I wanted more than a quiet afternoon

The children were with their dad. I had tea, a quiet house, and a novel in which absolutely nobody was worried about the grocery order. By chapter seven, the tea was cold and I had developed a serious interest in being kissed against a wall.

At forty-two, I had become excellent at making room for everyone else. My own desires lived somewhere below “book the dentist” on a list I never reached the bottom of. I loved being a mother. I also missed being looked at by someone who wasn’t about to ask me for a snack.

I’d been seeing a man for a couple of months. Funny. Kind. Actually single, a fact that had required refreshingly little detective work. Our dates usually ended with a very good kiss and one of us saying we should do this again. We were dangerously close to becoming people who only discussed restaurant parking.

I picked up my phone. “I have Saturday afternoon free. I’d rather spend it kissing you than running errands.” His reply arrived before I could pretend I’d sent it by accident. “Tell me where.” Apparently, being direct could save quite a lot of time.

We agreed on a hotel near his place. I booked the room. Then I stood in front of my underwear drawer like a woman preparing a very small, very personal presentation. I chose something I liked on my body that day. I wasn’t postponing this until I had a different one.

When he arrived, he kissed me slowly enough that I forgot the clever thing I’d planned to say. “Still a good idea?” he asked. “Excellent,” I said, pulling him inside. The blouse I had carefully steamed spent most of the afternoon on a chair. I have no complaints about its performance.

Later, we ate overpriced sandwiches in bed and laughed about something completely unsexy. That part surprised me: how comfortable pleasure could feel with someone who paid attention. I hadn’t needed to become mysterious, fearless, or good at posing in a doorway. I’d just needed to say what I wanted.

When I got home, the shoes were still waiting to be returned. I put the novel back beside the sofa. Chapter eight could wait. For once, I had better material of my own.