The first time they made love they knew two weeks before it happened that it was going to happen. They'd met years before when they were both happily married. Colleagues who always seemed to notice "extras" about the other.
He preferred sugar cubes in his coffee.
She preferred to sit on the aisle.
He never wore button down collars.
She had an endless supply of crisp white shirts.
He was a runner.
She was a runner.
The day their connection became evident was when they were headed to the same restaurant in their hotel lobby. Since they were eating alone they decided to have dinner together.
Her phone rang and she didn't glance at it.
His phone rang and he didn't glance at it.
They talked for hours as the light was replaced from the window by a single tea light in an alabaster votive holder. They glowed.
They got to know each other more intimately via email, phone and texts instinctively changing up so their "friendship" went undetected like a box of individual chocolate morsels hidden in a decorative container in your home. A secret no one knows but you even as it is in plain sight.
Months after the connection they arranged to speak on the same panel. He shared with her his love of the water and she told him she'd love to swim with him and swimming became something else to both of them.
All they thought about for two weeks was swimming with each other so it wasn't difficult to imagine her packing a new swimsuit after agonizing for two weeks over finding a new one. And it wasn't difficult to imagine him stopping on the way to the airport to buy a new pair of trunks that he could throw away so his wife didn't wonder why he took swim trunks with him.
He was already at the pool when she arrived. She took off her wrap and dove into the water. He watched her submerge, her body a milky blur under the surface. He headed in her direction and as she came up for air wet and glistening he said simply, "Marco..." and she submerged again and slid up his body breathing out..."Polo."
And he kissed her.
And she kissed him back.
After being seated he reached over to hold her right hand in his left one. His thumb moved lightly over the soft pad between her thumb and index finger.
He watched her.
She watched him.
Their eyes smiling, content as they were.
"Do you know what you want to order yet?" he asked.
"If you let my hand go I can look at the menu."
"Sorry...I love touching you."
She decided on the Seared Salmon with Artichoke Salsa and he chose the Roast Chicken Breast with Zibibbo Raisins and Pearl Couscous. When their waiter returned he shared their choices and added a glass of Patton Valley pinot noir as a pairing.
And then they were alone again and his hand automatically snaked across the table to hold hers again.
She watched him.
He watched her.
"What are you thinking?"
"How long it was going to take you before you asked me what I was thinking." she smiled.
"Am I that predictable?"
"I wouldn't use predictable."
"What would you use?"
"Are we going to do this again?"
"No. We're not. I'm sorry."
He smiled. "I love you."
She laughed. "Why do you do that?"
"Do what?" He feigned innocence.
"Throw me all off guard like that?"
"I love to see you smile." and he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it closing his eyes when his lips touched her skin.
"So...you're leaving your wife."
"Why do YOU do that?"
"Always try and shock me. I'm not scared of you."
"You should be."
"You want me to be scared of you. You want me to let you scare me off but I'm not going anywhere."
"Yes. I know. So you've said."
"Name calling isn't going to help."
"Are you leaving your husband?"
"After the holidays."
"That's what I was thinking too. First week of January."
And the rest of the evening was a blur of senses cloaked in surrealism neither of them had felt before. Freeing and electric the ride back to the hotel was filled with the darkness and the music. His hand burned her thigh and she felt nothing but it as the heat from his hand seemed to replace the center of her body. The place on her thigh seemed to now be her heartbeat in the darkness...
...in the midst of the music.
He dropped her off across the street from the hotel and sat and watched until she was inside the lobby. He then went to park the car and headed up to the room where she was waiting on him dressed in cotton undies and a tank top which emphasized the sleekness of her body she worked hard to maintain.
There is always music...
...and they rode over the storm...into the sea...neither of them minding the waves.
With a carefree heart she fell asleep naked, moist and yet refreshed. Released from fear of retribution as she'd called her husband before he'd made it to her room.
They woke at 4:30 am and silently dressed in the dark. She left first and jogged to the CVS. He was 5 minutes behind her.
And they ran together. The cold air stinging their cheeks. The rhythm of their pace becoming one.
She was listening to music as she always did when she was with him.
He brought her back the music.
He was her music.
And she...MIGHT be his.
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