“Damn,” he whispered, “I could make love to you.”
I stood up and walked towards his bedroom.
“Where are you going?”
“To bed with you.”
He jumped up from the sofa and blocked my path with a kiss. Grasping my shoulders firmly he steered me away from the door.
“I’m confused,” I said. “Do you want me or not?”
“I want you,” he said, “but not like this. I want your head clear. I don’t want you to be sorry.”
“You’re sending me home, aren’t you,” I said, the incredulousness of the situation dawning on me. For years he had wanted this. And now he was actually ending the evening. It stung. And the hurt showed on my face.
“Marian,” he said, taking my face in his hands, “Can you come back tomorrow? I don’t want to rush this. Promise me you’ll come back tomorrow.”
I nodded. He kissed me deeply again and then I gathered my things and he walked me to my car. I pointed my car toward home, the lights of the road painting red and yellow streaks outside the windshield. I had been driving for five minutes when my phone rang. It was Kevin.
“Are you okay to drive,” he asked me.
“Yes, I’m good. Just tired.”
“Do you want to come back?” he asked, “You can stay the night.”
“No, I’m already on the main road home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
We talked the rest of my trip home and I wondered at his flip flopping. One minute he is ushering me out his door and a few later he is asking me to come back. In one breath he is warning me away from him and in the next he is whispering about making love to me. I fell asleep with the only sure answer in my head being that I would see him the next day.