Anticipation

I leaned over and gave her a kiss. We had both been thinking of this moment during months of awkward flirting/not flirting.  Both waiting for me to swim through the muddy waters from married to divorced.

She was ready, but wouldn’t make the move.  I wasn’t sure if I was ready.

Actually, that’s a lie.

I was ready but I didn’t know how to get there, or what there meant.  The alcohol sure helped gloss over those naggy questions Sober Me would need to handle at a later date.  She was drunk, drunker than I was, but that wasn’t readily apparent.

We kissed, lightly at first, harder and more full as the hesitancy and awkwardness melted away.

“Nine and a half months I’ve waited for that,” she whispered as we parted to breathe.  It gave me the impression that somewhere in her head was a mental calendar that could have also provided the number of days, hours, and minutes of anticipation.

We came together again, with more surety this time, wondering what the gestation of these many months would produce. My hand wandered from her face to her neck and into the wilds of her sea colored hair.  Involuntarily, as our lips and our tongues continued their dance, with my hand entwined in her hair I gave a small squeeze, tugging firmly but gently. She inhaled sharply.  I did it again, a little less gently, and was rewarded with a moan and her mouth pressing harder into mine.

I was freed from the sad caricature I had drawn of myself captioned:  "Almost 40. Divorced, with kids.” Uninhibited by a few beers, and fully drunk on pent-up passion, I found my swagger.  In those few long moments in a dark car, on a dark street, sitting in front of a house we could never enter together, my skin came alive when her fingertips found my bare collarbone, and later my breast. I hadn’t had anyone touch me with desire in more than a decade. And I hadn’t had anyone touch me with any feeling in about half as long, at the very least. 

I wanted her.  God, yes.  I wanted all of her unencumbered by the confines of a car seat, or clothes.  But I was glad for the safety of our limitations, too.  I wanted her, but wasn't reckless enough to actually do it.  Instead, I relished teasing her, bringing my lips within a whisper of hers, breathing, grazing, pulling back, coming in again, breathing, lightly kissing but pulling back again before she can engage my lips. 

"I can't take you inside." I apologized in between lips on flesh.

"Let's go to my place." She offered. 

"No, not tonight. Not like this," I said since my problem was less a matter of geography.

"Why not?"

"Because … " Shit.  Why the actual fuck not?  "Because I want to make sure it happens for the right reasons."  I couldn't tell if that was the truth or not.

"Isn't it enough that you want to? Isn't desire a good enough reason?" she breathed as she continued to touch, to kiss.

She made a really fucking valid point. 

"No."  Even Drunk Me couldn’t ignore some of the problems here that wouldn't be resolved when we were both in varying stages of inebriation. 

But while Drunk Me wasn't going to cross ALL of the lines, she was happy to cross SOME of them.  There were mouths on breasts and hands sliding across bellies that longed to travel further south in that quick, practiced move under the waistband.  A few teasing fingers fondled the waistband, but went no further.

"I have to go.  I have to be up in the morning.  My neighbors will be up soon, they're old."  All sickeningly true statements.  All excuses.

"Fuck 'em. Let them watch" she said as she pulled off her shirt. 

When I was on the verge of caving, I took her hand and placed it between my legs, over the pants but otherwise right where we both wanted it.  She began to move her hand, trying to find the small button through the bunched denim and an alcohol fog.

"I want to gently kiss you here" she said, grabbing the entire area with her hand. 

"I'm not a big fan of gentle kisses," I replied.  

She ground her hand harder and kissed my mouth more voraciously.  Yes, yes, let's do this.  I want you. I want us, entwined.

"I have to go." Resolute this time.  I took a last breath of her body, a last teasing kiss, and pulled away.  She didn't fight me or protest.  "Stop drinking and call me," I directed, fully aware that neither of those would actually happen.  "We'll finish this later." 

I got out of the car and walked up the drive toward the dark, empty house.  My head reeled from the dissipating alcohol and adrenaline.

As I laid in the dark, alone, a short time later, my body rocked and throbbed, unsatisfied.  But I could still feel her hands on my body and the warmth of her mouth.  I imagined with a smile what might have happened. What might still happen.