Butterflies. That’s what yesterday brought for me. Butterflies. A forty-three year old woman – with butterflies. Seriously?
It was a first date. My first-first date since the divorce. I was anxious, like a pre-pubescent child waiting for puberty to come and finally make me a real woman. Yeah, that fucking anxious.
The food was absolutely decadent. The sangria was flowing as fast as the pheromone perfume racing through my blood – both of which, I couldn’t get enough of. His compliments seemed genuine and thoughtful. The conversation was intriguing, reciprocal (and that’s a good thing) easy and playful.
The dinner date ended with a kiss. Wait – that’s a lie… There were many kisses. Sweet. Gentle. Soft. All of which left me wanting more.