Stopped at the red light I quickly grabbed my makeup bag and pulled out my lipstick. A quick swipe or two across my lips and a check in the mirror later I reached for my makeup brush, but a noise to my left caught my attention.
As usual, all my windows were down and when I looked out I was staring at the door handle of a giant black dually, its engine rumbling like a goddamned freight train. I look up from my SUV into the cab and it’s fucking Roy, rosy-cheeked and bearded, grinning from ear to ear.
“Holy shit!” I yell. “What the fuck are you doing here??”
Memories of our little tryst in August came flooding back to me: drinks, a nice finger fuck and pussy gush in his car, a handgun, dinner and a martini, and, much, much later a bedside note — my very first ever. Then, a few days later I left the bed of one man to meet him at his posh boutique hotel room to fuck him before he left for Afghanistan, another woman’s pussy a heady perfume in his beard. He’d left that morning at 11. I’d stayed till check out and finished the bottle of champagne he’d ordered us.
“I just got back last week! How the hell are you??”
“I’m good! I’m just running home from work to take care of my puppy!”
“Wow. You look great!!”
“Thanks!” My hair was piled on top of my head with wisps framing my face, thick black glasses rested on my nose. My sexy librarian look was obviously not lost on him.
By the time the light turned green we’d spent what little allotted time we had shouting as wittily as possible back and forth. So suave. Home, I texted him only, “It’s Hy”.
And that, my friends, is what happens when you merrily fuck your way through a city.
We’re having drinks next week.