(Rev. Feb '21)
{A modern love story, by turns mysterious, romantic, comedic, and very dirty.}
(Author's Note: This revision corrects a couple of copy-editing mistakes, and a continuity error, I missed the first time. Additional chapters in the saga coming soon.)
Prologue -- Just the Two of Us
The cocktail dress you've chosen for this evening is probably your favorite; it's definitely mine. It's elegantly simple, comfortable, but not boring (subjective: your words). It's flattering to your curves, short but not outrageous, tastefully low-cut, but offers better than a hint of cleavage (subjective: my words). Accessorize it with a tiny dab of Halston, and you're irresistible, unstoppable (objective).
It's the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend, and we're hosting a little afternoon/evening "summer kickoff." It's going well, as our (read: your) parties always do. That's one of the things I love about you.
Tonight, it's a modest-sized group of guests—just a few of our friends, neighbors, and work colleagues. And their partners. They all know each other, work together, or have at least met at one of our parties. In other words, it's a bunch of semi-boring grownups. (There, I said it. Happy?)
New Toy
One of the few exceptions is the guy who's just arrived. A bit (say, 20 years) younger than the rest of us, he doesn't seem to know anyone here, and he's alone. New to the area, he recently joined my company, where he's already shown himself to be very capable, though a little shy or socially awkward. You and I mused about this, as I've told you he's smart, articulate, and interesting. And now you discover that he's also a little taller than you (so he's at least a head taller than I am), well dressed, and quite good-looking. That person about whom we jokingly say "Well, they're rah-ther attractive, aren't they?"
You welcome him in, introducing yourselves in the process; I rush over, apologizing for not making a more formal introduction [
me: lame grin emoji
-
you: eye roll emoji
], greet him, and shake hands. And you're immediately in your element—you fix him a drink, start casually introducing him to other guests, proffer interesting topics of conversation, and within minutes, he seems completely at home. The charm, grace, and warmth you convey puts people instantly at their ease (and I'd be remiss not to say that it's helped our careers, as well). This is another thing I love about you.
Shortly, as he and I—after swearing that we wouldn't—proceed to talk about work, then a movie we've both seen recently, you're in constant motion, chatting, laughing, ensuring that everyone's enjoying the party, and occasionally looking our way. Besides admiring your skill as a host, I confess that I'm admiring your figure, as you glide about the room in that little black dress.
A few feet away, you bend to retrieve a couple of empty glasses, and for a split-second, I see your hips do a little shimmy. It's barely perceptible, but I notice. While I doubt that anybody else does, a quick sideways glance makes me realize that I'm not the only one who saw that tiny, subtle, sexy movement. He blinks a few times, regains his composure, and I understand that it was definitely not for my benefit.
You rejoin us within a few minutes, and I split off to catch up with an old friend who is, like me, an unrepentant old music (OK, prog-rock) nerd. Often somewhat blunt, he questions how you and I don't ever seem to age, and then flat-out states that you look hotter every time he sees you. (He and I have known each other a very long time, and, though the latter comment is a bit sexist, I know it's his form of a compliment. I silently, completely, agree with him.)
I'm quite sure our new guest overheard this, and he briefly looks my way, nonplussed for the second time in ten minutes. But you sweep him up in a conversation about a book you've just discovered, "...a translation of 19th Century Balinese religious texts—it's essentially erotic poetry,
rather
explicit—who knew that was even a thing?" If his interest wasn't already piqued, that (perhaps aided by a couple of glasses of wine) clearly does the trick; you, however, just blithely proceed to point out other books on our shelves that you think he'd like.
We continue working the party, now and then saving him from less-interesting guests (what can I say, they're not all stellar conversationalists...). You start talking with him about some improvements we're planning to make around the house, asking his opinion, and asking him more about himself: Is he in a relationship? ("No"); Where's he from? ("Chicago"); Where does he live now? ("Downtown"); How does he feel the job is going, because it sounds like he's doing really well? ("It's pretty exciting"). All this time (really, from the moment he walked in), you're warm and encouraging, occasionally brushing his arm or shoulder lightly, and flashing that charming smile.
I'm watching a master craftsperson, like a sculptor or a glassblower, at work. Exquisite. Did I forget to mention this is another thing I love about you?
You ask, "Can I show you the rest of the house?" He obliges, and the two of you amble away, discussing architecture, cities, art—highbrow, grownup stuff. As "the tour" continues out of my sight, I know you're showing him the artsy (description: pretentious, but
