“I love the new look” was the salutation from Juliet, a woman I’ve know for several years. The greeting wasn’t strange in light of the fact that I had recently shaved the goatee I’d worn since grad school.
“Thank you; I have to admit that I’m still on the fence about the change” I replied.
“Trust me, you need to keep it off… I mean you looked great before but now there’s nothing hiding your lips.”
As soon as the words were out, I could see the holyshitdidIjustsaythat look fall across her face. It was the wee small hour part of the night and she had been at the bar for a few beers more than me.
Alcohol is the lubricant that often pries difficult truth from the mind
Gentlemen don’t revel in a lady’s embarrassment, so I changed the subject with a “So how was your holiday?”
We continued with the worst kind of cocktail conversation for another few minutes but that look never left her face. She went back to her friends and I went back to crafting the menu for a Cajun Holiday dinner I may or may not be preparing in a couple of days.
Minutes always seem to move faster the closer you get to Last Call and this night was no exception. As I hate being in a bar when the lights get brighter and everyone get a little less attractive (myself included,) I started packing my things before that moment. Just as I’m buckling the straps on my briefcase, Juliet came over and asked “Refugee, you mind walking me home?”
I’d done it at least a dozen times and I was happy to do it again that night.
On the sidewalk, Juliet slipped her arm inside mine like she always does. It was one of the first really cold nights of the season and I enjoyed having proof of my exhalations. Two blocks later, we’re in front of her building and said our usual valediction as we hugged. She took a few steps toward her door and made an abrupt about face.
Juliet closed the distance between us so quickly that I didn’t realize she was going to kiss me until her lips were already on mine.
It was a lusty, hungry kiss, the kind you’d expect from a woman who deserves to be kissed, and often, and by somebody who knows how, but hasn’t been.
I started to speak but Juliet placed a gentle hand to my lips and said “I’m sorry; I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time and since I obviously told you that earlier, I figured I had nothing to lose. Your lips are softer than I imagined and I wish I could date you, but I have height issues… and I know that their mine but…”
I cut her off with “I understand and you don’t need to say anything else” mostly because I didn’t want to hear any more. I am not a bitter short guy – well I am bitter with the doctors who told me as a child that I would be at least six-two and I do want those extra five inches – but this does get tiresome.
*Sting, if you ever read this blog – yeah, I know it ain’t likely – I hope you’ll pardon my paraphrasing your brilliant lyrics.
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