fine-boned, she whacked the ball over the net with blistering vigor.
The sweat flew from Neil’s hair as he lunged to catch her serve. The upper
quarter of his racquet got there just in time, sending the ball arcing lazily to
her side.
She caught it before the bounce, slamming it into a far
corner of his court, far out of his reach.
“C’mon, Neil,” she yelled. “You can move those hunky thighs
faster than that .”
He stuck out his tongue, and on her next serve, fed her the
ball straight back to her face — another old trick. Startled, her backhand
counterstroke fell apart.
“Barbarian!” she called cheerfully.
Neil grinned, enjoying the steady pounding of his heart, the
burn in his legs. But she’d gotten him with the comment about sluggishness. He
was trying hard, but whenever he flung himself full-tilt across the court, he
recalled the time, at age 74, when a knee had locked up without warning,
sending him to the asphalt so hard he broke his nose. He’d given up tennis at
that point.
His body was good now. He should trust it.
He hated seeming less than ideal in front of Felice. She
seemed like just the person to ease the bruises left by his three-week liaison
with Thea. The winter had been long and lonely.
In other areas of his life, he was adjusting. He’d resumed
his architectural career. He’d moved out of Matthew’s apartment into a place of
his own. Dr. Rosen seemed satisfied with his progress. Yet this new world
remained flat without a companion to share it with.
Felice was a miniature tornado. She played with a
determination that intimidated blossoms right off the nearby trees. She was
easy to admire, and it was likewise easy for him to imagine building on that
respect until it included an erotic element.
He was thinking of that, not his stumbling, as their court
time expired. They collected their balls and ambled away, surrendering their
spots to another couple.
“Good game,” he said. He’d been ahead, but she’d been coming
up on him rapidly; if they’d had time to play out the match, she’d probably
have won. He told her so.
“I did okay,” she said, shrugging in such a genuinely modest
way that he couldn’t help but feel even better about her. The woman had no
pretensions; he didn’t have to strut for her. He didn’t have to invent compliments.
“Want to shower together?” Neil asked.
Felice raised her eyebrows. He supposed she was wondering
why go to the trouble — their nanodocs could scrub out their pores, dissolve
the grit, and freshen them up. But showering together had a definite romance to
it, like roasting marshmallows over a campfire under the starlight. He knew he
wasn’t the only traditionalist left, or the locker rooms wouldn’t still be
there, over at the edge of the courts by the redwood grove.
“Sure,” she replied, as if catching his mood. “Why not?”
The spray did wonderful things to Felice’s body. The
rivulets born on her upper chest and shoulders twisted and forked as they
negotiated her curves. The fine, almost transparent hairs at the base of her
neck caught droplets like dew on strands of spider web in a morning garden. Her
nipples rose. She arched her breasts toward him, as if to say, “Here, these
need the touch of warm, soapy hands.”
He hesitated. The way her wet hair clung to her skull, and
the color of it, reminded him of his own daughter — may she rest in peace — as
a toddler.
“How old are you, Felice?” he murmured.
Old enough, her wink told him, but she answered, again
without guile, “Thirty.”
He’d been a widower longer than she’d been alive. Christ,
she might not even have reset her age yet; he might be seeing her natural
youth. He stepped behind her, and used his warm, soapy hands — on her back. He
didn’t want to let his body language commit him to a course he didn’t intend.
She leaned into him, rubbing her slick form against his. The
spray couldn’t wash away her fresh, feminine aroma. His penis
The sweat flew from Neil’s hair as he lunged to catch her serve. The upper
quarter of his racquet got there just in time, sending the ball arcing lazily to
her side.
She caught it before the bounce, slamming it into a far
corner of his court, far out of his reach.
“C’mon, Neil,” she yelled. “You can move those hunky thighs
faster than that .”
He stuck out his tongue, and on her next serve, fed her the
ball straight back to her face — another old trick. Startled, her backhand
counterstroke fell apart.
“Barbarian!” she called cheerfully.
Neil grinned, enjoying the steady pounding of his heart, the
burn in his legs. But she’d gotten him with the comment about sluggishness. He
was trying hard, but whenever he flung himself full-tilt across the court, he
recalled the time, at age 74, when a knee had locked up without warning,
sending him to the asphalt so hard he broke his nose. He’d given up tennis at
that point.
His body was good now. He should trust it.
He hated seeming less than ideal in front of Felice. She
seemed like just the person to ease the bruises left by his three-week liaison
with Thea. The winter had been long and lonely.
In other areas of his life, he was adjusting. He’d resumed
his architectural career. He’d moved out of Matthew’s apartment into a place of
his own. Dr. Rosen seemed satisfied with his progress. Yet this new world
remained flat without a companion to share it with.
Felice was a miniature tornado. She played with a
determination that intimidated blossoms right off the nearby trees. She was
easy to admire, and it was likewise easy for him to imagine building on that
respect until it included an erotic element.
He was thinking of that, not his stumbling, as their court
time expired. They collected their balls and ambled away, surrendering their
spots to another couple.
“Good game,” he said. He’d been ahead, but she’d been coming
up on him rapidly; if they’d had time to play out the match, she’d probably
have won. He told her so.
“I did okay,” she said, shrugging in such a genuinely modest
way that he couldn’t help but feel even better about her. The woman had no
pretensions; he didn’t have to strut for her. He didn’t have to invent compliments.
“Want to shower together?” Neil asked.
Felice raised her eyebrows. He supposed she was wondering
why go to the trouble — their nanodocs could scrub out their pores, dissolve
the grit, and freshen them up. But showering together had a definite romance to
it, like roasting marshmallows over a campfire under the starlight. He knew he
wasn’t the only traditionalist left, or the locker rooms wouldn’t still be
there, over at the edge of the courts by the redwood grove.
“Sure,” she replied, as if catching his mood. “Why not?”
The spray did wonderful things to Felice’s body. The
rivulets born on her upper chest and shoulders twisted and forked as they
negotiated her curves. The fine, almost transparent hairs at the base of her
neck caught droplets like dew on strands of spider web in a morning garden. Her
nipples rose. She arched her breasts toward him, as if to say, “Here, these
need the touch of warm, soapy hands.”
He hesitated. The way her wet hair clung to her skull, and
the color of it, reminded him of his own daughter — may she rest in peace — as
a toddler.
“How old are you, Felice?” he murmured.
Old enough, her wink told him, but she answered, again
without guile, “Thirty.”
He’d been a widower longer than she’d been alive. Christ,
she might not even have reset her age yet; he might be seeing her natural
youth. He stepped behind her, and used his warm, soapy hands — on her back. He
didn’t want to let his body language commit him to a course he didn’t intend.
She leaned into him, rubbing her slick form against his. The
spray couldn’t wash away her fresh, feminine aroma. His penis
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