During the ensuing 'are-you-all-right?' exchange, he passed me his card. I appreciated the gesture, but wondered how compulsive you had to be to carry business cards out jogging. Plus, he wasn't built as nicely as Sean or Joe.
Good grief, I thought. One night of Rocky Road and I was spoilt for plain vanilla.
I glanced at the card as I crossed Fifth Street
. 'L. Kingston Waters,' it said. 'Estate Agent.' He might as well have been a used car salesman. He did have nice blue eyes, though - bedroom eyes, with curly black lashes starring the lids.
The door to my bookshop jingled as I pushed it open. My heart warmed at the sight of so many customers browsing the stacks. Everyone told me you can't sell romance in the city. You've got to locate in the suburbs to catch the bored housewives. Luckily, I didn't listen. One year later, Mostly Romance out-grossed the local chain and the popular new age bookshop two doors down. Our atmosphere accounted considerably for our success. We boasted oak panelling, moulded ceilings and comfy chairs. A jungle of greenery enhanced the scent of leather and printer's ink. We also served the best coffee in town. Women came in giggling carloads from as far as Virginia. Men shopped for their wives or tried to pick up dates. People couldn't find what we had anywhere else, and once you took our back room into account, we were well-nigh irresistible.
The back room was my special baby. It housed a collection of erotica from all over the world, a real treasure house of delights. Customers wrote thanking me for creating a safe space to buy and explore. I was happy to do it; I knew how they felt.
I pondered, as I'd begun to do lately, whether it was time to open a second shop.
Flushed with my own success, I waved to Keith, the morning sales assistant, declined his offer of coffee, and headed for the office I shared with my partner Marianne. Marianne was my sister-in-law - actually, my ex-sister-in-law, since my big brother had done a moonlight flit. For years she'd been my closest friend, the only friend who stuck by me after my own divorce. Living with Tom had brought out my bitchy side. He was the charmer, not me. Consequently, our mutual friends had no trouble believing his version of the facts. To them I was the harpy wife, and he the long-suffering soul of patience.
Sometimes I thought the only reason Marianne knew better was because Tom had run off with her daughter.
At my tardy entrance, she looked up from the computer inventory. She arched one thin brow. 'Late night?'
I hummed evasively. Marianne liked sharing her exploits, but I preferred to keep mine private - especially since I'd discouraged her from making a play for my lodgers by swearing they were absolutely, positively, one hundred per cent gay.
Now she spread her silver-tipped fingers across the surface of her desk. Marianne had gone Gothic lately: white face, ink-black hair, skin-tight leather. She carried it off with elan, one of the few women who could without looking like death warmed up.
At my continued silence, she pursed her lips - her bee-stung, scarlet lips. 'I suppose you don't want to hear about my encounter with Keith, then.'
In spite of myself, I was interested. 'Our Keith, from out front? Marianne, he's barely eighteen.'
'Nineteen,' she corrected with a Cheshire cat grin, 'and very hormonal.'
My glance flashed around the room looking for signs of coitus - semen smears, lipstick on the wall.
'Not here, silly.' Her eyes sparkled. ‘I bumped into him in Rittenhouse Square
last night. He was cycling; I was strolling. We stopped to chat. It turns out, he's the one who's been "borrowing" my nice Italian shoes.'
Grabbing my chair, I rolled it to the front of her desk and sat. 'He's a transvestite?'
'No, no.' She waved her silver claws. 'Just a foot fetishist. He says I've got the best arches he's ever seen. I never knew how inspiring that kind of admiration could be.' Her sooty lashes dipped with pleasure. 'You know the wall behind the big wading fountain in the park?'
I nodded.
'After I let him know his confession didn't disgust me, he parked his bike there and set me on the seat. He swung his leg over the bar, facing me, and pulled off my shoes. First he massaged my feet, ver-ry slowly. Oh, it was nice, especially since I could see how much he enjoyed it. His hands were shaking. He could hardly sit still. He was wearing those stretchy biker's shorts.' She smiled creamily at me. 'No jockstrap and hard as a rock in about six seconds. I could see everything - every vein, every ridge. He has the biggest balls I've ever seen: each one a handful, you know?'
I didn't, but I could imagine. I pressed down hard on the cushion of my chair. Why did I let Marianne do this to me? 'And then what?'
'Then he licked me. Not just the toes, but everything -heel, ankle, the long bones on the top. I never knew my feet had so many lovely nerves, and every one connected to my *. I tell you, I was ready to screw the bike seat.'
'Did he want to screw?'