"Where are you going for drinks?" Leslie asked as we huffed and puffed on neighboring treadmills.
"Not sure yet. What do you think I should wear?"
"You looked really nice the other night, when we went to Bacchanalia."
A little after five o'clock, my date informed me where we'd be going (F&B, a bistro-esque spot a mile or so away from where I live) and what time we'd be meeting (6:15pm with flexibility to accommodate the clusterfuck of traffic that occurs at rush hour in Atlanta). I spent the next twenty minutes fretting about my outfit, eventually calling Leslie for guidance.
"Pony-hair Oscar de la Renta pumps or pointy silver pumps?" I asked her as I stood naked in my closet.
"Cream lace top with the flutter cap sleeve or snakeskin racerback tank?"
"Tank. With a jacket. But not a worky jacket."
"Unstructured one from Madewell or tuxedo-waiter-ish-like one from Banana?"
"Oh my god, how have you gotten through life this far?!?!?"
"It is a wonder!"
He was seated at the bar when I arrived, casual in jeans but put together with a sport-coat and perfectly pressed shirt. A lowball of Sapphire and soda sat within his reach, a wedge of lime set on the cocktail napkin. I shimmied onto a neighboring barstool, said hello and offered a smile. Then I ordered a Belvedere and tonic.
Our time at the bar stretched up to ten o'clock, at which point we dropped my car at his place and relocated elsewhere for a bite to eat. We placed bets on whether the hostess sucked into a very short and very tight dress was wearing panties. We giggled at the couple sitting side-by-side in a banquette, both distracted by their cell phones. I made fun of him for owning a red Corvette. He complimented my smile.
It was around midnight when we returned to his place.
"Want to come up?" he asked, a slight tilt of his head as if to hint at the direction.
"Sure," I answered.
We talked some more, watched television, and kissed. His lips were soft as they pressed against mine. I ran my hand up his shirt, against his chest. He slipped my jacket off my shoulders. Our legs remained tangled even as I rolled onto my side, set my hand on his stomach and glanced at my watch. The light reflected off the silver hands, indicating it was just shy of two in the morning. I lowered my mouth toward his ear, kissed his lobe and then whispered, "I think I should head home."
"I think you should stay," he countered, running his fingers through my hair. "Nothing needs to happen. It would just be nice to wake up with you here."
I didn't disagree. His touch was gentle but masculine. His kiss melted my skin. If I were ten years younger, I would have considered it. But knowing what I want, I slipped back into my jacket and then sat down to put on my heels. Silver, pointy-toed, three inch pumps that arch the foot and straighten the back.
"You're incredibly sexy," he said as we arrived back at my car, tugging me closer to kiss my neck, my cheek, my lips. "Stay."
I ran my fingertips up his thigh, lifted my gaze to meet his eyes, and then rose as high as I could onto my tippy toes to kiss him. To feel his lips, his tongue and his warmth one last time. And in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to stay.
"Maybe next time," I softly offered. "Sweet dreams."