I didn't get this written in time for the Holiday contest, but thought I'd post it anyway. I will probably visit these two for the contest next year. They may have a future.
As for the characters: I do work in a warehouse and I did meet this pretty young lady during the Christmas rush, though I did not train her. Past that, all is fiction.
*
My wife celebrated our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary by announcing that she wanted a trial separation. She moved in with her sister, two states away. Her sister is a Lesbian, which was just fine with me. Everyone is entitled to their own way to get off. She converted her sis to girl-on-girl. Five months after the separation, we agreed to a no-fault divorce. I got the house and pickup, she got the car, we split all monetary assets down the middle and shook hands. And agreed we were thankful our two kids were grown and long out of the house.
What I found confusing was that my wife, Eileen, would never allow me to kiss her on the lips after cunnilingus unless I washed her off my face and mouth. And now, apparently, getting a mouth full of another woman is okay. I have to wonder if she's tasted herself now on the lips and tongue of a playmate.
I'm one of three trainers in a distribution center. We train new hires and current employees changing departments. Nine months out of the year we trainers just work like everybody else. But from the end of September to the end of the year we train lots of new hires, most of them seasonal, for the big Christmas rush.
And after training there are always little questions, computer problems, and unusual circumstances that we need to address.
The absolute best part of this is that every year we get two or three really pretty young women among the one-to-two dozen seasonals. That doesn't mean much to Cathy, but Louis and I appreciate it.
Of course, every silver lining has a cloud. Company rules are very clear and very strict. Even a hint of sexual harassment can result in a suspension or even termination. No rule against regular employees dating, or asking for a date—once—but Louis and I, being in positions of (very limited) authority, need to be extra careful.
This year we had three outstandingly pretty young women hired for my department. Each one near the same age as my daughter. I stayed completely professional and unbiased during the training. But after...
Olivia was one of the three, and the only blue-eyed blonde. Those eyes scared me. Blue eyes like that can tempt a man into making promises he can't keep without serious self-sacrifice. She's a short little nymph, eight inches shorter than my six feet. Doesn't have a great body; small breasts and a little extra tummy weight. But I prefer small breasts, and since I carry some extra weight behind my belt buckle, I couldn't be critical of hers. However, from the waist down incredible doesn't do her justice. If there was a magazine that focused on legs and ass, she'd be a centerfold. She didn't wear shorts, of course, in the fall and winter, but her jeans and stretch pants left little to the imagination.
Whatever your own personal ideas are of pretty and cute, she was right smack in the middle. Those wide-set blue eyes were over a soft-bridged slightly up-turned nose decorated with a spray of freckles above perfect lips.
She seemed to like me.
She always had a happy smile for me and you can bet I returned it. Every interaction with her made my day better. And we usually had a friendly teasing word or two for the other.
I will not admit that we flirted. Nor will I deny it.
The other two pretty youngsters treated me as you'd expect them to treat a man about the same age as their fathers that helped them with their work when necessary.
With Olivia, there seemed something more. But there was no way I was going to chance so much as an unnecessary touch or a suggestive phrase. I need my job.
A week before Christmas the work had declined; the seasonals could be laid off any time.
I'm usually one of the last to leave work every day. On Thursday when I left I found her waiting for me. My day immediately got better. And then better still.
She put a hand on my upper arm and looked up at me with those eyes and smiled.
"Greg," she said, "I know you won't dare to ask me out. So I'll ask you. Would you be interested in going out to dinner with me tomorrow night?"
I looked at her and grinned. "Is this a trick question?"
She looked puzzled. "Why?"
"Olivia, almost every man in the world would like to have dinner with you. But why me? I've seen at least four of those young bucks practically lying at your feet to get your approval."
She shrugged. "Not interested in them. Interested in you. We can talk about the why at dinner. I'll buy."
"Not for me you won't. I would love to have dinner with you. What time tomorrow and where shall I pick you up?"
"Could we just leave from work? Have a drink or two, an early dinner, and then see what might happen?"
"What, like a movie or something?"
"Or something."
"Young lady, there is no chance that I will let any kind of scheduling questions get in the way of having your company at dinner. Should I bring a change of clothes, or are we going casual?"
"Definitely casual. I do have some tentative plans for after, if they'll be agreeable. We can talk about those at dinner too. Or maybe while we're having those drinks."
Her hand had never left my arm, though she had moved it down from my upper arm to my forearm. I reached with my other hand and took hers and kissed the knuckles while looking into those blue eyes. I think, maybe, I was in love at that exact moment.
"You have a date. I hope I can keep from dancing in the aisles during work tomorrow."
She laughed shortly, withdrew her hand, reluctantly, I thought, and gifted me with a cheery wink as she walked to her car.
I did not sleep peacefully that night. But I smiled a lot.
On Friday we got lucky though it didn't seem like it at the time. Not to me, anyway.
Management decided we could put in an extra two hours—turning a nine-hour day into an eleven-hour one, and not have to work Saturday. So we worked till 5:30. I was tired, but the thought of dinner with Olivia helped dispel the feeling.
She did not seem tired. We'd had little interaction that day. But like the day before she was waiting for me just inside the door (it was about twenty degrees outside) and as soon as we exited she put both hands around my upper arm and smiled like a kid at Christmas. She practically bubbled with enthusiasm.
I grinned like a teenager.
She followed me in her car to our local steakhouse. There's always a waiting line on Friday nights and they don't take reservations. So my date and I sat in the bar section and had a couple of drinks until our table was available. She had to show her i.d. Turns out she was twenty-two, which was a year older than I'd guessed. I suppose most observers figured I was out with my daughter.
We talked. Mostly she talked and I listened.
Her mother died from a car accident eighteen months before. She'd lingered, conscious, in the emergency room, just long enough to talk to her family before she died of her injuries.
