It’s a Game

She doesn’t care about the invitation that arrived in a creamy envelope with a shiny inlay partially hidden by its contents. She tells herself she doesn’t care, but hours later she finds herself perched on the old kitchen chair that lives by the window, so when she smokes, she can blow the smoke out into the air above the street. She is waving the invitation unconsciously to cool her face because it’s so hot. Or she is waving it because it’s from Halloran.
 
Halloran, with his brown eyes that are so dark and revealing, but only when happy. Halloran with his tight ass whispering poetry in a pair of work pants. Halloran, with his broad shoulders and rough, rough hands that rub her like sand paper. Halloran, who is the best sex of her life. He understands how her body needs to move and what her ears need to hear to bring her to the end.
 
She starts to rub her hands down her bare legs and arms, just thinking of the time spent in bed with this man. Well, perhaps not always in bed, she thinks and chuckles at a memory. Here, in the office of an old abandoned railroad depot, and there, his truck parked next to Loon Crest Lake. Soon goosebumps rise, even under the silk negligee she has stripped down to after a long day at work. Stripped down because she doesn’t want her suits to smell like cigarettes if she can help it. 
 
“Mr. & Mrs Carlson Middleton request the honor of your presence at the joining in matrimony of their daughter, Alzina Middleton to Steven Halloran, on the seventeen of October, 2010 at the Presbyterian Church of the Covenant at three in the afternoon”
 
The fact that Halloran would invite her does not strike her as odd. Though he was upset that she was not able to move to the next step with him, they broke it off on good terms. She went on to the next exciting new love. He obviously did the same. But still, does she know their love is erstwhile? Truly is she the former love of Steve Halloran?
 
The chirp of an incoming text message distracts her and she holds the cigarette in her mouth to reach for the phone. She squints her eyes to keep the smoke from hurting, but this also has the effect of blurring the screen. Is she imagining things? As if conjured, a message from him floats up like the Magic 8 Ball answer to her inner queries. 
 
Its me. Did you get the invite?
 
A huge intake of air precedes her response. Only bad can come of this and her clit actually throbs.
 
Yes. Congrats.
 
She hopes this is the right combination of pretend sincerity and aloof indifference to call him to her, to force him to respond. She has gone from not caring to on the hunt. Is it just a game? She has him and he was mine?
 
He takes the longest time responding. She paces and lights another cigarette. She does not bother to blow the smoke out the window. She does not bother to pull the blinds, as she should since now night has fallen and she is in her underwear.
 
What are you doing?
 
She smiles, knowing she has him. Wanting to know about her physical presence, perhaps the position of her hand, or the slope of her foot, from heel to toe. This curiousity reveals his hand. Put some skirts on those cards, as her mother would say.
 
Nothing really. Its so hot.  I have a bottle, icy cold, gonna open it soon… What are you doing?
 
His answer comes immediately, with barely concealed desire. 
 
Care to share a pull? Old times sake?
 
Her temperature rises. She knows what and who she will be doing tonight. Her list starts; does she have time to shave? Does she have time to change the sheets? Burn some lavender incense? But first, her acceptance shall be sent. She RSVPs.
 
Sure. Come on over…