She is five feet three inches of blonde confection.
Every head swivels when she clicks into the room in her high heels and red painted toenails.
She looks good in a tight tee shirt. Her white breasts are perfect when she takes it off.
She favors black bras.
She laughs a lot.
Her perfume is heavenly.

Her father told her to make an impression when she walks into the room. She does.

When she opens her door she takes his breath away. She rises up on her toes and grabs him and kisses him. Her lipstick gets on his cheek. She wipes it off and invites him in.

My kids would actually like to see their mother leave the house with a handsome man and watch her slink down the stairs wearing a short black skirt, boots, and red lipstick.

They have lunch at The Palm. She knows men whose pictures are on The Wall.
She knows the maitre d' at Morton’s. When she flies to LA, they give her a table without a reservation. She never looks at a menu.

We can always climb into a nice booth at Morton's of Reston. They see me a-comin' and shout "Norm!" Only place anyone knows my name. Get some sleep, c u tomorrow.

She smokes cigars at the Ritz with her girlfriends, because it’s the only hotel where men will leave her alone.

I was at a Scotch tasting event last night, law firm invitation. I didn't really like Scotch all that much walking in the door. It was nice by night's end.

She grew up all over the world. She sang on tabletops in Majorca. She danced in the Greek isles. She’s vacationed in the French Riviera. She’s had affairs all over Europe and the Middle East.

I used to sing a bit like that. I was more Carly Simon. It was the 70s, after all. And some of those people in the lounges were into psychotropics that probably made me sound better than I was.

She likes a man’s presence.
She likes a man’s smell.
She likes a man’s hands on her.
She can have any man she wants.

Just wanted to see if you’ve got Superbowl plans? Being a guy, that’s usually a slam dunk answer: “Thanks, honey, but I’m booked in football Heaven and poker, so get the hell outta here.” But maybe this year you’d like to hang at an Arlington bar with some of the gang you met with me last week?

Her friends ask her why they are not a couple. She asks him: What should I say? She has laughed more these last few weeks than they’ve ever seen. She has had a messy divorce. She’s spent seven hundred thousand dollars on attorneys’ fees. She’s sold two houses and her business. She started that business. Her sweat equity made it happen. The money repaid bills her ex incurred. She has not complained, but she has cried.

What friends are for:
1. Letting her cry on your shoulder. Literally.
2. Letting her mascara stain your clothes.
3. Letting her “let it go.”

She is funny.
She is smart.
She is literate.
She calls from business meetings just to say hello.

He has known her for twenty years.

She says: Join me for Mom’s birthday party. Dad would love to see you again.




When her head is on his pillow and her eyes are closed and her mouth is slightly parted she looks like Jayne Mansfield. Later, he puts her head on his shoulder, his arm under her. He stares at the ceiling. They talk quietly, unhurriedly. She rubs her foot up and down his leg. Her hand brushes over his chest. When she puts her head on her upraised arm and looks at him, her hair falls into her eyes. He keeps thinking she can’t get more sultry looking, but he is wrong.

She says: Let’s get unmarried together.
She says: I don’t want sex to ruin a good friendship.
She says: I can’t sleep with two men at the same time.
She may have a boyfriend. He's not sure. She may be confused or vacillating or whatever. It’s impossible to resist her charms.

You know what I really, really like about you? You're as game as I am to get out and DO things. Go, be, laugh, live. Make it up as the road winds. I'm grateful to have opportunities to just play and be there for you.

It is going to be difficult to avoid falling in love with her. They both know it’s not right. They are like binary stars, pirouetting in each others’ gravitational well, but never touching, a pas de deux, never connecting, because that would be the final collapse, the touching of matter and antimatter that becomes the supernova.

It is not love, but it is close.
It is not permanent, but it is good.
This may not be heaven, but he can see it from here.

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