Am I really going to do this?

The white stripe around her ring finger looks soft and vulnerable. She sighs and pats her frizzy, auburn hair. He’s waiting for her in the car, her first date since she met her husband fifteen years ago.

She swallows. Hard. She knows it’s time to move on. She thinks back to a self-help article she read: Fake It Until You Feel It.

That sounds about right.

At the party, her friends are alternately full of praise — it’s so nice you met someone — and envy — your date is so handsome. The envy makes her heart clench. Her friends’ husbands are paunchy and careworn from providing for and chasing after children, something it’s less and less likely she will ever have.

She’s pouring herself an over-sized glass of wine when Ashley, a soft, pastel blonde with a hard, sour filament running through her soul, grabs her arm.

“OMG, your date is stunning. He’s so different from your husband.” Her voice lowers from a sweet soprano to an insinuating alto. “Where did you find him?”

The widow flushes and stammers, groping for words. Her date is tall, dark, and well-built, a classic romantic hero straight from central casting. Her husband was a short, blond spark plug with an antic sense of humor. She doesn’t like what Ashley is implying by different. Different is not better, she thinks, when her date appears as if conjured by dark magic.

“I’m sorry,” he says, taking the widow firmly by the arm and smiling blandly at Ashley. “I have to steal her away. We’re late for a show, and we’ve already stayed too long.”

Arm-in-arm, they leave the party. The widow relaxes into grateful relief. She whispers in her hero’s ear: “Good job, handsome.”

The drive back to the widow’s small, tidy house is filled with companionable silence. Her date parks his car outside. His dark eyes question her light ones. Do you need something more from me?

She gives the barest of nods, and he’s on her, his lips parting hers and his tongue exploring forcefully while she clutches at his back.

Touching and tasting, they make their way out of the car and through the front door. As they fumble down the hallway to her bedroom, she considers the state of her body, so long untouched. Yes, she exercises every day, but she wonders if her pale, muscular legs have been marked by blue veins or cellulite.

She stops wondering when he unzips her dress. His erection pushes into her back, and all her doubts evaporate. She turns and sinks to her knees — thank God I chose the soft carpet — and takes his cock in her mouth, her tongue teasing its tender, bulbous end.

She can feel him swell and pulse, when he tugs her hair gently and shakes his head. He pulls her to her feet, and they sink onto the bed, a single organism of desire. She’s wet and ready despite ghostly pangs of guilt — she hasn’t been with a man since her husband — and guides him into her.

They find their rhythm quickly, riding a waving of sensation. She thumps her belly against his. He takes her hips in his large, warm hands. They soar and soar until they can only moan and gasp. She comes with a grateful sigh and so does he.

They fall gently back to earth. She drifts off to sleep, her head resting on her his hard, lightly furred chest.

When she awakens from a deep, blank sleep, the cash on her table is gone and so is her date. She slides her wedding ring back onto her finger and smiles. . . . . .

Lizella Prescott