I knew I wouldn't see her again. Her husband had been transferred to company headquarters in Denver. It was a big promotion, a rare opportunity, and impossible to pass up. They were leaving as soon as she dropped her daughter off at college. We sat there quietly, savoring the last of our time together, looking at each other and grinning like idiots. I left the most important words unsaid.
The girl who'd been a punk rocker 20 years ago wore a fuchsia dress with yellow flowers. Her face was beginning to become lined, the bags under her eyes tactfully hidden by the frames of her glasses. Below the dress were legs that she was at once proud of and embarrassed by. They were long and shapely, white hose partially hiding the blue splotch of veins on her right calf. The dress followed her figure: shoulders, chest, waist, hips. A body that had lived life. She was beautiful.
"I'm really going to miss talking with you." Our eyes met and we smiled again. I loved making her laugh—a woman's laugh, loud and piercing and infinitely more genuine than a girlish giggle. Kind and compassionate, intelligent and mature. The kind of person you could talk with all night without running out of things to say.
We hugged. Not a polite hug, shoulders touching and heads not, but a warm, intimate, head-tucked-into-neck hug. Breathing each other in: lilac and strawberry. Warmth radiated from her neck, daring my lips to gently—so gently—brush against it. Her own lips smiling, full, temptingly near. She sighed contentedly, almost imperceptibly, and sank deeper into my embrace.