We were sitting in your car, outside your shop. The occasion was seeing your new Subaru. We chatted. When you leaned over to show me some control thing, our faces were inches apart. You lingered then looked at me. I thought I should ask. I thought there was a connection.
“I’d really like to kiss you”, I said. I was sure a “no” was coming. Instead, a smile and nod.
I kissed you lightly, my hands to myself. But your hand went to the back of my neck. One kiss turned into another. But I was careful.
I allowed my fingertips to drift down your neck, along your collarbones, the curve of your breast. The outside of your blouse. The lightest touch a man can muster. No grabbing. I expected the negative: “don’t” or “stop” or “not now” or “watch your hand” or the old standby “no.” And stopped I would have. But none of those words came. It would have been better, see, if you had stopped me then and there.
Because now I’m hooked. Now I don’t think of you as a casual acquaintance and barber but instead as a beautiful and considerate woman. Now I wonder about your green eyes and soft voice and how your hair would look spread on a pillow.
Now I wonder if getting out of the Subaru was the right thing to do, with the lame excuse of your commute back to Vancouver and my alarm set for a 3:30am work assignment.
Now I think about a future with you, will all its complications. As we are both in our 50’s, how many more chances can there be? I’m completely bewildered.
Maybe a “no” from you would have been better.