She could feel him continuing to look at her face in profile, and was grateful that the dim lighting would mask the flush she could feel blooming in her cheeks.
Just then, Amy returned with someone Maggie could only assume was Brad. Tossing her tiny purse on the table, she announced that they were going to dance. Then Brad took Amy's hand, and spun her expertly as they headed away back to the tiny dance floor.
Allison immediately jumped up and said "Yes - let's go dance!" And was followed by Katie, Drew and a very reluctant-looking Paul. Jenna and Rob were now sharing one set of earphones, trying to watch a video together on his phone. Maggie realized she had no escape in sight from Pony Boy.
Feeling the need to flee, Maggie sighed slightly and decided to stick to her original plan - finish her drink and leave. She took another sip, trying to calculate how much of her drink was left, when a waitress appeared at her side and deposited another round down for the entire table - including a new cocktail for Maggie.
"Oh really? Another round; who ordered these?" She asked the waitress.
"Mr. Sinclair ordered these." Said the waitress. She gazed over at the Pony Boy with a strangely simpering look.
