A Kiss Is But a Kiss

by Simone Westfall — April 17, 2007

And that leaves Sam, the banker, with whom I've been having a fitful email correspondence. I am a terrible sucker for men who can write sprightly prose and trade bon mots online (and this is partly what got me in so much trouble with Evil Phillip), but this is not Sam. He comes across in his words as solid, capable, perhaps a little dogged....but he also sounds, well, genuinely nice, and that's a rare enough quality in anyone nowadays.

We've exchanged bits of information, and he's told me that he grew up in the South, the oldest son of a large churchgoing Baptist family, but he long ago gave up his faith. His apartment in Manhattan is less than half a mile from mine, which does sound awesomely convenient should anything, ahem, ever develop between us. Without ever having so much as a phone conversation, we agree to meet for dinner at a restaurant midway between us. I know it well, and like the upstairs dining room, and so I email back telling him I'll request a table there ("we'll see just how much clout I have in this town").

I arrive first and am pleased to see we've been granted a corner table in the intimate space on the balcony. Sam shows up a few minutes later and I'm almost immediately smitten. He is tall with sandy-graying hair and an easy smile. In the dim light of the dining room he looks a little like the actor William Hurt. He also has a trace of a charming Southern drawl, and the talk flows easily between us. We quickly establish that we are both of a liberal political persuasion, both suspicious of Hillary and contemptuous of Giuliani, both big fans of New York. He speaks of his daughter, who is a student in Boston, with pride and affection, making me just a little envious because I always wished I'd had a daughter. Sam also mentions paying the college tuition for a disadvantaged African American boy he met through a volunteer program in St. Louis, and my heart really warms to him. It is the sort of dinner you don't want to end, and after he's paid the check (he waves my credit card away when I pull it out), I suggest an after-dinner drink at a bar three blocks downtown.

The place is packed with people at least 20 years younger than we are, but we find a couple of stools and order B&Bs. After a few sips, I'm brazen enough to ask, "So when's the last time you had sex?"

"I don't know....almost two years ago, I think."

I shoot him an astonished look--could he be lying? No, he just doesn't seem the type--and decide at that moment that it would be an excellent idea to plant a kiss on his wide amiable mouth. He responds with alacrity and the merest suggestion of tongue. Pretty soon we have entered that zone where you don't care how many people there are around you and if any of them are staring. The middle-aged make-out session goes on through another round, and Sam's hand grazes my breast. I find myself apologizing for the bra, an Iron Maiden number from Calvin Klein, the only undergarment I own that gives me a whisper of cleavage. "And it cost me all of twelve dollars online," I say. "Worth every penny," he responds.

Around midnight we reluctantly part on the sidewalk. Of course I wake up the next morning to a thumping hangover, but also to a lovely message from Sam. He's already told me that the wife and daughter will be in town over the weekend and all next week but he wants to meet for lunch, and get together again on Sunday after his family leaves, and I begin to make plans for a killer roast-chicken dinner at my place ten days hence.

Simone Westfall is the pen name of a novelist and critic in New York City. To read all of Simone's posts in The Dating Life, click here.