She was the best opportunity I’ve had in awhile. The best opportunity to relieve boredom, to alleviate the apathetic asexual funk, to feel…alive. The best opportunity, with brains, body, and beauty.
But so young! Too young. Not because she wasn’t a woman, or immature, though it would have been nice if she was old enough for a drink at the bar.
She followed me a lot. I humored her, unwilling to break the spell I seemed to have cast on her, unwilling to shirk the attention of a creature so ready to trail at my side.
And we talked, discoursed on all manner of subjects and minutiae. And she had well formed opinions, ideas with forethought, even the ability to teach me a thing or two.
When she’d arrive at a previously unknown point, or hear something witty, she’d scribble it in a little notebook, a place to record things she valued from that day.
She inflated my ego and shrunk my trousers on more than one occasion, with the look only a sensual woman can give me. She made me smile, and look forward to seeing her again.
One evening, I invited her out for something to eat. We had Mexican at a decent enough place. After the meal we walked around the mezzanine. She fished out a pen for another entry in her notebook. I asked her if I was in the journal, and she responded with a deep crimson blush in the affirmative.
We rounded a corner, and I suddenly pulled her between the columns. Out of sight from the eyes above, I tasted her passion. Just as quickly, I walked on, her following behind, flushed and panting. She caught up and asked why I did that. Something for her journal, I said.
She was waiting for me the next day. I stepped out into a heavy drizzle, and she fell in beside me, probing me with the trivial questions of polite conversation. I retrieved my coveralls from the trunk as she blathered on. I turned to her in annoyance, and told her she wasn’t my puppy, and didn’t need to follow me everywhere I went. Her lip quivered, and her face was wet with tears and cold rain.