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We had been together many times before, but that night we devoured each other. Soon, all thoughts of motherhood and what was proper disappeared. It was futile to fight the longing we had been feeling for the past hours. James was right behind, and before I heard the click of the door closing he was kissing me. There was no point in arguing I knew I’d get in, so I slid onto the back seat. “Just get in,” he repeated, smiling mischievously as he opened the rear door. “I’m not having sex with you in a car,” I replied laughing, while thinking of how improper it would be for a middle-aged mother to do so. James took my hand and led me across the lot to his immaculately clean Mercedes. I refused, saying that my kids had left a mess in my car. When we got to my car he told me to get in the back seat. James began walking me to my car, and I assumed I would follow him to the adjacent hotel, or to his house an hour away. We were passionately entangled while patrons passed by, and I whispered that we needed to go somewhere private. Outside the restaurant James kissed me deeply and with a new fervency. Our behavior was an unspoken act of defiance against the taunt of age, and the gloom of funerals that had become a common part of our lives. We reveled in escaping the constricting bonds of our everyday lives – him a lawyer, me a divorced single mother. It felt mischievous to be strangers in a raucous tavern far from home in the middle of the night. On previous dates he had teased me about being a Puritan in public, but X-rated in private, but that night I made no attempt to be discreet. We sat at the bar laughing and kissing, and before long James ran his hand up my leg and under my skirt. We huddled and made witty comments about the antics of other patrons, parting only to fling our heads back in hysterics. The fact that we were completely out of place only heightened our excitement. The bar was teeming with a coarse-looking crowd of men and women who had deeply lined faces and leather jackets. The drinks we ordered were superfluous this was all a graceful dance of foreplay. Our faces were pressed within whispering distance and I inhaled his scent. When we sat at the bar he swiveled his chair, pushed his knees against mine, and leaned in close to talk. I felt a shudder of excitement run down my spine and I pushed in closer to feel his body. James met me at my car, and as we walked toward the restaurant he put his arm around me. Running and doing chores on his rural property kept his body lean and muscular, and his face betrayed few traces of the anguish I knew lay in his heart. Strikingly handsome, he looked at least a decade younger than his 61 years.
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We were speaking on the phone when I caught a glimpse of him. It was nearly eleven when I turned my car onto Main Street, and James was growing impatient. Oddly, my paramour had also spent the day at a funeral, and as the summer sun disappeared we made plans to meet halfway between our towns for a drink.
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I had spent the day at a funeral, reflecting on the fact that at fifty, I had more miles behind me than ahead. On a hot and humid night last June, I steered my car over twisting country roads toward a small lakeside town for a romantic rendezvous.