I saw her on Tinder. I was swiping in the town where I work, and incidentally where she lives, works, and attends university. I thought she was cute. She was definitely young and impressionable. She loves NFL football and giant dogs. She can quote "The Goonies". Like, the entire movie. She has a mischievous look about her. I swipe right.
"IT'S A MATCH!!!"
I'm pleasantly surprised. "Hi. I love your dog! Giant dogs are the best."
"Hi. I love my dog too. And they really are. I will never own anything other than Great Danes."
"I've had Danes, English mastiffs, and currently a bullmastiff. I'm a glutton for slobber I guess."
"You and me both. I think a life without slobber and giant puppy kisses is life not worth living."
This is going well. We talk about football. We talk about school and work. I mention that her planned career path is a good one and is very similar to that of my wife.
"I'm sorry, your wife???"
"Don't be sorry. She's awesome. But, yeah we get around. Non-monagamous, says that in the profile. We both date. Is that still weird in 2015?"
"Guess I missed that part :D"
She finds me really attractive. She must, she's still smiling after that revelation, which unsurprisingly breaks the deal with some women. Not with her, it would seem. Let's not assume. Let's be real and honest.
"No worries. I won't be offended if we're not a good match. I'm just here to make friends, have fun, and fool around occasionally."
And conversation resumes. Like nothing ever happened. I tease her about having married men knocking down her door. She is flattered that I think she's really attractive. Days pass. We talk and flirt in the message box on my lunch break. I make innuendo. She reciprocates. I get her actual number, and text her NFL memes and pictures of my giant dog.
I ask her out for drinks after work. I joke about how I prefer the company of strangers rather than co-workers when I set out to drinking liquor. "Maybe." She intones that she may have to work late. Seems to hedge her bets, to give her self some safe outs in case she decides last minute that she'd rather not meet. That she's not ready to put the fantasy to the fire and see what's left in flesh and bone after it burns. I tell her not to sweat it too much. I'm going out after work one way or another. I need a drink. If she happens to be free, here's where I'll be drinking. Come down and buy me a gin and tonic.
She actually shows up.
She tells me about work that day. How the older lady in her office (who was probably about my age) didn't think you could effectively apply cuticle oil and do telephone reception work at the same time.
"She thought she was emailing the other girl in the office, but she sent it to me instead." "Looks like Prissy Britches is doing her nails instead of working," her co-worker's mistaken email had read. I share her indignance.
We talk, flirt, stare, tease, and repeat. Everyone in the bar keeps throwing us glances, obviously sick with the profane and clumsy tension and chemistry of it all. I find out she's really high maintenance, and completely into herself. I also find out she has a wicked sense of humor. We move outside, and then back inside, and again four times for cigarettes before... I finally touch her neck, pretend to look at her earrings, flimsy excuse for contact. She leans in. I kiss her. And the heat is on. Everyone at the bar gets a little bit more nauseated.
Outside for a cigarette and more making out, she suddenly says, "I have to be home by 9 to watch my roommate's kids."
"I'll walk you to your car." It's four blocks. Time to reflect. I put my arm around her. To anticipate. Down the sidewalk. "You still have your gin!" she laughs. I down it and toss the empty glass in the middle of the street where it shatters like my egoic reservations. I'm slightly drunk and feeling James Bond cool. None the less, I mentally prepare for a quick goodbye and another few weeks of texting before we both have the free time to do this again.
We make out. It's getting heavy. Grasping, breathing, groping, biting, reaching. Yearning. It's getting late. It's 9 o'clock already. We can't stop kissing. We can't stop reaching, can't stop touching. We round third. I tell her to leave. She's going to be late.
She jumps in the car and looks at me and smiles, her eyes gleaming with mischief.
I drive away, flustered and euphoric and titillated. I text her. "Put the kids to bed and shoot me your address. We can't NOT continue this."
She can't. We flirt, the heat still blazing even via text. "I should have fucked you in the backseat when I had the chance," she says. She sends a picture. I go to bed, ravenous and desperately longing. We text some over the next week, but the conversations begin to taper off. Schedules don't line up. I struggle to regain her attention. On two occasions I regain it with fervor and we both get charged up and excited again, but it never manifests into another meet up. Once, we planned to but she stood me up. Was I a bad kisser?
And I still can't stop thinking about her. Not an emotional attachment, really. More of a feeling of unfinished business. The desire to know how she tasted and what she was like in the throes of passion. To KNOW her. And to make an indelible memory for her of the funny, handsome, older man she had a whirlwind fling with when she was a lass of twenty.
This was like six weeks ago, and I texted her again yesterday. Ugh. Why the hell did I do that? At least she texted back this time. Still flirting. She'll probably stand me up again.
I really need to delete her number.