Like most women, my sexual awakening occurred in stages: similar to a blushing red rose that sheds its petals one-by-one until the stamen is mysteriously revealed ….
The room, as I recall, was not one of which memories are made. There were no flowers to brighten the tiny space, no mints on the pillows, no gleaming-white pressed sheets on the double bed. I understand now, but did not then, what a privilege it was for a man of Hank’s age to watch the disrobing of a youthful girl. The intensity with which he observed me was unnerving, but his patience stilled me for what was to come.
Sloane walked to the sliding doors. Pulling them apart, a blast of clammy river air swooshed inside. Taking in the view of Canary Wharf for the last time, his shoulders slouched as he let out a deep sigh. For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him.
Stepping onto the balcony, he lifted his right foot and rested it on the lower rung of the railing. His body went limp against the glass balustrade, palms facing upward, lips moving as though bargaining with a higher authority.
I shivered at my heartless thought, “Jump, you coward!” Then I remembered he couldn’t swim. I’d have to rescue him…again.
Or not!
Turning, he held me paralyzed in his serpent-like stare. Then, with an audible hiss, his venom landed on target exactly as he’d planned.
“My offices were raided. The doors blocked with yellow crime-scene tape. Staff discharged and my bank accounts frozen. So, Pet, it looks like we’ve come to the end of the line. It was a hell of a ride while it lasted.”
Tranquil in the afterglow, Taylor stroked my brow and followed the contours of my cheekbone to my lips. Gazing at me with inquisitive eyes, he asked, “Meredith, please tell me about your butterfly necklace. I watched it flutter as your body responded while I made love to you. It is delicate like you and so captivating around your neck.”
When I finished my story, Taylor spoke not a word. Instead, he gently unwrapped my legs from around his body and straightened his torso against me. My head rested on his chest. It was a moment for private reflection as we lay in blessed silence.
What do men really want?
“If you are a drop-dead gorgeous brunette, six-feet tall with long legs, contact me. Just so you know, I like to be referred to as Wing Commander in the bedroom.”
“Inherited wealth–if this is what you are looking for call me. Mother says, however, you’ll never be good enough.”
“I was recently victorious in a small claims court and with my compensation check I’d like to take a female on a weekend bicycling trip. This offer doesn’t include meals or alcoholic beverages. Contact me.”
“Man, impervious to the effects of pepper spray, would like to meet an easily-impressed, unarmed woman of any age. NOW!”
“I am passionate about the Bible and I treat my body like a temple. We can worship there together.”
I wondered if Spencer would notice, as he nestled closer in bed, that my penciled brows had been erased by the pillowcase, leaving only a hint of brown smudge where the arch should have been? Surely the reason, were he to “dump” me, would not be that?
Or would it be my upper arms that, when lifted, exposed bingo flab? Would it be the tissue-thin skin on my hands that could be pushed forward like waves onto the shores of my knuckles then, reversed into taut linen folds encasing my wrists? Had he noticed the sun spots on my temples that I tried to hide with concealer cream? Did he appreciate that I cared enough about my imperfections to try and minimize the ravaging effects of time?
I loved the smell of the exhaust-and-fuel mixture as I made my way toward the open door of the plane. I didn’t need directions to my seat. In resignation, I lowered my head and turned right toward the rear of the aircraft. Patiently, I stood in the aisle while those ahead of me unburdened themselves of winter coats and backpacks. Inching forward, I knocked my hip on the armrest of row twenty-five. I halted at row thirty-one while an elderly gentleman struggled to stow his luggage in the overhead compartment. I smiled at the young student in row thirty-seven as her head bobbed to music erupting from her earbuds, oblivious to the chaos of the oncoming hordes. I nodded to the passengers sitting in the window and middle seats of row forty-one before settling into the aisle seat.
Moments later, “Mrs. Winthrop, excuse me.”
“Yes?” I looked up as Mrs. Mitchell, a commandingly tall and authoritative purser, leaned in to have a private word.
“Our flight today is not full up front so, after take-off, we would like to move you into first class. I understand from our senior staff member at the gate, Mrs. Sargent, that you once worked for United. It’s a pleasure to have you on board today.”
There is a God, I thought as I gushed an appreciative, “Thank you.”