By: Heather Milone Caplan
“This one is called Lady with a Grinning Soul. And when I listen to it, I dream of lying next to you, more than lying next to you . . .” he says as he reaches up to dance his fingers upon her skin, skin that hasn’t been touched this way in quite some time.
Fireworks coming from his fingers and then travelling down to her breasts and then to her thighs, and to that place where she longs to feel, anything.
He had been introducing her to Bowie, music that reached a part of her that she thought had died long ago. It started innocently enough, shared earbuds, a friendly shrug, a lingering hand on her thigh.
“You could be my son”, she lamented.
“But I’m not”, he replied plainly.