We met online, and as luck would have it, we lived in the same city. During our second chat, I invited Matilda out to dinner. She accepted, and we arranged to meet at The Old Federal the next evening.
The Old Federal was a heritage-listed pub that had been tarted up to attract the well-heeled mob, who liked the adventure of slumming it on the edges of a recently gentrified part of town. And they had converted the first-floor veranda into an alfresco dining room replete with cloth napkins.
Our waiter seated us at a table for two beside the veranda rail. It gave us a view of the comings and goings, the clandestine deals, and the not so clandestine soliciting on the street below. A veritable cornucopia of distractions should the conversation falter. As we relaxed into the wicker chairs and sipped pre-dinner drinks, we dispensed with the weather and how lucky we were to have such a warm evening for our first meeting.
"Wow, that guy in the third doorway from the corner has done three transactions in the last five minutes."
"I heard he was planning to open a drive-through franchise next week."
"Macca's eat ya heart out."The street was living up to its potential. And so, with the help of a bottle of red, the conversation flowed. We were both in fine form, picking up the ball and running with each other's play.
After our meal, I ventured, "I think I shall call you Molly, Matilda is so formal, and you don't strike me as a Malt kinda girl."
"You're right; I'm not a great fan of beer."
"Perhaps I will call you Moll for short."
Matilda sat up straight, and without the hint of a smile, "In your dreams pal."
I smiled inwardly, Rory my man, I think you may have just hit pay dirt.
"So, Moll," I smiled, "what would you like for dessert?"
"I think I'm about done here."
"Agreed, I'm full too, somewhere less conspicuous would be nice."
Still, with a straight-face, Matilda inquired, "Your place or mine?"
I had indeed hit pay dirt. That was six months ago, and we have been co-habiting for the last five of them. Molly had become my muse, a muse with benefits. For not only did she like the photographer, she liked the camera. And the camera liked her. Slim as she is, the camera added just enough pounds to enhance her feminine charms.
While her boobs are small, they are a perfect fit for a wide-mouthed champagne glass and have an almost classic line. A gentle ski slope held upright by a firm foundation. So fine indeed, that I have made several studies of them. The best of which shows them in conversation. They aren't symmetrical, her right nipple is a fraction smaller than the left but counters that with an elevated outlook. They are buddies comfortable in their gossip. Highlighting once again, it is our imperfections that make us unique.
But I digress. Adventurous as our lovemaking was, and that night-time quickie in the local primary school shelter shed aside, it was starting to lose some of the spark that energised our first encounter. Hence, The Game.
We had agreed to pick up each other on a mid-week evening at the local Sheraton hotel piano bar. Saturday night's Billy Joel would have given way to a conservatoire student who was happy to let the piano speak for itself.
Molly had gone to a friend's place to dress, and I had, unbeknown to the Moll I was hoping to meet, taken a room in the Sheraton. I dawdled over my toilette and had an in-house burger to line my stomach. When I entered the ground floor bar, Molly was in situ.
She was wearing a little black shoestring dress that displayed what cleavage she had to its best advantage. Over which she had donned a bolero jacket made from the same material. Apart from her red clutch bag and the matching come fuck me heels, she was Matilda. Straight backed with hands demurely clasped in her lap and with a lemon spritzer on the table, she was an out of town executive with a free night on her hands.
Armed with a dry vermouth on ice and a list of rejected pickup lines, I walked over to her table adjacent to the dance floor.
"Hello, how are you?"
"I'm good, and you?"
"Well, I woke up this morning, so it can't be all bad."
"It's essential, I'm told."
"The alternative doesn't bear thinking about. May I?"
"You're number three. So, OK."
"Number three?"
"I never let the first two sit. Can't be seen to be too easy or obvious."
"Of course."
"I tell them I'm waiting for my husband to come back from the loo."
"Does it work?"
"The empty glass helps."
"I thought that was just a slack glassy."
"No glassies here mate, this is the Sheraton, only waiters."
"Same act, just an up-market performance. Don't they take them away?"
"I don't let them. When they pick it up, I lean forward and flash them a glimpse down my top as I retrieve it from their grasp. Tits, or no tits? Bra, or no Bra? I put them out of their misery, I mean, it's for my own protection."
"So, are you waiting?"
"Not just at the moment."
"Does it work?"
"A two slipped through once."
"You were asleep at the wheel?"
"She just sat down, waved at the glass, and enquired if I thought he would mind."
"Was she disappointed when he didn't show up?"
"Not that I noticed. And I know I didn't mind. Oh my, did I just say that?"
"You did."
"You must think me a terrible chatterbox."
"Not at all. It was an interesting tale. And I've a golden rule to never interrupt someone telling tales out of school."
Molly's laugh skipped round the room.
"And if a gentleman caller is persistent?"
"I let it be known that he is a humourless son of a bitch."
"Is he?"
"Is he what?"
"A humourless son of a bitch?"
"I don't know; I'm not married."
"And if a pretend marriage doesn't dent his ardour?"
"I catch the barman's eye and mouth help."
"And that works?"
"Every time in a joint like this. It's more than his job's worth to have a hysterical female create a scene in his bar."
"Have you?"
"What?"
"Created a scene in a Sheraton bar?"
"Not yet."
"I stand warned."
"You're sitting."
"You're right, I am. Would you like another drink; your Spitzer is looking a tab warm. Care to share a bottle of wine?"
"If it's red."
"How about a Brown Brother's Shiraz."
"A bottle of Murray River mud? Why not."
"You're into red wine?"
"Guilty as charged."
" Then I'd better get the yellow label."
"In this bar?"
"It's a big pub, I'm sure they've got a cellar."
After I had convinced the waitress to go and look, Matilda inquired, "Do you come here often?"
"My first time," I lied.
"So, you're not a local?"
"Nope, I'm here on business."
"Which is?"
"This and that. Sell a couple of bottles of Doctor Good."
"Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves? .... They call us,
Gypsies, Tramps, and thieves, but at night all the men would come around and lay their money down.
Is that your favourite song?"
"The lyrics have a ring of truth to them. What's your favourite song?"
"I could have danced all night. From My Fair Lady."
"I know. You're into show tunes?"
"
I could have danced all night, I could have danced all night, And still have begged for more.
"
"
I could have spread my wings and learned a thousand things
."
"
I never knew before
."
All the eyes in the bar turned our way. All 16 on them, attracted by our laughter cartwheeling across the dance floor.
"We've become the centre of attention."
"Perhaps we should become a double act?"
"Slow down Speedy Gonzales; I don't even know your name."
"Relax, my thinking hasn't gone past tonight."
"You changed the words."
"Only one, and you picked up on it."
"Aw, come on.... Keeping up's so easy."
"And, anyway, learning stuff is fun. The more you know, the more you get to appreciate."
"I hated school."
"Ah, that's only the building blocks, pretty boring stuff really, the basics. But necessary if you want to become a professional."
"Such as?"
