Desire Stirring

He grins. "Are you okay?"

"Quite okay," she says, feeling shy and vulnerable. "It's just, well, I haven't done this in a while."

"I understand. I like your dress, by the way." He runs his eyes up and down, notices the way her green dress clings to her shapely form as if it were custom made for her.

"Thanks. I like your tie. Kind of funky."

"It glows in the dark." She makes a skeptical face. "Okay, when the triple-A batteries are in, it does."

She puts her hand to her chest and guffaws. She likes this guy's silly, absurd sense of humor.

"It's nice to see you laugh," he says.

"It feels good to laugh." Softly, she begins to sing along with the lead female singer of the band. "When the rain is blowing in your face. And the whole world is on your case, I could offer you a warm embrace, to make you feel my love..."

"You have a lovely voice," he says.

"Thanks. I just love this song."

"I can tell."

And she can tell what Jean's been telling her for a while—this man is interested in her. Can she reciprocate? Yes? Maybe? Later?

The song ends and he reaches out and takes her hand. "Thanks, that was fun."

"For me, too," she says. She sees the band taking a break, wonders what "should" come next. Should she return to her seat or just stand there? The good doctor doesn't seem in any hurry to leave.

Before she can decide, he clasps one hand of hers in his two. Then he says, "Look, I gather how difficult this must be for you, still mourning your loss. It hasn't been that long. If you're up for it, I'd like it if we could get together some time. Lunch, dinner, coffee. Whatever you're comfortable with. But, if you're not ready, I understand."

She wants so much to say yes. But..."Not to put you off, but can I think it over?"

"Of course." He glances at his watch. "Can I have an answer in say, five, ten minutes?"

She holds her stomach and howls.

The two of them laugh together, the only couple still on the dance floor. Wiping her eyes, she says, "Doctor Lerner, I mean Roy, you're making it impossible for me to say no."

He grins triumphant, runs his hand up and down his 'funky' tie. "As I was hoping. So..."

She nods. "Okay, lunch, dinner, coffee, whatever."

He punches her number into his cell before they return to their tables.

Jean doesn't attempt to hide her glee. "Did I just see what I thought I just saw?"

Shannon smiles coyly. "You should be very happy."

"No, you're the one who should be happy. Are you?"

"We'll see, mom, we'll see. He seems very nice. And sooo funny."

*****

Lunch on Saturday. It works for him and it works for her. He gave her the choice of restaurant and she chose the Nautilus Diner. He likes the Nautilus, too, because one could starve just trying to decide among the abundant offerings on their menu.

He's picking her up at her split-level single home, the home she and Dave shared for their entire marriage. He's driving his "weekend car" today, the black, late model Camaro with a V-8 under the hood. 'Your midlife crises car,' some friends tease, but that's not the case at all. Roy's affinity for powerful automobiles harks back to his teen years. Then, and as a young man during his medical training, he couldn't afford them. Now he can, so on weekends, when he's not on duty, he leaves the Honda Accord home and tools around in the Cam.

She greets him at the door in jeans and a white knit pull-over. "Hi, come on in. I'd like you to meet my girls, Merl and Natalie." The girls greet him with wary expressions when Shannon introduces him. He's not surprised. In fact, he kind of expected it, a natural reaction to a new man in their mom's life. Bottom line: he's not their dad.

She tells them to be good, then follows Roy out to the car. "I'm sorry they weren't friendlier," she says.

"No need to apologize," he says, opening the car door for her. "Most kids would react the same way in this situation."

She sighs. "Well, I guess so. It hasn't been easy on them."

He nods. "I'm sure it hasn't. Look, my boys were teenagers when Emily and I split up, and it took them a few years to accept new people in their parents' lives."

She asks a few questions about his sons and then comments on his car. "Love your vehicle. But I expected you to pull up in something more, I don't know, more conservative, if not staid."

He chuckles. "You're riding with a NASCAR wannabe, Shannon. This is a lot more fun than my Honda Accord." When he pulls onto the beltway, he flexes the Cam's muscles, puts pedal to the metal.

"Wow!"

"Like that?" He slows down and shifts into the middle lane.

"I was about to ask for a crash helmet. You know, Dave liked fast cars, too. He once had...Oh, crap, I'm sorry. I told myself that I wasn't going to bring him up."

He pats her leg. "Shannon, listen. You can talk about Dave or anything else you'd like. I'm a very understanding fellow."

"Thanks, but I'm here to talk about you, to learn more about you and maybe, just maybe, to learn how the hell we might be related."

He shakes his head. "Oh man, good luck with that. Let's see, as I understand it, your dad's third cousin thrice removed married my great aunt's cousin's cousin who in turn was somehow related to another cousin's uncle..." He stops, watches her double over in hysterics. "Or something like that."

She holds her stomach, yucking it up, her face turning red. Then, upon settling down, she says, "Roy, you're a scream. I'm sure you've heard that before."

"Yeah, from my patients. They scream all the time when I'm treating them."

"Oh, I don't believe that. I'll bet you have a gentle bedside manner. At least I'm hoping because I have orthopedic issues of my own. But I'll save that for the diner."

Once seated in the Nautilus, they peruse their four-page menus. "If you can't find it here, it doesn't exist," Shannon says.

"That's for sure," Roy agrees. His eyes run down the pages while sneaking peeks of Shannon, thinking how sexy she looks wearing those black frame reading glasses. For him, glasses lend a decidedly sexy image to attractive women like Shannon, smart, intellectual, yet uninhibited in the bedroom. Of course, he has no idea of how she'd perform in bed, and he feels somewhat ashamed even thinking about it. He also knows that the libido answers to no higher power but its own.

Moments later, a waiter is standing by their booth, taking their order—an Oriental chicken salad, for her, an egg white omelet for him.

Folding his hands atop the Formica surface, he says, "So, you said something about having orthopedic issues."

She nods, then flips a side of her long hair over her shoulder. "Right. Well, I do yoga and also run to keep in shape. But my knees are starting to bother me. Not so much during the run but afterward." Per his questions, she tells him she runs every other day and usually on asphalt.

"The knees take a pounding on hard surfaces," he says. "Try running on grass or a track coated with rubber. And perhaps limit your running to twice or three times a week at most. If that doesn't work, you might want to do what I did, take up cycling."

She nods. "Okay, I'll try that. I haven't been on a bike in ages."

"It's a lot more fun than running. I know, because I once ran, too."

"You look like you once played football."

"Yep. In high school and first two years of college. A knee injury ended my fledgling football career."

She learns more about him. For instance, he took up orthopedics because it was "a natural career choice" given his penchant for sports and a desire to heal injured athletes return to their activity. "I was once one of those injured athletes myself, so I can relate," he explains. "I'm just a big aging jock lucky enough to excel in math and science."

"It amazes me, Roy, that I've leaned more about you in these last few minutes than I learned in all those years of family gatherings."

"We were a few years apart in age, when just a few years made a big difference. I mean, you were in middle school when I was in college. Had you been older and or me a little younger..." Should he really be telling her this?

"Yes?"

"Well, I might have got up the nerve to ask you out."

Her eyes widen in surprise. "Got up the nerve? You hardly seem to lack for confidence."

"Now, no. Back in the day, yes. It took a while to get there."

During lunch, they discuss sports, their careers and news out of China about some deadly virus that's going around. "Another SARS respiratory kind of virus," he says. "They've had these before."

"Sounds scary."

"Yes, but I just saw a TV interview with a doctor Anthony Fauci, a leading epidemiologist who said that we're in the clear, that it probably won't come over here. Let's hope he's right. We escaped the last two and the Ebola virus."

After lunch, Roy's thoughts about viruses fade away, replaced by thoughts of what he and Shannon might do next. A drive or walk, perhaps. It's nice out, sunny with temps in the upper forties, an especially nice day for January in an unusually mild winter. He suggests a walk around a reservoir near the Maryland-Pennsylvania line. She agrees, then calls home to tell Merl.

After a drive of close to ten miles, they begin their walk, Roy in his heavy green and white wool sweater and red plaid scarf, Shannon in a short blue jacket over a red wool blouse. The brisk breeze makes it feel colder than it is. Roy would love to snuggle against her for warmth, if nothing else, but he doesn't want to do something that she might not be ready for. He needn't worry, because moments later, she wraps both her arms around one of his and says, "I'm counting on you to keep me warm. Is that okay?"

"More than okay. I was about to suggest that myself."

They stroll along, squinting against the bright sun that reflects off the rippling blue water. He's close enough to where he can smell the clean, fresh scent of her hair that blows around her face, close enough to where and he can feel the soft contours of her lovely body.

She snuggles closer. Then she says, "If this is an example of your bedside manner, doctor, your patients are in good hands."

He bends down and plants a quick kiss on the top of her head. "Thanks, that was sweet."

They walk over a mile before returning to the car for the drive home. With the engine still running, Roy parks in front of her house. Then Shannon says, "Thanks, Roy, for a lovely time."

"My pleasure," he says. He turns to face her, debating if he should go for a kiss. Her dark eyes sparkle and her mouth, devoid of lipstick, looks too good to resist.

She grins, then runs a finger down the front of his sweater. "Yes, you can kiss me goodbye. Um, I hope that's what you're thinking."

"You're right on target." He leans in and she meets him halfway for something a bit more than a quick goodbye kiss. It's long enough to where he can feel her affection as well as her warm, moist lips. "I hope this means that you'd like to see me again," he says when they part.

"Well, I'll put it to you this way. If you didn't follow-up, I'd be very disappointed, if not hurt. So yeah."

*****

Shannon meant what she said about being disappointed if Roy failed to follow up. She's crazy about the guy. Not in love, just intensely in like. She also feels a few pangs of guilt, still in mourning over Dave, yet excited about where things might go with Roy. When should the mourning end and the fun begin? Is there formal protocol, a timeline on such a thing? She knows she deserves to be happy, and happy isn't something she's been since Dave got sick. Now she is—or at least she can see herself getting there. She doesn't hesitate when Roy calls and asks her out for dinner.

This time, she gets a baby-sitter for Merl and Natalie, because she doesn't know what time she'll be home. She gets the feeling that Roy might suggest they head back to his place afterward. Wishful thinking, perhaps. The idea excites her, all right, even though she's not ready emotionally to become intimate with him. She finds him irresistibly attractive on several levels. They kissed once; she wants them to kiss again, this time longer, much longer. And what if they do, and she finds herself in his bedroom? Does she slam on the brakes or shift into high gear the way his Camaro did on the beltway? Of course, none of this might happen, and she finds herself laughing at her presumptuousness.

After seeing him pull up, she gives last minute instructions to Ashley, her teen sitter, tells the girls to be good and then walks out to Roy's Camaro, bundled up against the biting wind. "Ah, that heat feels nice," she says, buckling up her seat belt. "How are you?"

"Doing great," he says. "And you look great, as always."

"Thanks. I hate this cold weather but at least there's no snow."

"Unusual for early February. But, like you, I'm not complaining."

Shannon notices that Roy's not his usual gregarious self. Something's off. He seems preoccupied, even disturbed about something. "Everything okay?"

Glancing to the side, he says, "I'm fine, but I'm concerned about this virus that seems to be gaining momentum, spreading globally. There's been cases in California and Seattle."

"Yes, I've heard. Do you think this is the start of a pandemic?"

"God, I sure hope not. The recent SARS pandemics didn't spread to the US. So far, we've been lucky. But maybe it's now our turn to get it."

"You had mentioned a doctor who said we'd be okay."

"Doctor Fauci said that. But I'd bet he's rethinking what he said."

She looks out the window, trying to picture what a pandemic might look like in the United States. She knows something about the Spanish flu that killed millions of people a century ago. One of them was a distant relative, she's been told. Can it really happen here, in the USA? She shakes her head, tries to let it slip from her mind. She's here to have fun, to be with a man she's growing quite fond of. She doesn't want thoughts of something that might not even happen spoil her evening. On the other hand, being a health provider, she should probably make it her business to know more about it.

But that can wait. Roy is pulling onto the parking lot of the Rios, an upscale restaurant located along a suburban industrial park. She's never been here, though she's heard the rave reviews from people who have. When they enter, Roy sees diners lined up on benches near the entrance. "Good thing I made reservations," he says.

Upon being seated with menus, Shannon says, "Everything looks so good."

He nods. "It is. I've never been disappointed in anything I've had here."

She settles on the crab cake, while Roy goes with the salmon. They also share a carafe of Cabernet Sauvignon.

They trade shop talk. He regales her with stories about torn ACLs and broken bones, while she, trying to stay upbeat, mentions patients who beat their cancer. Thoughts about SARS and MERS creep into her consciousness, though she's determined to keep them to herself for as long as possible. She thinks the food is delicious, including the rum cake desert and coffee. She also welcomes the hug and warm kisses he lays on her on the parking lot. No surprise, he invites her back to his place. No surprise, she accepts.

Roy lives in a three-bedroom townhouse development not too far from the restaurant. "I bought this right after my divorce," he says. "Nothing fancy, but it's cozy and close to Orthopedic Associates." He gives her a brief tour of the house, but she's most impressed with the home gym set up in his club basement, mostly free weights, a squat rack and benches. "When I'm too busy to make it to LA Fitness, which is frequently the norm, I'm down here early in the morning pumping iron."

She stands in the middle of the red and white, hard Linoleum floor, half covered with rubber matting. "Very nice. Maybe I'll get my own set-up one day. I have the space and I can also relate to your time constraints."

After they go upstairs, he pours two glasses of Benedictine liqueur and joins her on the living room sofa. She feels comfortable and relaxed, feels none of the pressure to go beyond talking and sipping this delicious drink. She's kicked off her heels. He's got his shoes off also. She thinks his red socks are cute. She likes his stripped green and blue polo pullover jersey and his dark chinos, too. More accurately, she likes the way he looks in them. Of course, well-built men like Roy would look good in most anything they wear. She wears gray wool slacks, sits with one leg bent, the other leg crossed over her knee, swinging it to the rhythm of her thoughts.

He reaches out to hold her hand. "Your hands are soft and warm," she says.

"I use lots of hand moisturizer," he reveals. "Patients don't like doctors with rough hands."

"I wouldn't think so either."

He leans in and gives her a quick kiss on the mouth. "I was a little hesitant asking you to my place. Not sure how you'd take it."

She flashes him a warm smile and squeezes his hand. "I'm taking it very well. I feel quite comfortable with you. And if that's not an invitation to kiss me like you did on that parking lot, I don't know what is." Taking the lead, she sets her glass on the coffee table, then reaches out to take his. She then inches closer and rests her arms on his shoulders. "So, Doctor Soft Hands, as I was saying."

"First this," he says, then cuts off the lamp on the end table. Only the kitchen light remains on, giving them just enough light to see while maintaining the "right" atmospheric mood.

The moments pass without either of them saying anything, at least out loud. The action speaks for itself, the lip and tongue action and their bodies as close as bodies can be fully dressed. She's so very comfortable doing this with him. She's enamored with his fine qualities, of course, but also with his sensitivity for not pushing boundaries he senses she's not ready to cross. Or is she? If he attempts to go further, she's not sure if she'd let him or not. It's only their second date. Then again, so what? She's not some naïve teenager; she's a woman in her forties who's just beginning to realize how starved she's been for this kind of intimacy with a man.

He's kissing her neck and running his fingers through her long hair. He loves her hair; he's told her that a few times. He's aroused, shows the usual telltale signs. Yes, and his cock, which she can't see, but imagines it growing longer and thicker. All good, because what they're doing is working both ways. She imagines what his big athletic body would feel like next to hers. No clothes. Skin on skin.

He kisses her some more, deeper and longer, and then he leans away and pops a question. "So, wanna get naked?" He responds to her shy chuckle with this: "Okay, so I'm less than suave."

Then he laughs. They both laugh. Then she says, "Actually, I respect men who are direct, direct but gentle and you're both." She sits there less than an inch from his face, grinning.

Then he asks, "So what about the naked part?"

"Sounds like the best part. Let's get it on, as they say."

He leads her into the semi-dark master bedroom. The thick carpeting feels nice under her bare feet, almost therapeutic. She stands by his queen-sized bed, eyes closed, head rolled slightly back, letting him unbutton her blouse, letting him plant gentle kisses on her chest as he does it. She reaches behind, unsnaps her bra, then lets it drop to the floor. "Thought I'd help you along," she says.

"Beautiful," he says.

"My boobs?"

"You. All of you."

His words comfort her, makes her feel secure and wanted. "Now you," she says, and he responds, slipping off his top and T-shirt. She runs her fingers along his chest, broad, hirsute, solid. "Soft hands, hard chest."

"Better that than the other way around. Don't you think?"