Page 4 of Thoughts Left Unsaid
“We probably should,” I said.
Another pause. Another silence filled with longing and desire. Then, finally, I took a step towards her, our lips pressed into one another, our arms entwined.
I knew I shouldn’t be doing it. I was in free-fall, and the momentary flashes of resistance, like flimsy branches I tried to grab onto, weren’t strong enough to overcome her smell, the curve of her neck, her blouse opening to show her bra, the bulge of her soft breasts, which were like gravity pulling me inexorably downward.
I didn’t realize how long we’d been down there. The wine cellar door was closed, but we could still hear the muffled roar of the crowd upstairs when they began counting down the seconds to midnight. Our expressions turned from ecstasy to surprise as I pulled away from her and we hurriedly got ourselves together.
She adjusted her bra and dress, quickly fixed her hair, grabbed a bottle and walked a few steps ahead of me toward the door. “Holy shit,” she said. “They’re probably wondering where we are.”
I wiped the sweat from my brow and snatched the other two bottles, following right behind her. “Hey, I’m very picky about my wine. You can’t rush the selection process.”
She stopped at the door and turned towards me. We kissed, at first long and hard, then a few brief pecks. She wiped lipstick from my face and we rejoined the party upstairs. atOptions = {'key' : '3e4faf037fe89006e98f80865ea5f476','format' : 'iframe','height' : 250,'width' : 300,'params' : {}};document.write(''); 1 2 3 4 5
* * *
Yeah, I remembered how it had started with Cheryl; I’m sure I would never forget. But I didn’t think Phil needed to know the details.
“I don’t know what to say,” Phil said, appearing uncomfortable. “Was it…serious?”
I shot him a quizzical look.
“I mean, of course it’s serious,” he said. “But was it, were you, serious about her, I guess is what I mean.”
I paused and took a deep breath, recollecting the time we’d spent together. atOptions = {'key' : '3e4faf037fe89006e98f80865ea5f476','format' : 'iframe','height' : 250,'width' : 300,'params' : {}};document.write(''); 1 2 3 4 5
* * *
When I woke the next day, I did feel guilty about what I’d done. My hangover, mixed with my guilt, made me doubly nauseous. I decided to give it a day or two, to let my head clear before deciding what, if anything, I should say or do.
But then I got a call from Cheryl the following day at work.
“David, I want to talk to you. Can I see you?”
The emotions of that night came rushing back to me. Her voice in my ear summoned memories of her smell, her touch. I tried to feel guilty; I truly wanted to, but the carnal sensations coursing through my body left little room for guilt.
“I could leave work early,” I said. “Say four-thirty? I could meet you somewhere.”
“Can I come to your office?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m downtown. Just tell me where it is; I could be there in five minutes.”
“101 Federal Street, nineteenth floor. Give me fifteen.”
She walked into my office just over ten minutes later wearing a dark skirt and white blouse. She looked unassuming—her business attire flattened her better features—but good. Seeing her in the flesh, my heartbeat quickened.
After we greeted each other, she said, “I hope I’m not bothering you. Were you busy?” She looked briefly into my eyes, then coyly to the ground.
I felt like a schoolboy in the midst of his first crush. It was invigorating.
“Busy? That’s what I hire other people for. I’ll say you’re a potential client and no one will be the wiser.”
She smiled warmly, then became more serious. “The other night… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come on to you.”
“I’m as responsible as you are. It was my decision, too.”
“I know, but I should never have followed you downstairs. But I couldn’t help it. I’d thought about you over the years, and, I don’t know, I just couldn’t help it.”