You took my hand, and we slipped away from Karen’s party like we’d known each other forever.
Later, I scribbled down my number, then a lingering, predawn kiss at your front door.
All week I lived on memories. Brown, pliable curves and wine-dark nipples stiffening under the brush of my fingertips. My phone sat stubbornly silent.
On Wednesday, your dusty pickup pulled up to Karen’s.
Streaming sunlight turned your sundress to gossamer revealing the silhouette of your secrets. Your surprised smile was frayed, your eyes anxiously pleading as some guy touched the small of your back, then shook my hand.