Page 34 of Ewan

When I felt his bulge, I thought I’d get the imprint of his erection on my butt. I could imagine the outline on my skirt.

A chuckle falls from my lips.

It’s funny now, but it wasn’t that funny back then.

I glance over my shoulder to check the bench where he sat an hour ago, and I also listen to his footsteps.

A part of me would like to see him again. Get a glimpse of his face. Maybe a name.

Although he wouldn’t win a prize for being the best conversationalist any time soon, I’m curious about the man.

His footfalls fade away as if moving down the corridor and, um, wait. Is he using the back exit?

A bud of hope blooms in my chest as I get lost in a sky of mystification.

He came this way, changed his mind, and opted for the back exit? Did he want to see me before leaving? Or had he forgotten about the back exit, recalled what I had said, and gone back?

If he had made the trip to the event room, he could’ve easily walked out like everybody else.

The entire story is filled with inconsistencies, and frankly, I don’t like the truth.

He probably forgot about the back exit, came this way, figured out I might still be here, wanted to avoid me––because what happened before was embarrassing enough––and then realized he could do it by exiting the building in the back.

A little detour that apparently made sense to him.

I sigh away my disappointment. It’s better that way.

He didn’t want to bump into me again.

Didn’t even want the money.

Couldn’t even share his name.

What did he think I’d do with it?

Look him up?

Hire a PI to learn more about his life?

I feel offended by this preposterous hypothesis, so I pivot away from the window when a sealed bottle of wine catches my eye.

Before debating with myself for a few moments, I snatch it up, tuck it under my arm, and leave the room.

The rumbling of his truck engine fills the air.

Great.

This way, I know he’s in his car, going wherever he is going, and we are both safe.

I manage to push the door open and step outside just as the sizable truck rolls slowly out of the parking lot.

The fact that I didn’t get to see him gnaws at my mind. What good would’ve done to me, anyway?

At least now, I can imagine his face. Paint it with the brush of my imagination any way I want. I make a valid effort but I fall short and when the headlights of his truck vanish into the mistfalling over the wooded area, I try to forget about him and think about the warm soft bed waiting for me at home.

SCARLETT

I drivea beat-up car that looks decent, has no dents, and has all its seats accounted for, yet it becomes difficult to run and gives me a hard time when the weather is cold.

---