He Might Have Gotten Lucky on Friday the 13th

Photo by GEORGE DESIPRIS from Pexels

I met a boy. We didn’t think we’d be together.

But then we started sharing some music and body space.

He was a beaut in a way most people cannot see.

Dressed in black. From head to toe, with pearly white skin beneath the cotton that adorned his lithe body.

We started dancing to a song I can no longer remember — don’t know if I ever knew it. Or perhaps I was just lost in a haze of his aura. Of his sweet beingness.

Our bodies came close to each other’s of their own volition, our separate and very strong wills having absolutely nothing to do with this turn of events.

Then our hands touched and scorched those places.

Like the burning of a thousand suns.

We moved together as one. Clothes plastered to skin by rain from the clouds above.

We moved and moved and became lost in I don’t know where.

Then as though pulled by gravity, our lips orbited towards each other and ended in an explosive touching for a mere earth second, but could have been the birth and death of many stars.

And we looked into each other’s eyes.

They could be worlds — expanses in my book — and very casually he said

“So… are you my girlfriend now?” with that oh so cute and mischievous twist of his upper lip.

He was not really my type.

10 years younger, clearly still in the thralls of experimentation.

Tasting the delights of life.

But a voice from deep in my belly said a definitive yes, and just like that it was settled.

We walked down streets.

Dark streets.

The kind of darkness that hides things you don’t want people to notice, like fingers slipping into jeans back pockets right where the flesh of the seat bones is soft and full.

Fingers intertwining a little too high on a ribcage that was already lower than expected.

It was that kind of night.

I no longer remember what we spoke about or if our lips even moved. But there was conversation for sure.

The kind that made no sounds.

The kind that only two people smitten with each other could have.

Then his friends killed the silence with laughter and guffaws.

One of them was blonde. Not your average blonde mind you.

The variety that was chaos, curls all doing their own thing, making their own music and dancing in ways that could only invoke joy.

The others where a blur in this dreamy steamy state.

“You sneaky bastard!” one of the boys shouted.

I didn’t turn behind for fear of becoming a pillar of salt.

Like Lots wife.

He pretended not to hear them but the swing in his step changed tempo, images of peacock after a mating dance cascaded through my cloudy countenance.

“Of course, it is her” blondie said.

“She is the beaut.”

I wondered if they were speaking about me.

My man, or boy or man boy just shrugged his developing shoulders.

Oh my, what am I becoming, going after a young’un.

He was 27 and I was 37.

Things were changing.

His luck was turning.

It would soon be the morning.

The opening of a new chapter of loving.