A Brush of the Wrist

The fifth guy I went out with arrived at the restaurant ten minutes late. It was raining, and he'd ridden downtown on his motorcycle. He walked in, shaking water off his jacket, and I noticed he was wearing pants and shoes. Shoes with laces. Things were off to a roaring good start.

We sat in a favorite taproom of mine sipping IPAs and sharing sliders. #5 has blue eyes and a neatly trimmed goatee. Nice smile. Good teeth. He looked both boyish and grown-ass-mannish when he pulled out his reading glasses to study the menu. We talked about the ordinary stuff - how long have you been divorced, what kind of work do you do, and oh - what's your real name?

Before we stood to leave the restaurant, #5 reached across the table and lightly brushed his fingers across my wrist.

I thought about it all the long drive home.

Back in the day, that touch of the wrist might be the lit match tossed onto the brush pile that started the wildfire roaring out of control up the mountainside. I mean I used to love to fall in love.

I used to be ticklish, too. But no more. That brush of the wrist was a move, a solid one, I'll give him that. I grinned when he did it and batted my eyes. I'm a Gen-X dater, I'm a grown-ass woman, I've been around the block, I don't get played because I am the player, yo, I know what I want and it does not include ever, ever, ever feeling like I felt when that man, #5, brushed his fingers across my wrist.