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The Conversation

They laughed like little boys, the two of them, over the stupidest of things. They weren’t drunk, at least not yet, and she secretly hoped that one of them wouldn’t be at all. She had plans that didn’t involve his current exhibition of childish behavior. She wanted a reasonably sober man, not a drunken boy. But what could she say? They reminisced about their younger and crazier days, bragged of conquests over woman and danger, and toasted to successful triumphs over the incredible idiocy of masculine behavior. And they had the audacity to blame nearly every outrageous situation they had ever gotten themselves into, and somehow out of mostly unscathed, on women! They went on like this, pausing only briefly to point out the others’ most outrageous antics to her as something they themselves would never have done. She found herself bemused by the combination of what women, alcohol and testosterone could produce. She reluctantly admitted to herself that most of their stories were funny, others outright hysterical. And she laughed at times, but she, unlike the two of them, was not in a particularly humorous mood. No, her mood was different, more mature, and more womanly. She wanted a man tonight - the boyish, fair haired one; her old flame from days long gone by. Their laugher, interrupted by the young waitress they discretely eyed believing she hadn’t noticed them doing so, produced a break in the conversation. His friend excused himself for the restroom and in an unexpected moment, she found herself alone with him yet avoiding a direct look into his eyes.

They both played with their drinks, he paid an awkward yet honest compliment about how good she looks after all these years, pausing bashfully after doing so. He seemed nervous and unsure of himself. He gazed back at her, began to say something, and then paused again. They both chuckled at the strange uneasiness of the moment. They had been lovers long ago; this apprehension that hung in the air around them should not be there, yet surely it was. She could only take comfort in knowing that he seemed as anxious as she was herself, unknowing what may come next and of where the evening may lead. She could wait no longer, her chance had arrived and if she delayed, his friend would return and postpone her opportunity once again. Lightly touching his arm, she spoke his name and when he turned to her, their eyes met. Neither diverted their gaze this time, instead, they seemed to peer beyond the surface and deeper into each others soul. Unsure he had heard what she said next, or if she had even spoken the words or only thought them, but as his face moved closer to hers and just before their lips met, she said “Kiss me, you fool.”

Their kiss - light and delicate, slightly awkward and self-conscious, concealed an intensity and intimacy no one in the restaurant could detect. Desire for each other raged through them as uncontrollable as those adolescent hormones had so many years earlier. The kiss ended just as his friend turned toward their table from across the room, unaware of what had occurred in his absence. Under the wooden camouflage of the tabletop, a hand, strong yet gentle, was placed discreetly and delicately on her thigh. She felt a slight, reassuring squeeze and knew then she had him and the remainder of the evening, exactly where she wanted.

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The following comments are for "The Conversation"
by AverageEnglishman

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