it to come to an end.” He loosened his tie. “The funny thing is that I think you and Christine would really like each other. She’s a wonderful person.” He looked closely at me. “For somebody else,” he amended, careful not to make it sound like he had any regrets over their split.
“So,” I said, “this is the beginning.”
“That’s what I’m hoping.” He leaned across the table and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Do you want to see my apartment?” he whispered.
“I don’t know. Do I?”
He nodded. “You do.” He kissed me again. “Do you want to sleep over?”
I thought for a moment even though I knew what my answer would be. “As long as you promise me one thing.”
“Anything.”
“No sleeping.”
Chapter 27
I haven’t had sex in about three years.
Well, that’s not exactly true.
I haven’t had sex with anyone else in about three years.
My stomach was a mass of knots, slimy raw seafood, and acid as I climbed out of Crawford’s car and waited for him on the sidewalk. Every nerve ending I had felt exposed and tingly and I looked at the people passing by wondering if I appeared as tense to them as I felt. If any of them were to look at me, I was sure the look on my face would scream “I’m going to have sex!” and they would run off scared. We were two blocks from his house, and his big hand wrapped around mine was the only thing preventing me from falling to the ground in a mess of nerves and paranoia. I hadn’t started the day thinking that it would end like this; I tried to recall what underwear I had donned at six that morning and whether or not my legs were shaved. After doing mental gymnastics for most of the ride to the city, my silence bizarre and certainly not encouraging, I’m sure, I finally let it go. The man loved me, for God’s sake, and probably hadn’t had sex in at least as long; by the time we got around to the nitty-gritty, he wouldn’t care if he found an extra leg or a nest of squirrels under my skirt.
I thought the “no sleeping” comeback to Crawford’s proposition was inspired and conveyed a bit more confidence than I had. Ray was a pretty slick lover (tons of practice) and I guess I knew a thing or two about the goings-on of the bedroom. Crawford was the kind of guy who made me feel safe and I tried to focus on that as we approached Ninety-seventh Street and his apartment.
He opened the door to a brownstone tucked back from the street. He ushered me inside, holding a finger to his lips. “Don’t make a sound,” he whispered, pointing to a door at the bottom of the stairs. “My aunt—I’ll explain later.”
We tiptoed up the stairs and he opened the door at the top. When the door opened and I got a peek at what lay beyond the small foyer, I was a little stunned but pleasantly surprised. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but since he had lived alone for so long, I didn’t expect a beautifully decorated, impeccably clean interior that smelled of potpourri. He took my hand and led me into the living room, offering me a seat on a leather couch. He took my coat and draped it over a chair. He took his blazer off, draped it over my coat, and removed his tie. He opened the first few buttons of his shirt, offering me a view of the ubiquitous undershirt that I loved so much.
“Do you want something to drink?” he asked.
“Ummm…sure,” I said, not exactly knowing what I should have.
He stood, looking at me. “Do you want me to guess?”
“Wine?” I offered.
“Red or white?” he asked.
I shrugged. “You pick.”
I heard him rustling around in the kitchen; he came back a few minutes later with a couple of glasses and an open bottle of cabernet. He poured me a glass, and sat down on the couch next to me, holding his glass. He took a sip and waited while I sipped mine.
I put my glass down on the coffee table and took his from his hands, pushing him back on the couch. His face was a mixture of surprise and amusement. My nervousness left me and I felt empowered enough to take charge of the situation. “Enough of the small talk,” I said, kicking off my shoes and getting on top of him. “I