Catherine Emerson met Tom Quimby quite by accident one afternoon when he sat down on the park bench across from her in Rittenhouse Square. This was where she often ate her lunch, usually yogurt with peaches, or strawberries, before returning to work as a bookkeeper and office manager at Bronson and McGee’s Law office.

Two days earlier, Catherine and her husband, Martin, had celebrated their thirty-fourth anniversary at the Avalon Bistro where they’d had their first date. It was a tradition they both enjoyed, and they could reminisce and laugh over a leisurely meal. The Avalon served Mediterranean dishes, good wine, marvelous desserts. It was now run by the original owner’s son and his wife, Dominic and Francesca, who always stopped by to congratulate them, and treated them to a glass of Muscatti, an Italian red wine, just as their parents had over the years.

Catherine and Martin always sat at the same table in the corner and enjoyed the darkness, the candles, the red and white checkered tablecloth, the paintings of scenes from European towns and the soft classical music, often opera, that added to the romantic, old world atmosphere that made the evening special for them. Though neither of them had ever been to Europe, the Avalon Bistro made them feel like they were on their honeymoon and not in Atlantic City, where they actually had gone after their wedding.

Catherine and Martin had a good marriage, and though it had its hills and valleys, mostly it was a plateau that often left Catherine with a feeling of restlessness she couldn’t name. Many evenings Catherine would look at Martin when he read the newspaper, or did his crossword puzzles, while she sat across from him reading one of her romance novels and wished he would say or do something like the men in the books she read.

Before they married and for several years after, he was more demonstrative, more passionate; however, as the years passed, even though he was thoughtful and affectionate, Catherine’s yearning for something more intense swelled in her, and the books she read made her more aware of what she was missing.

Martin always kissed her goodbye in the morning before leaving for work, a light kiss on the forehead, or on the top of her graying head when he came home for dinner. He was a good father to their daughter, Melissa, when she was growing up. He taught her to ride a bicycle, read to her at bedtime, and spoiled her with little gifts. He was dependable and conscientious about mowing the grass in their small backyard, taking the trash to the curb on Tuesdays, buying flowers for Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day, but it was Catherine who spontaneously bought flowers for the dining room table or, for no reason, would light candles at dinner, or initiate going on a picnic, or to a movie, or to the zoo and Martin would say, “Fine, anything you want dear, is fine with me.”

Catherine wished Martin would suggest an idea, or initiate activities, but that never happened, and so she ended up accepting that this was just the way it is. She resented his dependence on her but ended up swallowing her disappointment and longing.

Catherine loved romantic movies and often cried and dreamt of Robert Redford after seeing, “ The Way We Were ” and secretly wished Martin was more like him, or Cary Grant in “ An Affair to Remember ” and then realized how foolish she was being and tried accepting him as the dependable, good, kind man he was. But more and more, when he read the newspaper after dinner, or worked on his crossword puzzle, she’d notice his belly, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, the way he would tug at his ear, or scratch his thin graying hair while thinking or watching television, and again she’d sigh, closing her eyes, aware that intensity was missing in her life. Where was the passion and romance that gripped her when she turned the pages in the books she devoured?

It was clear they loved each other, but Catherine no longer felt in love . At fifty-five, she missed the intensity she'd felt at twenty-two, the excitement of falling in love, the newness of discovering each other. Though she valued the peace and contentment of having everything she needed, the wonderful home, a loving husband, an interesting job and no financial worries, more and more she felt the sky was gray when she wanted to see a rainbow.

So, when Thomas Quimby sat down on the bench across from her in the park, two days after she had celebrated her thirty-fourth anniversary, opened a black covered notebook and started writing, she felt a sudden spark that surprised her. She glanced at him while eating her yogurt. He seemed so intense, writing quickly, concentrating. He occasionally looked at the pigeons strutting and pecking by his feet, or he looked up at the sky as if searching for a word, then immediately he would go back to writing.

She noticed the way he tugged at his short, gray beard and narrowed his eyes in concentration. She could tell he was crossing out words by his intense scribbling on the page, shaking his head as if saying a definite “no,” before he continued writing. She liked how oblivious he seemed to be of the people walking past him, the children running or wobbling on their bicycles, mothers pushing carriages, or teenagers walking through the park, carrying iPods with ear plugs, or talking on their cell phones, or texting. Nothing brought his gaze away from the page where he was writing.

She noticed his wire-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose and his quick pushing them back in place. His partially white hair was somewhat wild and long and hung over his ears and curled up slightly at his shoulders. His beard was trimmed, but still, he had a slightly disheveled look about him, as if not much mattered but his writing. At the same time, he seemed distinguished, scholarly, or artistic, but definitely not ordinary.

For some reason she couldn’t take her eyes off of him, but then, when he stopped writing for a moment and looked at her, she quickly turned away, embarrassed, pretending she hadn’t noticed him, and he went back to his writing. Even after she finished her yogurt, knowing she should return to work, she lingered, intrigued by his deep concentration, his passionate intensity. She wondered what he was writing and felt her curiosity growing.

Usually she didn’t pay much attention to people passing where she sat, but today, the man across from her fascinated her, and she felt the urge to say something to him, to ask him what he was writing, then dismissed that thought, feeling it would be wrong to interrupt him, an invasion of his privacy.

When she got up to return to work, throwing her empty yogurt container and plastic spoon in the trashcan next to her bench, he looked up at her again and their eyes met briefly, a slight smile on his lips. He looked down at his writing, then back up at her and smiled again, then, placed the pen on the page as a marker and closed his notebook.

When he looked up at her, she could see his blue eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses. His smile surprised her and a sudden thrill rippled through her that made her feel she was blushing. She suddenly felt awkward standing there, her hand on the strap of her handbag, while her heartbeat quickened.

“What are you writing?” she asked, quickly adding, “Sorry, that’s none of my business.”

“Just some thoughts.” He chuckled and his face softened in contrast to the harder, grim look he wore when he was writing.

“You seemed so intense. I was watching you.”

“Oh well, I get carried away with my writing.” He glanced down at his notebook, patting the black cover then looked back up at Catherine.

“Well, I better get back to work. I don’t want to interrupt you,” she said, tightening the grip on her handbag.

“No problem. I was almost finished. Where do you work?”

Catherine pointed to the office building across from the park. “Over there on the fifteenth floor in an office.”

He looked where she was pointing and stood up. “Mind if I walk you there? I have to stretch.”

“If you’d like, that’s fine.”

He was several inches taller than she originally thought, also much thinner. Again, their eyes met as she looked up at him, surprised at his offer, a slight thrill swelling in her that she hadn’t felt in a long time. She noticed his brown corduroy pants, worn and baggy at the knees, his wrinkled tweed sports jacket and open-collared red and black flannel shirt that clashed with the tweed jacket.

“Let’s go,” he said and placed his notebook in his jacket pocket. She noticed a paperback book in the other pocket and the tip of a pipe sticking out of the upper pocket.

Neither of them spoke as they walked towards the entrance of the park. It was autumn and the path was littered with brown, yellow and red leaves. He pointed to the leaves covering the grass.

“I love this time of year. It’s so colorful and I love how summer fades into autumn.” He paused. “Like us.” He chuckled and took a deep breath. “And the air is so sweet. I like how warm it is during the day and the chilly nights.”

“I do, too,” Catherine responded and looked out at the colorful leaves where he was pointing and thought about his comment, Like us. She also liked how poetically he spoke about autumn, how responsive he seemed to the world around him.

Suddenly, he left the concrete path and went over to the grass and, gathering a pile of leaves in his hands, threw them in the air over his head and laughed. His actions surprised her, but after a moment’s hesitation, she joined him and also picked up a pile of leaves and threw them up in the air, letting them fall over her. He bent down and gathered another pile and threw them up in the air over her and she did the same, tossing them over him, surprised at how playful she felt and laughing at their sudden impulsive tossing of leaves over each other. She realized she hadn’t done anything like this since she was a child, and here she was at fifty-five, tossing leaves with a stranger.

Brushing the leaves from her short gray hair and shoulders, still laughing, she smiled. “That was fun. By the way, what’s your name, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Tom,” he said, brushing a leaf off her shoulder. “What’s yours?”

“Catherine.” She reached out to shake his hand. “I like to know who I’m throwing leaves at.” She felt his strong hand on hers.

“That’s very considerate of you.” He shook her hand. “Glad to meet you, Catherine.”

“I better hurry. I’m already late.” She gripped the long strap of her handbag dangling from her shoulder.

“Sorry for making you late. I just couldn’t resist playing with the leaves.”

Catherine nodded and continued walking with Tom beside her, feeling exhilarated by the spontaneous tossing of leaves. She thought of Martin raking the maple leaves each fall in the front of their house, burning them in small piles but never picking them up to toss in the air. It felt strange walking through the park with a man, someone other than her husband, but enjoyed his presence next to her. She noticed him looking up at the trees overhead then back at her, their eyes meeting briefly. He smiled then looked away as they walked to the park entrance without speaking.

They left the park and stood at the corner, waiting for the light to change. Neither of them spoke, but the silence did not feel awkward, though she was searching for something to say.

“I haven’t seen you around here before.” Catherine looked up at him, then at the yellow hand on the traffic light indicating that they should wait. “And I come here every day for lunch and fresh air.”

“I’m not surprised because I just moved here a few days ago and just discovered this park.”

When the light changed, she felt his hand on her back as they crossed the street. Others crossed with them and the sounds of horns and sirens and the loud bustle of downtown at lunchtime made it difficult to have a conversation. People walked in both directions, while Tom and Catherine weaved their way toward her office building.

“Well, here I am.” She stopped and turned to face him. “Nice meeting you, Tom. Welcome to the neighborhood. Maybe I will see you again in the park.”

Standing in front of the revolving door of the Warwick Building with people going in and out, he nodded. “Perhaps, you will. I hope we meet again. That would be nice.”

“Well, I’d better get back to work. I’m already ten minutes late.” She turned and looked at the revolving door then back at Tom.

“Well, we can’t be late for work, can we?” He smiled at her and she sensed his teasing.

“Right, I’m never late and they’re going to wonder what happened to me. They would never suspect I was late because I was throwing leaves in the air.”

“We should do that more often,” he said, a slight smile on his lips.

“Maybe we should. I’d like that.” She smiled and looked into his eyes then suddenly realized she was actually flirting with him. “Well, I better get going,” she said, after an awkward silence.

“What time do you finish work?” Tom asked.

“Four-thirty,” she answered, surprised at his question, but sensed a mutual interest growing. “Why?”

“Well, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I think we should have a cup of coffee together, or better yet, a glass of wine at that little café up the street.”

“You do, do you?” she responded with a slight smile, enjoying being playful.

“Yes, I think we should, why not?”

“I can think of a lot of reasons why not, but I think I would like that,” Catherine answered and laughed, surprised at herself. She remembered that Martin was going to be working late that night and she would be having dinner alone.

“Good.” He nodded. “I’ll meet you at the café when you get out of work. You will recognize me. I’ll be the white-haired guy writing in his notebook.”

“Okay, Tom. I’ll be there, but don’t you get any ideas. I’m a happily married woman.”

“And I’m a happily unmarried man and have no desire to complicate my simple, quiet life. It’s just a cup of coffee, or possibly a glass of wine, no expectations.”

“Good. No expectations.” She quickly walked away, then turned around and waved goodbye as she pushed the revolving door and disappeared into the building.

While working, she felt energized and especially cheerful when she answered the phone. “Hello, Bronson and McGee Law Office.” It was her job to answer questions, take care of what she could on the phone before deciding whether the caller should speak to Mr. Bronson or Mr. McGee. She was their girl-Friday, and she loved being efficient, any information her bosses needed right at her fingertips. Two other young women worked in the office, and she always checked over their work before bringing it to Mr. Bronson or Mr. McGee for their signatures or approval.

Both Gloria and Valerie were good workers and they all got along well. They often asked Catherine for her advice on various issues, mostly about men they were dating. She envied their slim bodies, the short skirts they could wear—tight but not too tight, just on this edge of appropriate. Catherine liked that they could work efficiently, chat when there was no one waiting, or when both lawyers were away from the office. Often, they laughed at each other’s witty comments, but still, the office had a professional, relaxed atmosphere.

“What’s up?” Gloria asked, when she noticed the smile on Catherine’s face and the perkier sound of her voice on the phone, or when she asked one of them about the forms they were working on. “You seem different. What’s up?” Gloria repeated.

“Nothing’s up. It’s just such a nice autumn day.”

“Right,” Gloria responded, sarcastically, narrowing her eyes and sensing that Catherine was feeling something unusual. “Did something happen at lunch? You were late and you’re never late.”

“No, nothing happened at lunch. I was just enjoying the warm weather and how beautiful the leaves are this time of year,” she said, wondering what they would think if she told them she had been throwing piles of leaves over the head of a man she had just met. She almost said something, her excitement brimming over, but hesitated, uncertain, then decided not to, suddenly feeling she wanted to keep it to herself.

Just then Mr. Bronson opened his door and asked Catherine for the Reginald Bosnovich file. “I’ll bring it right in,” she said, turning away from Gloria and going to the filing cabinet. As she searched the files, Catherine knew that Gloria was right, something was different. She found herself glancing at the clock, noticing it was two-thirty and she would be meeting Tom in two hours. She retrieved the file and closed the filing cabinet drawer, glancing at Gloria and feeling lighthearted as she walked into Mr. Bronson’s office.

Later, when she walked into the busy Vinery Café and saw Tom at the rear table writing in his notebook, she took a deep breath, swallowed and made her way through the narrow space between tables, determined to enjoy a cup of coffee, or a glass of wine and nothing more. Still, she could not deny that this was such an unusual thing for her to do, and she tried controlling the fear and excitement that was rising and causing her to tremble. She swallowed another deep breath as she got closer.

Tom glanced up just as she approached the table and closed his notebook on the pen and greeted her. “Well, here you are. How was your afternoon at work?”

“Work was fine. How was your afternoon?” Catherine asked, as she took the seat across from him.

“Fine. I went back to the park and continued writing then went back to my apartment which is actually just two blocks from here, before coming here to meet and get to know you better.”

“Oh, you live nearby. You said you just moved in, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, a few days ago,” he said, sounding almost as awkward as she was feeling. “So what would you like, coffee or a glass of wine?”

“I should probably have coffee, but I think I would like a glass of Chablis. I haven’t had one in a long time.” Maybe that will relax me. What am I doing?

“Chablis it will be. I will have a glass also.” He looked up to see if the waiter was nearby then turned back to her. “So, you said you’re happily married.”

“I am,” Catherine replied, nodding. “Very happy. I have a wonderful husband. We just celebrated our thirty-fourth anniversary two nights ago.”

“Nice, very nice, I don’t meet many happily married people.”

“Well, we are,” Catherine repeated, wanting to believe what she was saying, but knew she was polishing an old apple and hoping it would still taste delicious. “Were you married?” Catherine asked.

“Yes, I was married for twenty-nine years to a smart, talented woman who unfortunately died a little over two years ago. Actually, she was in a serious car accident and was killed instantly. Thank God she didn’t suffer.”

“Oh my, that’s terrible. That must have been a shock.”

“It was, though I have to admit, ours was not a happy marriage.”

“Too bad.” Catherine nodded, her eyes and scrunched eyebrows expressing sorrow.

“Yes.” Tom shrugged. “It was one of those unhappy marriages where neither of us could make a move to divorce, so we existed in the same house, though not the same bed. Still, when I got the news she was killed it was such a shock. I felt terrible, sorry that she was gone, her life ripped away and out of my life without the chance to resolve our problems, not that they could have been resolved. Then I felt ambivalence. I was suddenly free, and yet, a part of me missed her. I had a hard time with so many confused, mixed feelings. Twenty-nine years is a long time. I think that underneath our problems, I loved her more than I realized, but bitterness made it impossible to feel anything like love while she was alive.” He took a deep breath and looked down at his notebook and touched the cover. “Sad, isn’t it?”

Catherine nodded and was about to respond when the waiter came over and asked for their order, which Tom gave to him quickly, frowning and seemingly irritated at being interrupted.

When the waiter left, Tom continued. “I have to admit I cried at the funeral and felt sad and lost for days. You know, the suddenness of the change, the emptiness in the house, so many mixed feelings, her clothing and remnants of her life everywhere around me, photographs of us when we were younger and madly in love, but within a week or two I was fine. In fact, I felt relieved and happy to realize I was free and life had other possibilities now that I was no longer married.” He paused and leaned back in his chair, sighed deeply then smiled. “But that was then and this is now.”

“Right.” Catherine nodded and looked at the smile on Tom’s face, the twinkle in his blue eyes. “Still, it must have been hard losing someone after all those years together. I can’t imagine how I would feel if something like that happened to Martin. That’s his name, my husband. We’re very close. He’s my best friend.”

“Well, it sounds like your situation is a lot different than mine. Like I said, it felt like I was starting a new chapter of my life. I sold my house about a year ago, made a little money, but not as much as I should have because of the economy, traveled, had a few short affairs without feeling I was cheating, now that she was gone.”

“A few affairs,” Catherine repeated, hesitating. She wondered what it must be like to be free and have other relationships, suddenly remembering how she had been thinking about what it would be like to have the kind of excitement she read about in her romance novels and how she felt when Gloria and Valerie told her about the men they were dating. Not to mention how freely they talked about their sex lives, even describing how so and so made them scream.

“Did you cheat when you were married?” She finally asked, surprised at her own boldness.

Tom smiled, nodding, “Yes, and I suspect she did too. I mean, we went years without fucking each other.”

Stunned by Tom’s bluntness and the use of that word, one she never uttered, although Gloria and Valerie did, she nodded and felt a twinge of excitement.

“I suspect you’ve never cheated, but have you ever thought about it?” Tom asked, looking into Catherine’s eyes.

Fortunately, the two glasses of Chablis were placed in front of each of them, giving Catherine the chance to think how to answer Tom’s question. She glanced up at the waiter, a young man with a thin mustache and a small goatee. She then looked back at Tom when he thanked the waiter. He turned back to Catherine, their gazes meeting, a slight smile on his lips.

“So have you?” he asked, seeing her hesitance.

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do, but you're embarrassed to admit it.”

Catherine was again stunned by his bluntness. She looked at her glass of wine, placed her fingers around the stem, thinking about his statement, but also wanting to propose a toast. She was delighted when Tom picked up his glass, raising it to hers and smiling. “To Autumn, season of misty fruitfulness and blossoming friendship.” When their glasses clicked, he added, “That’s part of a line from Keats.”

“I’ll drink to that,” she said, clicking his glass before taking a sip. She noticed that when Tom took a sip, he looked into her eyes over the rim of his glass, causing a tingle to rise in her, the same feeling she’d had in the park when she first looked at him. At the same time, her breathing stopped, catching in her throat, and she wondered what was happening to her.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Tom said, putting down his glass.

“Oh, right, your question about cheating. Am I too embarrassed to admit it?” Catherine took another sip of wine, not sure what to say, and could feel Tom waiting for her answer.

“Yes, tell me, I want to know.” He smiled slightly.

“I would never want to hurt Martin,” Catherine answered.

“So you admit you have thought about cheating, but you wouldn’t want to hurt Martin, is that it?”

“Yes, but only in passing, a fantasy sometimes, but nothing serious, nothing I would ever act on. But sometimes I wonder what it would be like to kiss and be held by another man.”

“Well, that’s honest. I can’t imagine that a woman like you would not think about it. It’s natural to wonder.”

“What do you mean a woman like me?”

“Well, I can tell there is a streak of wildness in you. I saw it when you tossed those leaves over me in the park. That was very revealing.”

“Oh, so you saw wildness in me. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes, and I have to admit that when I first saw you and our eyes met, you made me smile and I immediately felt attracted to you.”

“You did?”

“And you did too, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I was attracted to you.

I have to admit it. You seemed so intense, writing, and I became fascinated.”

Catherine was stunned by Tom’s bluntness and honesty and realized it was impossible to be evasive with him. She picked up her glass of wine, took a sip and did something that surprised her. She looked at Tom over the rim of her glass and knew she was flirting with him. She remembered standing outside the office building, surprised that she was flirting, something she had not done since her teen years, but remembered how it excited her. Looking at him and seeing how he looked back at her while she sipped her wine emboldened her and caused her to enjoy the strange, tingling sensation rising in her.

“One thing that is important to me is complete honesty,” Tom said and paused to take a sip of wine. “It’s very important. I want to know what a person is really thinking and feeling. No bullshit.”

“I agree.” Again, she was stunned by his bluntness. “But it’s not always easy. Sometimes you don’t want to hurt a person’s feelings so you beat around the bush—even lie.” Catherine took a sip of wine and continued. “And sometimes you don’t know what you think or feel.” She took another swallow of wine, then another, finishing her wine, surprised that she drank so quickly and looked at her empty glass.

Tom finished his wine. “Would you like another glass of wine?”

“Yes, I think I would. I usually don’t drink wine in the afternoon, but I will make an exception.”

Tom put his hand up to call the waiter over and ordered two more glasses of Chablis then said, “No, bring us the bottle.” When the waiter nodded and left, he turned to Catherine. “Why not? I’m enjoying being with you. This is such a pleasant surprise.”

“Thank you. This is very nice.” Catherine smiled and then sat back. She realized how strange it was to be drinking wine with another man, someone she thought was attractive and interesting, someone so different than Martin. That thought roused a pang of guilt, and yet this felt romantic, exciting, new, and she suddenly realized she was feeling sexually aroused. She felt moisture forming between her legs, but tried ignoring it. She stared at the empty glass, thinking, There’s nothing wrong with having a glass of wine with a man. It’s just a glass of wine, nothing more than a little diversion while Martin is at work and won’t be home until later. It's much better than being home, reading a novel while having dinner alone.

“What are you thinking?” Tom asked, seeing how she had drifted away.

“Oh nothing, nothing, really,” she answered, looking at him.

“I told you I want honesty. You weren’t thinking nothing, tell me what you were thinking.”

Just then the waiter brought the bottle of wine, opened it and placed the bottle of wine on the table. “Enjoy,” he said, smiling.

“Thank you,” Tom said quickly, looking at the waiter, while lifting the bottle to fill Catherine’s glass. He picked up his glass and raised it to hers. “To honesty,” he said, clicking her glass.

“Yes, honesty, I’ll drink to that.” Catherine clicked his glass and noticed the lines around his eyes when he smiled, the twinkle behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

Sipping their wine, they again looked at each other over the rims of their glasses and Catherine suddenly felt that rising tingling thrill sweep through her again. She sensed that they were seducing each other, but then felt foolish, confused and aware that she was heading into dangerous territory. She put her glass down, suddenly feeling shy, not knowing what to say, but muttered to herself, This is crazy.

“So Catherine, you didn’t answer my question before, what were you thinking?” He paused and chuckled. “Now don’t tell me it was nothing.”

“ Hmm,” Catherine murmured, not knowing how to answer his question. She felt his intense blue eyes looking at her, his waiting for an answer. Reluctant to tell him, she took another sip of wine and thought how handsome he was. She didn’t know his age, but guessed he was close to Martin’s age, probably sixty or sixty-five. She struggled to know what to say. Should she say she was feeling attracted to him? Or that she shouldn’t be here and had to get home, but then she realized that wasn’t honest. The wine was relaxing her. She knew she was feeling desire, but did not want to betray Martin, or go where her feelings were leading her and complicate her life. She was trapped in conflicting emotions and could not find the words she needed to answer his question.

She looked at him, her fingers stroking the stem of her wine glass, and bit her lower lip before speaking. “I was thinking how much I’m enjoying being with you,” she finally said. “There. I’m being honest.”

Tom leaned forward and took Catherine’s hands, gripping them tightly. She was surprised by his sudden action but did not pull them away.

“Come back to my apartment.”

“Are you serious? I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“I’m a married woman and we just met. I hardly know you,” she said, still letting him hold her hands.

“I know you’re a married woman, but you wouldn’t be the first woman who cheated on her husband and I have a feeling you want something more in your life, more than a comfortable relationship. I can tell.”

“You can? What can you tell?”

“That you want intensity, romance, passion. You love your husband, I know that, but you’re also bored. Aren’t you?”

“Tom! You shouldn’t be talking to me like this. You don’t know me.”

“Yes I do. I can tell by how you’re letting me hold your hands. You didn’t pull away and I can feel you’re not being honest with yourself.”

She withdrew her hands. “This is crazy. I just came here to have a cup of coffee with you, not a bottle of wine, and definitely not to be invited for a fling.”

“What makes you think I want a fling?”

“What else could it be? I’m married, happily married, and you’re single and probably horny. There, I said what I thought.” She was startled that she had said that.

“I’m not interested in a fling. I follow my intuition and I see an intelligent, attractive, woman who has settled into a comfortable marriage, but there’s more to you. I saw it in the way you laughed in the park when we were playing with the leaves, and I said to myself, this is someone I could fall in love with. I’ve missed that. I had a terrible marriage, an empty marriage, and though I had a few flings, they didn’t do it for me. I don’t want a fling. I want more.”

Catherine looked at Tom and saw how direct and blunt he was and liked that. “You sure say what you think.”

“That’s right. I say what I think and feel. I haven’t stopped thinking about you all afternoon and couldn’t wait for us to meet again.”

“Really, you really felt that?” Catherine was surprised that he was feeling so much, that he could fall in love with her that quickly. She was bewildered and confused, but his words were so sincere, so intense, and suddenly, his passion excited and aroused her. She felt herself blush, a warm rush of blood causing her heart to pound. She remembered how excited she felt in the office, how cheerful and energized, and remembered how Gloria asked, “what’s going on,” obviously noticing something was different.

“Yes, really,” Tom repeated. “And if you’re being honest with yourself, you felt the same. You were excited too, and eager to meet me after work. Weren’t you?”

Tom’s words and intensity took Catherine’s breath away, and she realized he was right. He was literally sweeping her off her feet, arousing feelings, even conjuring fantasies that came over her while reading her romance novels where she imagined a rendezvous in the forest, or being captured by a dashing pirate and ravished. Even at fifty-five, she knew she had the same feelings she’d had when she was a young woman and saw a good-looking man at the mall, or when she was in a restaurant with Martin, her eyes drifting, looking at another man, her imagination wandering, but quickly returning her focus to her husband as he sat across from her and erasing the thought of another man from her mind.

“Yes, I admit I was excited. It was fun in the park and yes, I am attracted to you, though I am embarrassed to admit it.”

“I understand. This is hard for me too. I don’t know what will happen with us, it could end up being a fling, but there’s only one way to find out.”

“What’s that?”

“Taking a chance,” he said.

“What do you mean?

“Following your heart, going after something you want, taking a chance. There’s no other way to live.”

“You may be right Tom, but I can’t take a chance. I’d be betraying Martin. I would be creating a problem that could become a disaster. I can’t take a chance.”

Tom picked up the bottle and filled Catherine’s glass and then his. He set the bottle down and looked at her, not responding to her words. There was an awkward silence. Tom picked up his glass of wine and took a sip and looked at Catherine. She looked away from his gaze, closed her eyes then took a deep breath and tried to quash what she was feeling. She didn’t want the sudden drama that had entered her life, but also she was feeling the urge to go with him. She looked at Tom and she could feel he was reading her mind. She took a big sip of her wine and was feeling the effects. She was slightly woozy, not drunk but a little tipsy while the words “take a chance” were ricocheting in her mind.

“I think you should come back to my apartment,” he said, taking her hand again. “I want you to.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can. You will regret it if you don’t.”

“I might regret it if I do,” she said, but suddenly she was intrigued by the thought of doing something dangerous, something she’d only imagined but never thought would be real and now, the opportunity was on the table. She was in turmoil.

“Come with me.” He squeezed her hand. “Take a chance. Find out more about who you are.”

“I know who I am.”

“I said, ‘find out more.’ I know you know who you are, but there’s more that you don’t know. I can see that.”

She knew he was right and it thrilled her to feel seen in a way that only she saw herself and no one else had a clue about. She remembered wanting to be an actress, how exciting it felt to be on the stage and dream about being on Broadway, or in the movies, but she put that dream aside when she married Martin, then gave birth to Melissa and kept up with the responsibilities of keeping a home, a husband, a child, a challenging job. Here she was, almost fifty-five, married for thirty four years to a good man, her best friend, but now she was sitting across from a man she just met that afternoon, a stranger, contemplating having an affair. It was an outrageous thought, something out of one of her romance novels, something she’d thought could never happen to her in real life, but one she now knew she wanted—and the thought frightened her.

“I can’t,” she repeated, struggling with her desire. “I can’t go with you.”

“But you want to, don’t you? I know you do. I will ask you one more time and then that will be it. Come with me. Don’t be afraid to live. Take a chance. I won’t ask you again.”

Catherine finished her glass of wine and looked at Tom, his words bombarding her brain, but she suddenly found the courage. “Lead the way,” she said, biting her lower lip, unable to believe she had said those words, her whole body trembling. Was she really going to do this ?

Tom smiled, nodded, took out his wallet and put twenty-five dollars on the table, not waiting for the bill, and stood up. He reached for her hand. “Let’s go.” He held her hand and led her out the front door onto the busy street and into the warm autumn air.

For a moment they stood in front of the café, people rushing by them, and he faced her and gazed into her eyes and held both of her hands in his. “Are you sure you want to do this? I want you to come with me but only if you want to.”

Though fear, doubt and nervousness swept over her, his clear blue eyes, the strength of his hands holding hers, the concern for her feelings when he said “only if you want to,” filled her with a swirl of emotions.

“Yes, I want to,” she said, loving how he nodded and smiled at her answer, adoring the twinkle in his blue eyes behind his glasses and how his white hair moved in the breeze that swept by them. “I’m scared, but yes, I want to.”

He held her hand as they walked the two blocks to his apartment which was over a camera store. The green door to his apartment was between the camera store and a small Vietnamese market.

“It’s nothing fancy, just a small studio apartment, but it’s home for now,” he said as he opened the front door for her. She noticed a row of metal mailboxes on the wall. They went through another door and up a narrow stairway to the second floor. She followed him down the hall, her heartbeat quickening, her mind swirling. This is like a movie , she thought as she watched him take a key from his pocket and open the door.

“Welcome to my kingdom.” He bowed, his arm across his stomach as he bent over, letting her enter the small but uncluttered apartment. Catherine looked around at the bookcase filled with books and a round oak table by the window with a small vase of flowers, which surprised her. She thought it unusual but nice that a man would buy flowers for himself. Then she noticed two shelves on the bookcase that had small wooden animals and walked over to it. “These are beautiful.”

“Thank you, I love carving animals.”

“You made these?” She glanced at him, then back at the carvings. “This dog is so amazing. I’ve never seen anything like this, or the bird. You’re really talented.” She looked intently at the dozen or so animals, some of them much larger than the others, some unpainted, but others exquisitely painted. She picked up the carving of a cat, painted black with a small white spot on its face, sitting, looking up as if watching a bird, its tail curled, and then she turned and saw Tom watching her. “I can’t believe you made these. They should be in a museum or gallery.”

“A few are, but mostly they’re here while I’m waiting to be discovered. Recently my main passion is writing.”

“Yes, I saw you writing in the park. What do you write?” She put the carving of the cat back on the shelf.

“Ideas, philosophy, poetry, sometimes just observations and sketches.” Tom took the notebook out of his jacket pocket and thumbed through the pages. “I wrote about you when I went back to the park.”

“You did? I don’t believe it. You wrote about me. What did you write?”

“Are you sure you want to hear?” He opened to the page.

“Of course, I’m curious. No one has ever written about me before.”

He smiled then looked down at the page and used his finger to mark where he was going to read and cleared his throat. “ Catherine doesn’t realize how beautiful she is. I sense she is filled with longing and wants to be seen and known, but has allowed herself to accept that this is her life and nothing is going to change. I have only known her for a short while, but I hope I can get to know her better. I’m not sure if that will ever happen, but if it does, I want what I haven’t had for so many years. I want passion and I don’t want to die never having known the passionate love I have always longed for.”

When Tom stopped reading he looked up from the page. “That’s it.”

Catherine stared back at him, her mouth wide open in shock. “My goodness,” she finally said and realized he was expressing something she had been feeling, something she wanted for her life. “I can’t believe you wrote that. You’re full of surprises, Tom. That was beautiful. I felt teary while you read that.”

She suddenly walked over to him and touched his cheek just above his beard. She then touched his lips to see if he was real and not a fantasy.

Looking up at him and without thinking, she moved her mouth to his and they kissed lightly, tenderly, their lips lingering until she moved her hand to the back of his head, pulling his lips harder to hers, their kisses growing more urgent, more passionate. He placed his arms around her shoulders and pulled her closer, embracing her, their kissing growing more insistent until she couldn’t stand it anymore and she pulled her lips away and gasped. They both smiled. Unable to believe this was happening and aware she was kissing someone other than Martin, she knew she had crossed a threshold and had entered a realm that felt warm and thrilling and new.

Standing in the middle of the room, they kissed again and their tongues swirled together. Their hunger for each other was growing. He took her hand and led her to his bed and held her close. She could feel his erection pressed against her stomach and felt the moisture between her legs. She now knew she wanted nothing more than to make love to him. He stepped back and unbuttoned her blouse, while she unbuckled his belt, then the button on his corduroy pants and lowered the zipper, while he slipped her blouse over her shoulders, gently removing her arms from the sleeves which revealed her bra and her erect nipples pressed against the thin material. His gaze seemed to grow even more heated at the sight. She lowered his pants and he reached around to unfasten her bra then slipped the straps from her shoulders, revealing her soft, sagging breasts. Their eyes gazed into each other’s and Catherine loved their slow undressing of each other.

They kissed again, while he pulled her wet, silky panties over her soft wide hips and down her thighs. She stepped out of them before he lowered her to his bed. He kissed her, then lying between her legs, he pressed his hard cock against her wet pussy and slowly started grinding while she wrapped her legs around his body and pulled him harder against her. Lifting her hips, she whispered, “Please, please, make love to me.” And he did, entering her gently, pushing slowly, her pussy adjusting to his hardness, then slowly going deeper, filling her and thrusting harder, their bodies moving as one, slowly at first, then faster and faster, harder and harder, again and again, his relentless thrusting going deeper, faster and harder. She knew he could feel her body tensing and trembling, while her pussy, clutching his cock, seemed to cause him to thrust even harder and faster.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God, Oh, oh, oh, oh, my God,” she yelled louder, her body convulsing, shaking, clutching his cock tighter, her legs and arms wrapped around him, pulling him deeper as another overwhelming orgasm ripped through her. Catherine’s screaming apparently caused Tom to thrust harder and suddenly his body tensed and his cock swelled. Guttural grunts came with each hard thrust. She saw his grimace and knew he must be close and suddenly he was erupting, shooting his cum deep into her warm, wet, overflowing pussy. His whole body was writhing as the last of his thrusts gushed into her and filled her before he collapsed on top of her. He seemed to savor the feel of her breasts crushed against his chest, his cock still deep in her, the warm wet spasms of her pussy and the strength of her arms and legs embracing him. Both seemed to be overwhelmed and wallowed in the afterglow, panting and gasping and then gradually, she noticed it was now dark, both outside and in the room.

Still breathing heavily, he turned her on her side and molded his body to hers so that they were spooning, both lying quietly, the aroma of their sex in the air. Tom kissed her neck, her shoulder, the back of her head and nuzzled his nose into her hair. Catherine lay there, loving the warmth of his body against hers, the soft feel of his cock against her ass. She did not want to move but was aware of the sound of traffic outside in contrast to the quiet of the dark apartment.

Then she glanced at the red numbers on the digital clock on the table next to the bed and remembered in a panic that she had to catch the six-forty-five train since she had missed the one she usually took after work. Her car was at the Chestnut Hill Train Station, and it would take her fifteen minutes to drive home and arrive before Martin came home from his meeting and she wanted to have something for him to eat.

“Oh my goodness, I have to catch the train,” Catherine said, suddenly shattering the moment, the reality of her life dissipating the realm they had entered. “I have to go.” She turned her face towards Tom, feeling him release her as she shifted then quickly sat up. “Sorry,” she said to him, running her hands through her hair. Tom reached in back of her and turned on the lamp and sighed but seemed to recognize her distress.

Catherine leaped out of the bed and picking her clothes up from the floor, looked at Tom leaning on his elbow before she quickly dashed into the bathroom to clean up, pee and get dressed. Tom got up and put on his pants, not buckling the belt and stood there shirtless and barefooted when she came out of the bathroom, tucking her blouse into her skirt. She looked at the gray and white hairs on his chest, then at his eyes, and saw his sadness but also his understanding of the situation.

“I’ll walk you to the station.” He took her hand.

“No, don’t. Thank you. I just want to go,” she said, realizing she didn’t really want to leave so suddenly. She put on her shoes, holding onto Tom as she bent down and put on one shoe and then the other. She picked up her pocketbook and put it over her shoulder, then glanced around the apartment as if taking a snapshot to savor.

She went to the door to open it just as Tom put his hand on it, holding it closed as he wrapped his arms around Catherine and kissed her. She returned the kiss but quickly put her hand on his chest and pushed him away. “I have to go,” she said, reaching for the knob. When she opened the door, she glanced back at Tom standing there, his blue eyes gazing into hers, then reached to touch his cheek. “Thank you. Good bye,” She left quickly.

Catherine barely made the six-forty-five, glad it wasn’t as crowded as the earlier train. She sat down in her usual seat just as the train bolted forward, then picked up speed. Catherine looked at her reflection in the dark window as the train rattled and wobbled, her mind barraged with thoughts of what had just happened, her emotions swirling as the realization that she had cheated on Martin hit, filling her with both horror and a painful sadness, as if something cherished had been broken or lost and was now gone forever. Nothing would ever be the same. She was excited about Tom, the newness, the strangeness, but she wondered where this relationship was heading, if anywhere? What did she want and how would she face Martin?

She looked up at the people sitting around her—a heavy-set black woman wearing green scrubs from the hospital, a woman fishing through her pocketbook, taking out a stick of gum, a girl texting, a woman, close to her own age, sitting across from her, reading a book. Catherine wondered if she looked as old as that woman, seeing the wrinkles, the pale flabby skin, dry gray hair, no lipstick, I hope I look younger than she does, she muttered to herself and realized she wanted to feel young again, wanted Tom to think she was sexy and beautiful, and she wondered if she should again try to lose some weight. She looked at the conductor walking down the aisle, punching tickets then heard the computerized female voice saying, “Girard Street Station, a wheelchair accessible station, doors are opening.”

Finally, she got off the train at her station and dashed up the steps to the parking lot. She found her maroon Subaru and drove the familiar route to her house, glancing at the digital clock on the dashboard, realizing she had twenty minutes before Martin would be home. She wondered if he had tried calling and got the answering machine, and what he would think if she wasn’t home to answer the phone. She was glad she didn’t have a cell phone. What would I say if he called?

She couldn’t stop thinking about Tom and how he had made love to her, how she felt sneaking off to his apartment, how suddenly her life had changed. Did she want it to happen again, or should she stop and not shake up her life with an affair? She never thought she would become an adulterer, and the thought of hurting Martin if he ever found out swelled in her heart and her mind. Where was all of this heading? Where did she want it to go? She didn’t know. All she knew was how confused, frightened and exhilarated she felt. When she pulled into her driveway and parked in front of the closed garage door, she sat there, not moving, looking at her house, the memory of Tom’s small apartment flashing in her mind, the carved animals and the way she felt in his arms. She took a deep breath, opened her car door and entered her house and went straight to the kitchen and filled the white teakettle. A nice cup of mint tea is what I need, she thought and glanced up at the clock and realized she would be facing Martin in ten minutes or so. Could she act normal, now that her life had suddenly changed? She wondered if she could live in the two realms of existence: her life with Martin and what might be her life with Tom?

She was a wreck of emotions, trying to stay calm as she waited for Martin, wondering what she could fix him when he got home. She remembered the tuna casserole she’d made for dinner last night; there was still some left that she could microwave and she felt relieved it would not be much of a hassle to serve that. The teapot whistled and she poured the water over her mint tea bag, dunking it in and out as it brewed, then sighed, looking up at the clock again before taking the cup to the table. She savored the first sip just as the front door opened.

(To be continued)