She leans over the edge of the booth to get a closer look at a neon mermaid sign he restored for a local seafood joint, the neck of her dress dipping just enough that he can see the faint silver outline of a seagull tattoo on her collarbone, and he fumbles his beer bottle so bad a splash sloshes over the edge onto his scuffed work boot. She laughs, a low throaty sound that cuts through the noise of the crowd and the high buzz of surrounding neon tubes, and reaches across the booth to swat his arm playfully, her palm warm against the sunburnt skin just above the cuff of his rolled flannel shirt. The contact sends a jolt up his spine, the kind he hasn’t felt since before his divorce, and he has to look away for a second to catch his breath, the salt tang of ocean air sticking to the back of his throat.
The hidden truth about why mature women won’t let you ride them is…See more
