Date Night

He reached his sexual climax, groaning her name, his right hand clutching her breast inside her bra, the windows steamed over. Zero visibility. If a cop had pulled up, they would have never known. Outside, the 9:00 screening of the latest Bond film was letting out. Families stood around on the sidewalk or piled into cars to go home. He sat with his left hand resting atop her head, breathless, spent.

Before that, they had gone to supper. A Mexican place, one of his favorites. Cindy ordered a couple of margaritas; he stuck to only one, since he was driving. The food was necessary to stop them making out. It also gave them strength to carry on. One look at them and anyone could tell that A) this was a straight-up Internet hookup and B) the night was still young.

She sat sipping her drink, lapping at the salty rim with a tongue he’d spent the previous two hours sucking. They sat side-by-side in the booth, devouring plates of nachos, salsa, enchiladas. The music was loud, the restaurant packed. They managed somehow to keep their hands off each other, at least, while they ate.

“You know,” he confided, his lips never far from her ear, “the sad thing is, I used to have an apartment near here.”

“Oh,” she nodded sagely, her brown eyes drilling into his, “that is sad. Think what all we could have done by now.”

“I know,” he said. “It really is sad.”

She put her hand on his thigh, warming him up again. “Do you know the people living there now?”

He chuckled, raising his beer to his lips. “No. You think they’d let us in?”

“Sure,” she said, grinning. “Just tell em you used to live there and your girlfriend really wants to fuck.”

“Okay.”

“We’d just use their bed or their couch for a couple hours, that’s all.”

She squeezed his leg, and he plunged his face into her hair, smelling her conditioner, her berry-scented perfume. Her body heat was intense. She wore an off-the-shoulder blouse he could have easily removed if only they had a place to fling it. He’d been nibbling on that shoulder for hours. It tormented him.

They ate and drank and held hands and smooched and whispered hotly and paid the bill and left a handsome tip and made their way pseudo-tipsily to the parking lot. It was a mild October night. They made it to his truck, where he pushed her gently up against her door and pressed his body to hers.

They kissed for about twenty minutes, trading tongues, drinking deeply from each other, feeding on mutual swells of electricity and longing that leapt back and forth between them. She was trim and firm in all the right places; he seemed to fit perfectly in the cups and valleys. His hands slipped beneath her blouse, lingering briefly along her waistline before sliding up higher, toward Valhalla. She urged him on, whispering violently in his ear. Christ! There was no place to go but inside.

He unlocked her door and let her in, hustling around to his side of the cab, keys in hand. He ducked in and fell to kissing her. She pulled at his hair, his clothes. The windows instantly steamed. Their gasps were ecstatic, unashamed. His hands were again pushing their way up her flat, warm belly, reaching--

“H’lo?”

Bam-bam-bam.

He looked up from her face, quivering, his pants about five sizes too small. The window was a sheet of condensation. He saw a figure standing outside.

“What the fuck?”

“Don’t answer it!”

He let the window down part way. “Yes?”

A man in skeevy clothing, reeking to high heaven, leered in at them. His eyes picked out Cindy.

“Hey,” the man exclaimed, “I wondered if y’all had any money?”

“Any money?”

“That’s right. Seen y’all coming out here. Thought maybe y’all might wanna help me out.”

He took out his wallet and pulled out a $5 bill. Handed it out the window. “There you go.”

The man was none too pleased. “Alright,” he said, tucking the bill in his coat pocket. He appeared to be wearing everything he owned. “God bless you, now.”

He rolled up the window and turned the ignition as the shape tottered off. Cindy let out her breath. “Wow,” she said, “I guess he could have stabbed us, huh?”

Earlier, they had spent time together at a city park, holding hands and enjoying the fall colors. He couldn’t help noticing she walked with a slight limp, as if she had suffered some debilitating childhood malady. He squeezed her hand as they looped down below the swings, watching the leaves fall and groups of children play.

He kept looking at her. The way her brown hair spilled gently around her shoulders. The way her skin, lightly tanned, shone in the setting sun. The way she grinned, her cheeks crinkling, her lips revealing small, white teeth. She had a round, soft face, the kind that fit easily in his hands. Her hips were slimmer than her bust, which was still amply appealing. She struck him as introspective and emotional, yet spoke softly and humorously, mostly about her kids. She seemed like someone he could hang out with, if he hadn’t already fallen deeply in lust.

Somewhere around the duck pond, her phone rang, and she frowned, saying she had to take it. It was one of her kids, calling from home. He pretended not to listen in, that he was happy to be ignored. The discussion involved what time she would be home and what they would do later. She hung up, looking slightly embarrassed. He gripped her hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

They had found the park after driving around for about an hour, lamenting that they were both so far from home. Privacy was in order. They had each driven at least an hour to the most convenient rendezvous. Not that they ended up watching the movie.

He couldn’t imagine what their fellow ticket buyers must have thought. He and Cindy had staggered out of the lobby into the withering sunlight, unable to keep their hands off each other. It was ridiculous. He’d never been in this situation before. They had found their way to his truck (parked adjacent to her silver-gray Toyota) and spent untold hours exploring each other’s lips and tongues. Decorum went out the window, though they managed to keep their clothes on. He could tell it had been a long time since Cindy had surrendered in this way. For his part, he was glad to not have to explain himself -- the divorce, the petty rivalries at work, the disappointments, the unanswered messages. Here was someone to whom he could give himself completely. It excited him, made him feel vulnerable in ways he could hardly begin to fathom.

The movie hadn’t even started yet, and already they were “into” each other. He could not have guessed when the kissing started, or who made the first move. They’d been seated quietly, happily, noshing on their Cokes and popcorn, feeling each other out, trading small talk, the kind of chit-chat he’d come to expect on dates like this. Neither of them knew what to expect. He had no idea whether she did this sort of thing often or if this was just an experiment. He was unclear about his own motivation. Something about the way their fingers intertwined told him to not worry so much.

They kissed during the previews, and then the movie started. The old familiar James Bond theme. Neither of them cared or noticed. He was aware, vaguely, of the discomfort they were causing their neighbors. Without realizing it, they were putting on as much of a show as 007. The first act, with its climactic gun battle, was already well underway by the time they surfaced for air.

He looked up from his phone to see her pulling up next to his truck, a small, round-faced woman in fashion shades, her wavy hair windblown, craning her neck to see him. He put her somewhere in her early 40s. Perfect. Though she was hardly late, he’d arrived a good 30 minutes early, just to scope out the situation. He didn’t know this woman from Adam, or Eve. The same was true for her. How did women talk themselves into this sort of thing? In this day and age? Had no one seen The Silence of the Lambs? He chuckled to himself, giving a casual wave.