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“How long have you been married?” he asked, his eyes glancing toward my wedding band.
At this point, I probably should have told him that we were venturing into increasingly uncomfortable territory, getting perhaps a little too personal, and we should stick to discussing real estate. Or the weather.
Something safe.
Instead I took another sip of wine and said, “Going on ten years. How long have you been divorced?”
“Four.”
“And I seem to remember you saying you had no children.”
“Correct. You?”
“Two. Sam is eight and Daphne is three.”
“Great names.”
“Great kids,” I said.
“Never a doubt.”
The waiter approached with our dinners, and I dug in gratefully, it being harder to talk with your mouth full. My mind was racing, my thoughts not so much deep as they were disconcerting. I watched him eat, wondering how his lips would feel on mine. I watched his fingers deftly and delicately remove the shellfrom a piece of shrimp and imagined those same fingers unbuttoning my blouse and sliding it off my shoulders. I watched him lick the sauce from his fork and felt his tongue trace the inside of my thigh.
I heard myself sigh.
“Something wrong?” he asked, looking up from his plate, unaware of my musings.
“No,” I answered.
Only everything,I thought.
