Six

Thanksgiving.  Senior year of college.  Everyone is home.  They wink from one side of the bar to the other.  Harmless flirting ensues.  

She spends the evening reliving the glorious and less so glorious days with people four years older and four years younger than her.  Quick mental math reveals that not everyone here tonight should be. 

She tucks her hands into the back pockets of the man’s jeans standing directly behind her while she chats casually with former friends and high school acquaintances.  She isn’t really paying attention to their responses.  The man doesn’t reject—pushing back against her to acknowledge she’s there. 

It’s a game. 

Much later, she feels a deliberate, male hand passing across her back as he makes his way through the thick crowd of people.  “History,” she tells herself, “nothing more than a shared history.”

Her designated driver decides it is time to go.  She makes for the exit with her friend—glancing around to say goodbye. 

They storm through the exit, scoffing at tonight’s turn-out and the people they have been reintroduced to.  Her aged, male acquaintance stands outside—equally intoxicated.

“Leaving, too?” she asks.  The man nods.  “Follow us back to your house so I know you don’t die.”  He agrees.

They pass the man’s house.  Her friend rounds the block with the man still behind them.   She says her goodbyes and thank you’s for a safe trip home and b-lines for the car parked behind them.  She opens the passenger door.

“Miss something?” she asks.  The man smiles, holds her face with both hands, and kisses her more deliberately than she has ever been kissed before. 

“Meet you between the yards in 10 minutes,” the man insists.

“I…ok.”

She’s no longer the handicap.  Their age difference, no longer a concern.