"Hi."
"Hi!" Caught unawares, her enthusiasm sounded genuine. To me, at least. Then, however, she seemed to realize and her tone flattened. "Long time."
"Yes." Three years. Give or take. Three years, two months, actually. Without asking, I settled into a chair opposite her and looked around. It was Starbucks, of course. No surprise . It'd be a long story to go into and not really very important here.
"Didn't you know where to find me?"
I returned my gaze to her, sipped my tea. She was gorgeous. Truly. Everyone who writes this type of story describes the female as gorgeous. SHE really was, and is – because this is a true story. We'd had one of those red-hot-frantic-few-months-of-lust-and-haze relationships. Surreal. She's so gorgeous it'd taken me a few weeks to get over the idea she was too good for me. But I did. Mostly. Because gorgeous though she was, she was an emotional catastrophe. Full stop. I mean, imagine sending a third party to impart where you are. Middle school stuff. I settle for, "You've always known where to find me. I haven't moved." Silent for a moment, she sipped her coffee and looked away. In profile, she was, well, striking. "You're spending a fair amount of time here now."
'Here' was another town. The one she'd run to. Credit where it was due, she'd been up front, 'I'm going to run,' she'd said, 'I always do.'
And she did. She started by running, or at least striding as rapidly as decorum allowed, to the far side of rooms housing the public functions we attended – having always arrived separately. Then she'd run through a whole series of other guys. Then she'd run clean out of town -- eventually to another, larger town 200 miles away. This town. The one where we'd met finally, in this Starbucks, more than three years later. All told, she'd overwhelmed my stated intention to, 'take one step closer and wait.'
"Yet you haven't looked me up," she continued. "Until today."
"I thought you'd seen me. It would've been churlish to leave without saying hi."
She moved her cup in a little circle on the tabletop. "I admire the way you stuck to your word." Maybe I cocked a quizzical eyebrow, because she added, "most guys chase me."
"You have the kind of ass it's easy to chase."
Chuckling, she shook her head. "Look, I have to get back to work."
"Okay." One step closer and wait. Or not. After three year, probably 'not'.
"Dinner?"
'Which year?' almost popped out. Instead, I suggested a hotel not too far away. A hotel where we'd once had such a heavy necking and petting session, they'd actually changed the décor to prevent a repetition.
Chuckling again, she slipped out of the chair. Then seemed to hesitate. "The intimacy was better than the sex."
"You said that several times."
"But intimacy's important."
"Text me," I said, sipping my tea again. "My phone number hasn't changed."
Flushing slightly, and no doubt taking that as a parting shot, since her phone numbers had changed, she nodded and left. Yes, she has the kind of ass it's easy to chase...
She actually did text. Within two hours. And gave me an address. I assumed it was her place in town. The place she'd phoned me from once, when she was down for a few days decorating it to put it up for rent. The place where she'd wanted me to know she was fucking another guy, while the two of them decorated.
Jeans, bare feet and a tight scoop-necked top. She'd dressed this way to let me into her other condo any number of times. Underneath would be a g-string and matching bra. I handed over the bottle of wine, kicked off my shoes and shrugged off my coat. By which time she was in the kitchen.
It was as though we'd gone back in time, somehow. But not quite. I peeled off my own socks, tucked them in my shoes and padded barefoot into the kitchen.
This I'd never done before. It seemed a good way to initiate some change in pattern. And the cool laminate felt good underfoot.
The wine was on the marble-topped island, the corkscrew beside it. She was at the stove with her back to me. The furniture, of course, was familiar. In fact, if the view out the window was the tee of a first class golf course, instead of a park with marked out rugby field, we could've been transported back the full three plus years. "I know you like lamb"
"Smells good," I replied, handing her a glass and clinking glasses. "Cheers."
We were very careful to maintain eye contact. Neither of us could afford too many more years of 'bad sex': the consequence, according to superstition, of not keeping eye contact through the first toast of any evening. Her eyes dipped to my feet as she lowered the glass and she grinned. "Now that's a sexy new twist."
Her toenails were pink. "That's a new colour."
"Not a sexy new colour?"
"You're more the red polish type."
Shaking her head, she said, "And you still specialize in candour."
I shrugged.
"The lamb's going to take about 40 minutes."
Translation: this was going to get tense. There was a deck of cards. There was usually a deck of cards. She played solitaire a lot, especially when she was treating the phone call as obligatory rather than interesting. I fished the deck out of the lazy-susan, unboxed and shuffled. Then I dealt two hands: one in front of the stool I slid onto, one in front of the other stool. She slid up onto the other stool. "What are we playing?"
"Five card draw."
"Stakes?"
