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Here’s the thing. I have to go way back, then I have to go back, then I can tell you about last night’s date.

Way back:
When my folks were newly married, they lived in an apartment complex and were best friends with the couple next door. Then both couples started having families, and jobs took both families to other cities. They remained close but the families saw each other very rarely — every 5 or 10 years, or even longer.

So:
Around 2000-2001, my work moved me to a hip part of Atlanta. One day Mom calls me and says, “Oh, you know I got a Christmas card from [f****y X] and it turns out that their daughter Milly*, the one that’s about your age, is also in that part of Atlanta! You guys should meet. You know I have a photo of both of you playing together when you were about 4.

[f****y X] was driving thru and stayed the night, and you k**s all stayed up playing in the basement. “

She sent a scan of the photo to her friend Mrs. X, copying me and Milly* on the email.

I’m in a corner now. I have to call Milly and ask if she’d like to get together for lunch or something. And she does.

And she is fucking CUTE.

So we have lunch on a Thursday and make plans for dinner on Friday.

[An aside. The boss at my new Atlanta office is maybe 50, has a couple of k**s and his wife is a gynecologist who has basically died inside – she wanted to deliver babies for a living, and instead she spends virtually every day telling very wealthy women that they have STDs from their cheating scumbag husbands.

So my boss is not having a great love life. He doesn’t mention it much, because you don’t talk about that sort of thing at work — but it comes out. TL;DR – Dude loves his f****y but ain’t gettin’ any. ]

Friday comes around and I walk to her place, we walk to the restaurant. We have a lovely meal. There’s a c***d actress at the restaurant, famous for an obnoxious commercial.

We laugh about her. We drink red wine.

Thank you, red wine.

Turns out she is a lush, and red wine flips her switch. By the time we leave the restaurant she is ready to pounce. I’m trying to be a gentleman, but she’s making it hard. She is making everything hard.

Why did I mention my hard-up boss a second ago? Because this amazing thing happens next:

She whispers in my ear that we need to head back to her place, but I’m not d***k enough.

Don’t you like beer? Shouldn’t we walk over to Walgreens and get some beer?

Yes. Yes we should.

We are in Walgreens. You’re going to think I’m a slut. I’m so not a slut. But let’s buy these. *takes 60-pack of condoms off the shelf*

We are in line to pay at Walgreens. I am shamelessly holding a twack of beer, a 60 of condoms, and a big buxom blonde.

My boss walks into the store.

Do you know the phrase “shit-eating grin”? Yes.

We have a lovely evening. She has another bottle of red wine at her apartment and lets me taste the wispy blonde peach fuzz on her crotch. We fuck and suck for hours. She’s noisy. Her friend next door (bedrooms adjacent) knocks on the wall and says something like “I want to meet this guy, but I have to work in the morning! Please go fuck in the kitchen!” So I bend her over the countertop.

I put her on the kitchen table. She puts me on the kitchen table.

We are golden gods in a heaven of our own making. A god-damned delight.

My office moved me again a week later, about 500 miles away.

——

We send Christmas cards, like our parents do. She got married. Had k**s. I got married. No k**s. She got divorced. I got divorced. About 8 years later, she had a 16-hour layover at Midway.

I helped her pass the time.

She came through town yesterday – her new job put her up at a nice hotel downtown. I had her out to my place for dinner. It was a delight. We’re both in our 40s. Things are simpler now.

She was getting texts from her new beau all evening. She pretended she was at a restaurant alone. I was sporadically chatting with someone on OKC.

We each wished the other well with their texting counterpart while we were still joined at the hip (quite literally).

I put her in a cab headed back downtown after midnight.

Life very very rarely turns out like 8th-grade-you hopes it will. But when it does…. oh my.


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