I had dinner with Junior and his grandmother tonight. I wore one of my more sedate outfits. A knee-length, flared skirt with a camisole and a tied silk scarf as the blouse. I had on some lovely thigh-high stockings under my skirt, and the strappiest little heeled sandals. She made us a lovely dinner, and was just the most gracious and considerate hostess. We discussed all sorts of mundane things over dinner. Being the wonderful host she was, she never touched on religion or politics, gracefully steering the conversation away from politics the one time it did slip into the conversation.
Junior, to my amazement, was a complete gentleman. He pulled my chair out for me and generally treated me like a lady. I’d wager his grandmother’s watchful eye had a little something to do with that, but it surely did puff up my pride a little. This wounded dog of a man who was constantly snapping at me, trying to wound me, was a pushover for his grandmother. I couldn’t blame him. I’d happily be a pushover for this sweet, endearing little lady, too.
As the night drew to a close, and she offered me an after-dinner cocktail, I declined. I told her what a lovely evening it had been, and how much I appreciated her efforts to make me feel at home. We hugged, and yes, I caught that little irritated look Junior gave me, but she and I parted great friends, I feel. She urged him to walk me home. He did. He walked me to my door before turning away. No sooner had I opened the door to my place than I felt his arm at my back, pushing me through it as he followed. He closed my front door hard before his mouth crushed mine. I think I’ll save the rest for next time. 🙂
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