Our first face-to-face meeting was cosmically epic. I’m talking conversation 10 to the dozen, fireworks, ‘couldn’t keep our hands off each other’. I felt as though we were rewriting all the romance novels ever written. I’m talking breaking every moral code rule I’d ever written for myself. Holy moly! I had to come up for air.
He was tall, over 6-foot, small of waist and ample of buttocks (insert girlish giggles here). However, I didn’t consider him handsome, but more the kind of late-60-year-old face that’s life-worn. He was endearingly wrinkled, had a gap-toothed smile to die for and full lips that I was sure would softly take me to a place hitherto unknown. Promises duly kept…
Without so much as a second thought I willingly succumbed to a first night meeting that morphed into a glorious first morning breakfast. I have no need to lie about this, but it was a first for me. This man knew his way around a woman’s… needs. Without me knowing it, I was apparently very needy.
As I steadfastly refused to use the ‘L’ word, he diligently, but quietly, worked on me. He stayed at mine or I stayed at his. While he was trucking, and after he ceremoniously presented me with a set of his unit keys, I turned all non-characteristically housewife; tidying, cleaning, pre-cooking, on-the-road lunch prep and grocery shopping.
Being a nationalistic close cousin, but not a fully fledged Aussie, he had to visit his birth country a designated number of weeks per year. Christmas approached and so did his legally binding departure. I was heartbroken, but he declared and solemnly promised he’d be back in a few short weeks.
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