Maybe it’s because I’d never thought of myself as gorgeous before. Maybe because I’d always felt my husband was gorgeous, but in that married to you way. The kind that’s able to overlook all the basic inherent flaws. You know the way.
The swingers were gorgeous, not in the fakey Hollywood way, either. These were the kind of people we’d see across restaurants sometimes, the ones who don’t look at prices or wine lists. Who say “Bring the bottle,” when the server makes the inane suggestion that they might want it by the glass. They looked like their pictures, but moreso. I’m not sure how to put that. Most people tend to look like a slightly older and more tired version of their online photographs, but these two seemed to have taken off the years on the way to Morton’s and arrived even more beautiful than I’d thought they’d be,
All at once I felt terribly out of place. They seemed so much prettier than us, but that’s weird to say, isn’t it. Michael wasn’t a pretty boy, far from it. His strong chin and sharp part made him look like all that was missing was a fedora and a London Fog raincoat and he could’ve stepped out of the handsome fifties. His deep brown eyes sparkled, showing the hint of a smile that his confident lips extended. Less than a week’s growth of beard that was showing its gray more than the dark rich mane on his head told her he was confident in his age and didn’t feel any need to hide it. From their profile, I knew that they were both in their late forties, but they didn’t show a bit that they had a decade on us. In fact, I think we were the ones that were looking older.
Now, there was that feeling again. I let a smile dance on my lips as Michael reached his hands out to me. He took my right hand in both of his, warm, soft. He didn’t shake my hand, nor did he do anything as out of style and showy as kiss it; just held and held. He cocked his head ever so slightly and his eyes met mine, holding there, smiling, laughing, as though we were having the most intimate of conversations without ever opening our mouths. After a moment, he said my name, “Lisa,” held the moment, then added, “stunning.”
Michael leaned forward and I caught his scent, an aftershave, something that had tradition behind it, maybe Old Spice. Nothing as elaborate as cologne. Simple, basics, intoxicating. He didn’t kiss me right off, instead allowing his lips to linger just at the corner of mine, I caught his eye move and meet mine, now very close. He’s looking to see if you’ve closed them, Lisa! I let my eyelids drift closed and he kissed me half on my lips and half on my cheek, allowing himself to linger a moment longer than polite society would’ve allowed. In my head, the figity priss was crowing on about how someone was bound to be watching and not approve.
In the real world, however, the kiss was brief and did not allow for much suspicions from the limited patrons so late into the evening on a Sunday. He didn’t let go of my hand until he’d leaned back, taken another good long look into my eyes, and flashed a smile that showed his teeth. Genuine, open, honest.
“And Christian,” he said, moving to my husband to take his hand for I’m sure a very different type of hello ritual. The kind that involved a bit of a hard squeeze, perhaps, some sort of small talk about the weather, or the drive. That sort of thing.
My thoughts didn’t stay on my husband and Michael, though, because as I turned back, my eyes met Amy’s glacial blue eyes, locked on mine. Her smile held a secret, one that I didn’t know then, but know now. Amy wore her desires up front and made no bones about them, but then I thought she might be laughing at me. Perhaps I got too into the kiss with her husband. Oh, God, what if she thought I–
The moment came, quicker than I thought. I was unprepared. My first kiss with another woman. Okay, sure, family, etcetera, but my first kiss with a woman that might mean something, that might hold, well, I dunno, further ideas behind it? What would I have done to prepare had I known this gorgeous woman was going to kiss me? I, well, I really haven’t the faintest idea. When she stepped through the door, holding to Michael’s arm, I knew I wanted to kiss her, unquestionably. Her turquoise cotton dress made simple look regal. It appeared at once loose and comfortable, and formfitting in just the right places. The way it clung to her hip as she walked, the plunging neckline that just hinted at her perky breasts, soft against her lithe form. For the strangest moment of my life I was hoping for a cross breeze to show me her nipples through the light fabric. A thought that made me stifle a giggle.
But the kiss, that kiss that I yearned for, was still unexpected. Her lips were silky, and the cherry flavored balm lingered on mine, long enough for me to slowly close my eyes and take every sensation in. The pressure of her lips, the warmth, that ever so slight tug when the lips stick together at parting. I love that tug.
Pity the moment ever ended. If that’s what she could do with a hello kiss, good Lord I couldn’t imagine what she could do were we to take this all somewhere a bit more private, more intimate, and were she to slide her hands up under my dress, grasp my black lace panties with those slender crimson nailed fingers and–
“Shall we?” Michael asks, and gestures to a booth in a forgotten corner of the dimly lit steakhouse. Waiters bustled everywhere, carrying massive skewers of sizzling meat.
I shook my head to clear it, and cued a smile, hoping it hadn’t been too obvious that my entire being was transported just then. Transported with just a kiss.
Michael put his arm around Amy, pulling her close, whispered something in her ear. She reached up and grasped his ring finger behind her back, twirling his wedding ring around it once. I stood still, immobile. Feelings hit me in a rush. This wouldn’t do, this is wrong, this is…
“Breathe,” said Christian, barely audible, his warm breath reassuring against my ear.
And I did. Deep. Long.
He laughed. “Now exhale.”
“Happy anniversary, Chris.”
“Happy anniversary, Lis.”
photo by jawanijaneman071