So, they met for ice cream. She had instigated that reunion since she thought, and guess correctly, that he was too shy. Shy for her, that is, for he was known as somewhat of a Don Juan, but she, maybe it was true what they said about her. When you entered into her realm it wasn’t like entering a clam sea, perhaps surfing a bit in the waves. No, she was a 40 meter high wave, a tsunami.
So, they met, finally, a couple of days later, strictly for ice cream, well, or so he thought.
They had nothing to talk about, seriously, nothing. She was into arts, he was into money, and although both subjects could meet at a certain point, for some reason, they just didn’t mesh up. So, what did they talk about? Their friend in common, the reason they had met, the reason they were there, walking the streets of a spring evening while she was figuring out how to jump him without him knowing that it was she who had done the jumping and not him.
His phone rang, he picked up. She said that if he kept answering his phone, she was going to distract him. And she did. Breathing on his neck, barely touching with the heat which emanated from her lips, his earlobe, holding his waist into place with her left hand. He has been distracted, and he kissed her. Finally, she thought.
They strolled some more. Hand in hand, or with an arm around the other's waist. The wall had been torn down. Intentions clear.
He said he didn’t read much, she told him to lie to her. That he should say that he loved books. He did just that and she told him he was the sexiest man alive. And she kissed him some more.
They went to her place and, needless to say, they jumped each other.
That is the only sensible thing one can do when you meet with someone whom is nice but you have absolutely nothing to talk about. You keep your lips busy, and your tongue, and your fingers, and your sex.
So, how was it, the common friend asked him the day after. “Oh, god bless you…” was all he responded.
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