Jon, 44
- Nicola Webb
- May 21, 2016
- 1 min read
Tinder.
Clare manages my highlights like an old lover. We don't need to talk.
I wait for the colour to fix.
Ping. Jon has just flown in from Houston. He is at the airport. He can meet me at 3pm.
Clare works fast, blow-drying with giggles.
6'2" jean, checked shirt and beaming. We laugh at our swift, accomplished meet.
In seconds our journeys are exchanged in staccato bursts, a child, a marriage, a divorce, a death, a betrayal, a new job...in Texas.
Jon misses England; I propose fish and chips at mine, we race there.
Montrachet-fuelled we tour the house and brush together.
He is attentive, smiling throughout with huge, beautiful, heaving shoulders and Texan sunshine still in his pores. He leaves whiteness across my thighs and leaves blowing kisses.
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