Aphrodisiac Schmaphrodisiac
The goose was rubbed down with honey and citrus. I had been
drawing cup after cup of rendered fat away for the past three hours. Oysters
chilled on their bed of ice in my sink with only a little of my blood still
staining the drain from my first practice shucking. The artichokes were
steaming and the olive oil, caper, and dill drizzle was setting, drawing and
blending flavors. The wine had been decanted, my prized Waterford red wine
goblets, polished.
I had eschewed my regular floral perfume for a spicy cinnamon
body lotion. My hair was loose, my cleavage bountiful. I had followed the
Aphrodisiac Cookbook to the letter, but knew if all else failed, I could count
on my breasts.
One way or another, I was going to get laid tonight. No,
not 'laid'–seduced. My needs were basic; I wanted to be wanted. I
wanted to feel. For so long I had been a wife and mother. Toward the
end, when the Huntington's had disabled the man I married, I was more caretaker
than wife. Now, with Jason finally at peace and the boys in college, it was
time to be a woman again. I blinked away the threatening tears and checked my
eyes in the mirror. The mascara was definitely worth the eight dollars, though
the lip stain looked too contrived. Grimacing, I wondered if I should have
colored my hair. The strands of silver among the auburn screamed, "Old lady."
And no one seduced an old lady. No, they helped her open jars and cross the
road. My skin was still smooth. Without the grey, I could, maybe, have pulled
off thirty-nine. With the grey I was every inch of forty-seven. I ran a finger
over my brows, and gave myself a smile. I looked... well, I look like me. And
Mr. Harris, David,
already knew what I looked like.
The chimes sounded. He was here. I took a deep breath and
slipped my bare feet into the kitten heeled slings I bought years ago for a
Caribbean cruise but never wore. They still felt sexy.
He stood in the doorway, tall and clean cut in his casual
slacks. My son’s former soccer coach, I’d never seen him in anything but his
team jersey and sweats.
“Good evening, Mrs. Walsh.” He smiled and brought his hand
from behind his back. Roses.
I blushed like an idiot and took them, my smile so
big it hurt. “Gemma, please.”
“Sorry. Old habits.”
I stepped back and he stepped in, wiping his feet on the
rug. I should have moved further back—I was too close, in his space. Before I
could, he took my hand.
“I’ve been looking forward to tonight for a long time.”
His voice was deeper than I remembered. He was holding my
hand—should I squeeze? Pull away? Stay limp? I blushed again, burying my face
in the roses. Jeese, you’d think I was sixteen, not someone who couldn’t open
jars.
“David,” his name sounded decadent on my tongue, “would you
like some wine?” I gestured with the bouquet, but stayed beside him, my hand
warm in his.
“Umm, yes,” he cleared his throat, “Or no. Not now. Christ,
I’m no good at this.”
“Good at what?” My voice was breathless.
He stepped closer, tracing my cheek with his finger. My
breath caught in my throat as he leaned toward me.
“This,” he whispered. Lowering his head he brushed my lips with his. His hand
cradled my jaw, his fingers spearing back into my hair.
I leaned closer and he pressed his mouth more firmly
against mine. Closing my eyes, I melted into him and he wrapped his arms around
me.
The roses fell to the floor, the timer on the oven beeped,
and the wine continued to breathe. None of it mattered. This man, David, he
wanted me, grey hair and all, without aphrodisiacs.
