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My heart.I feel it in my chest, and it feels too vulnerable right now.I can’t remember when I last felt this wave of romance softly washing over me, caressing me like a gentle breeze.I want more of it.
Now.Not later.
What if he has to travel for work suddenly?If he did, my son would probably be home by the time he returns.Things would be different then.
He might not realize how difficult it is to cultivate a romance when there’s a child in the picture.
Tonight.Tonight is all I might have with him.
As we drive toward home, the lampposts on the Navy bridge, each adorned with festive holiday decorations, whip past us as we cross over the Severn River toward our side of Annapolis.I glance downward out my window and take in the sight of a couple sailboats anchored in the water.
Sensing a kind of perfection in this moment, I want to beg for more time to enjoy this feeling inside me.
Something about it all—his presence at my side, the sights that surround me, the music and conversation I’ve enjoyed for hours—it’s reminded me how lacking my life is of “me time.”I’ve fallen into this rut of taking care of my child and working, and I haven’t dared to add anything else to my juggling routine because I’ve been too afraid of dropping a ball.
Since my son was diagnosed, I’ve been living my life in a kind of crisis mode—and forgot how it feels to simply enjoy something formeand no one else.
I glance over at Harris.I want to tell him that.I want to thank him for that.But there’s no way he’d ever quite understand.
He pulls up to my driveway and puts the car in park.“Let me walk you to your door.”
I can’t help the giggle that escapes me.“You don’t have to.Pretty safe neighborhood over here unless I get attacked by a squirrel.”
“Those squirrels can be dangerous.”He gets out of his car and just as I start to open my car door, he opens it for me.I love that he does.
I don’t want this evening to end.
If I invite him in, does that mean he’ll think I want to have sex with him?
If I invite him in, does that mean Igetto have sex with him?
I feel like all the rules and norms of dating that other thirty-somethings know are foreign to me.
But rules be damned.All I know is that if I have the slightest chance of ending this evening reliving that delicious mix of belonging and passion that comes with making love to a man—then I need to take the chance.
Because this chance simply might not come again.
We arrive at my door.
“Do you want to come inside?Maybe have a drink by the Christmas tree?”I ask, and I could swear I don’t recognize my own voice, husky and filled with desire, as I speak.
The words seem innocent enough, but my tone indicatesexactlyhow I want this evening to end.
“I’d love to,” he answers.
Oh my goodness.I’m really doing this.I reach into my purse to fish out my key.
I can’t even remember when I last felt a man’s skin against my own, and the possibility of feeling that again tonight makes my blood simmer with need.
A man’s skin against my own.
A man’s skin against my own?!
Oh my God.I didn’t shave.
Not just this morning or this week.But probably since the last time I put on shorts on the tail end of summer.
Why would I?
