Age of Consent
by Bill Tope
"We all get
old," she said with a sigh. I
stared at her appraisingly, liked what I
saw: long, athletic legs, a
flat stomach
and a really stunning complexion. I
murmured, Can't stay a teenager forever.
She laughed, a merry, tinkling sound.
I
turned to face her on the park bench
upon which we sat.
"Are you married?" i asked
bluntly. May as
well clear the decks; no use in chasing
an
impossible dream. "I was
married for twenty
years," she revealed. "Divorced."
Recently?
I inquired. "One year ago
today," she said
wistfully. "That's why I'm in such a
mood."
Well, a little self-pity never killed
anyone, I told
her. She laughed again, a beautiful,
magical
sound.
She yawned, lifting her arms and
stretching
the fabric of her summer dress tight over
full
breasts. I held my breath. I
decided then to
make my move.
Could I interest you in a drink? I asked
hopefully. She hesitated just an
instant,
then in a winsome voice observed
cautiously, "You're pretty frisky.
But, how
old are you, young man, and are you old
enough to buy alcohol?"
it was my turn to laugh. I'm eighty-seven,
I
said. "I'm eighty-nine--two
years your
senior," she replied. She
waited for my
reaction. I gave it to her.
That's okay, I told
her, I like older dames. |
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