Margaret sat uncomfortably aroused and lonely in the crowded cinema foyer. She felt much older than her fifty or so years. She was trying to balance a drink and popcorn on her lap when she noticed them; Margaret wanted them immediately.
The woman was tiny with wavy, brunette hair and a face that was painfully pretty. She was wearing very low cut jeans. Pubic hair should have been visible. Did she have a Brazilian? The man was handsome and knew it and the bulge in his pants was huge. The couple talked but the man carefully avoided looking at his date. It was obvious to Margaret that he was being unfaithful to this woman and despite the hypocrisy, he seemed possessive of her. She seemed oblivious to his infidelity but insecure also. He's Mr Jealousy and she's Miss Easily Deceived Margaret decided. It was clear to her that they had sex recently. Perhaps right before they came out. She pictured their naked bodies twining ...
With his swaggering self confidence, Mr Jealousy reminded Margaret of her first boyfriend, Scott. Margaret was a late bloomer and was eighteen before she even noticed guys. Scott was a jock and thick as a brick — everywhere. That was his single redeeming feature. He couldn't hold down a conversation that did not revolve around sport, but there were better uses for his tongue. They broke up after Margaret found him circle-jerking with his football teammates. She couldn't look him in the eye after that.
Just then, a group of giggling young women came in. She didn't mind they way they looked either but they appeared a little overconfident for her tastes. She liked them mousey, like her first girlfriend, Amy. Amy's breasts were perfect; small, upward pointing with delicious strawberry nipples. She squirmed as her wetness increased at the thought of them. They met when Margaret was in uni. Amy was an ineffectual, timid librarian who couldn't come without pain. Whenever Margaret went down on her, she insisted on being bitten on the labia; if Margaret drew blood, all the better. This wasn't something she enjoyed and Amy knew it. Amy eventually left her for a dominatrix named Carla who had an eye tattooed in the middle of her chest. For a moment Margaret missed the smell of Amy's skin.
A group of labourers, still looking grubby from work, were buying tickets. Bill. That thought smarted. Bill was a road worker and a self-taught gentleman scholar. He was also Margaret's one true love and her perfect fit. He enjoyed nothing more than to get drunk and pontificate on literature in the pub. He was a chronic know-it-all, but after these sessions, Bill would drag Margaret home for base, animalistic sex. His body was fabulous from hard work and his chest hair was inch deep and like a pillow to rest your head upon. Sex with him was like being hit by a storm front and Margaret would come like a lightning bolt every time. Bill was also her great personal tragedy. One night she attended a late tutorial and he went out drinking alone. On his way home Bill was hit by a car. The song Born to Be Alive was playing on the radio when the policewoman told Margaret he had been killed. That was January 20rd 1980 and Margaret had thought her life was over. No one followed Bill for three very long years. Familiar grief washed over her at his memory. This only exacerbated her loneliness — and her libido.
