It was a usual morning for an ordinary day. I woke up to the pretty light coming into my bedroom windows. They overlooked a little park with big old trees. In the mornings people walked their dogs and children played in the park. Then the retired people and their small dogs and canes came in the early afternoon, or just with canes if they didn't have a dog. In the late afternoons, teenagers hung out in the park. The late evenings, dusk, were the best, when people snuck into the park, sometimes together and sometimes alone, to make out or have sex, things regular people couldn't see among the big old trees.
But this day is not about the park. I get up, have some tea and toast, get washed and dressed, and go to the little coffee shop not too far from my apartment.
I found this place when I first moved here during the days when all I did was wander the streets and explore the town I now live in. I'd been here five weeks and was finally settling in and settling down, ready to do some of the fun free-lance work I promised myself I would do.
Three years ago my treasure of a dog died, then my father died and two months later my husband died. It took two and a half years to settle all the business of death and grieve for all the losses that happened all at once. And when all the business was done, and the worst was over, I was itchy. My new little house was nice, paid for and I still had enough money to be as freelance as I had always wanted to be, not having to take every illustration job for every person in the world, no matter how terrible. I could retire now if I lived carefully. I was careful, but at the moment also carefree.
After talking it over with my daughters who were both grown and doing well, I decided to move to the UK for six months, which is as long as I am allowed to stay without a work visa. But that is good enough for now. My youngest daughter lives in my little house as a caretaker while I am gone. I found an estate agent in the UK and together we found a nice place for me to live for six months in this city. It wasn't a palace, small, but the light was nice, all the fixtures worked, the bathtub is deep, and it has big windows. I fixed it up as I like and I am happy. I have a really good bed.
I feel freer than I have in a long time and feel like I am returning to myself after a long time of being about 40 feet underground, even before the rash of deaths
I was also experiencing something fun that had been forty feet under as well - I thought a man was attractive and I looked forward to seeing him. I first saw him at the little cafe I had found during my wandering around the town. He often wore shorts on nice days and had really nice legs. Everything above the legs was very nice too. He was about my age, six feet tall, pretty fit and fair. He seemed to be friendly to everyone he came in contact with. When he was at the cafe and got a phone call, he would turn away from the other people, so we all didn't have to hear his conversation. Politeness counts. He read a lot and did a lot of writing, and I liked watching him covertly.
On Wednesdays and Thursdays, I have a little flutter in my stomach because those are the days that I see him most often and I have started looking forward to it. I make sure on Wednesdays and Thursdays that I look good. Tasty for 55, fair to silver, mediumly in shape, mediumly shapely, middling tall, a still pretty face. I had forgotten how fun it was to get a little dolled up, even for just an hour of possible flutters.
At the cafe, I'm sad that he's not here, but it's still a nice day. I go to sit at one of the six small outside tables with my coffee and chocolate croissant and read the children's book I was illustrating again. It is a lovely story about a family of bunnies, and I was working on sketches of the youngest bunny with pencil. If I find a face for the littlest bunny, I will outline it in pen and can share it will the author and editor for approval. The other bunnies were already done, but the expressions for the youngest were more difficult.
I get the size of the eyes and the expression of the little bunny's mouth right finally after a lot of erasures. I can repeat the face from different angles too. I feel the thrill I get when that happens, when it's just right and can be repeated. I reach into my bag for my pen to begin the lining on the sketches when I look up and see that the man I had been admiring was across from me at the next table. Our eyes touch momentarily, lasting only a nanosecond as my fingers touch my pen and close around it. It feels like an electric shock. I look away first, pen in hand.
Back to the bunnies, that are swimming in front of my eyes. I know that it is really not a good idea to outline now so I doodle on a new page, circles and waves and lines. One of the patterns I doodle looks a bit penis-y and I smile.
I have the tickle of being watched but don't want to look up. I feel the heat in my cheeks, rising up my neck. I have a habit of turning my pen in my fingers, done it since I was small, twirling it like a tiny baton. Ten twirls, twenty twirls, and then the pen slips out of my fingers and spins in a high arc through the air, landing right next to his coffee in the middle of his table with a hard ' thunk'.
I'm frozen like one of the bunnies I'm drawing. He takes the short steps over to my table and hands me my pen.
"I'm sorry about that," I say as I take my pen. Our fingers touch and it's another jolt. Up my arm and down my back.
"No need to apologize," he says.
"I'm Annie," I tell him and hold out my hand.
"Ian Hunt," he says and shakes my hand. His hand is warm and strong, not that he's crushing me, but I can feel the muscle there.
"Are you American?" he asks.
"Why, yes. What gave it away? My shoes? I bet it was my shoes."
"Yes, it was your shoes, certainly not your accent." He smiles at me and I like his smile, I like him looking at me. And then I do something I don't expect me to do - I ask him out.
I'm smiling, and ask, "Would you like to get a drink with me sometime?"
"Yes," he says matter of factly. "When?"
"Uh, tomorrow?" I ask. I feel myself blushing more, I could power a small city with my flaming cheeks.
"I'm sorry, I can't tomorrow. Are you free tonight?"
I don't bother checking my calendar. I'm free. "That would be lovely. Eight o'clock okay with you?" Eight o'clock is fine with him and we figure out where to meet that's not too far from me. Although he offers to pick me up, I decline. We share a coffee shop, he doesn't need to know exactly where I live. Yet. We exchange numbers in case something comes up, and as he has an appointment to attend, tells me he's looking forward to seeing me later and gives me a very brief one-arm side hug.
I watch him walk away, a nice view- a nice back, nice hips, and of course nice legs, with my mouth figuratively hanging open, gaping at myself. What have I just done? The terrified voice in my head starts yelling, "OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD WHATHAVEYOUDONEOHMYGOD!"
"Oh, shut up!" I accidentally say aloud. No one appears to have heard me and I’m glad.
What I have done is ask an attractive man out for a drink with me. Not terrible. I'm allowed. It's nice because I'm still alive. The worst thing that will happen is we won't have anything to talk about, we might be bored, and I might have to find a new coffee shop if it's truly awful. That will be that or maybe I'll have a friend, someone I can share a table with at coffee sometimes. That would be nice too.
He said yes. He's cute. And I'm still tingling, my hand, my whole arm, from shaking his hand, my shoulder from when his arm was around me for that brief side hug, and I look at my pen, unbelieving that I flipped it. I don't remember the last time I even dropped a pen. I really don't want to think about the other tingles going on. Tingles, though, are good, just another sign I'm alive.
The evening is clear, but a little chilly. I'm wearing a mid-thigh black pleated skirt and a pink short-sleeved sweater. I have my favorite cute heels on, and to make myself feel special I'm wearing a silky black bra and matching silky black panties. When I look in the mirror, I think I look pretty hot. I also have nice legs, all the way up.
When I was getting ready, I told myself I was just taking care of some neglected items, even though I knew these were neglected items I attend to if I think there is even a possibility, however remote, that I might be naked in front of someone. I certainly was not going to be naked I tell myself, I wanted to shave my legs and check the thousand might-be-naked places and things just because. I even repaint my toenails. Dark red. For confidence, of course, not possible future nakedness.
It's only a few minutes walk to the pub and I am just a few minutes late as I had not been able to decide which jacket to wear. He is leaning against the wall in jeans and our leather jackets almost match. We smile at each other, and I hope it will be a nice night. He leans down and kisses my cheek, telling me it's nice to see me. He smells like soap and toothpaste. We find a quiet table in a corner. We chat easily. He asks why I'm here, in this city and I explain about being a freelance illustrator so I can work anywhere, and a widow. He tells me he is sorry for my loss.
"My husband was always a very aggressive driver," I tell him.
"Oh, car crash then?" He asks, looking serious.
"No, heart attack." He laughs, and the "widow" discomfort is gone.
We laugh a lot this evening. He has no children and is not married. He works for himself too and tells me he would like to see my drawings sometime. I offer to get the next round of drinks when we have finished the first, but he won't hear of it. While he is at the bar, I draw a quick sketch of him on a paper coaster, just as he looks waiting for the drinks, elbow on the bar, half smile for the barmaid. I give it to him when he gets back. I can tell he likes it and is a little impressed. He looks for a long time and puts it in the inside pocket of his jacket.
I get up to go to the bathroom and he stands up. "Oh, do you have to leave?" I ask, disappointed as I don’t want the evening to end just yet.
"No, I'm just being polite."
My inner princess is swooning quietly. "No need," I tell him.
"I can't help it, it's an ingrained reflex. If I didn't do it, I would feel my mum whack me with a spoon.”
"By all means, stand then. No phantom spooning or whacking," I say, realizing that may have come out wrong.
He stands when I get back and adjusts my chair for me. My inner princess has to lie down now, I think.
I'm having such fun, haven't had such fun in so long, talking and laughing and flirting with a clever man. I haven't flirted with any man actually, but a clever one is certainly best. At one point he puts his hand on mine and is looking me in the eye at the same time, telling me a story about a friend. His eyes are green. This time the tingle goes up my arm, across my nipples making them hard in my sweater, down my spine, and directly into my pussy. Warmth spreads. I'm not sure how I don't physically flinch, and I have completely lost track of what he is saying.
We finish our last drinks, and he helps me with my jacket, and steers me to the door, waving goodnight to a few people he knows.
It's dark and the night air is cool. I like it as my face is too hot. I get out my phone to get a taxi, but Ian says he will walk me home if I like. I do like. I stumble a few steps from the door. Ian tucks my hand through his arm for balance. My inner princess's eyes roll back in her head and faints. I tell him I've had so much fun and thank him for a lovely evening when we are just a short way from my flat.