Free Sight Unseen by Brad Latham

“Isn’t that the street they called ‘Dream Street’ in
Life
magazine last year?”
    “Yep, filled with show biz types, too—and show-business hopefuls.”
    “The only big city I’ve ever spent any time in was Paris. At the Sorbonne,” she said.
    “Come to town. I’ll show you a good time,” he promised.
    “You look the type,” she said in a flirtatious way. “I bet you hang out in Peacock Alley, the Persian Room, and El Morocco.”
    “Are you making fun of them?”
    Lockwood felt on firmer ground with her now. The fire, the sofa for two, the martinis, the horn music in the background—he
     had been here scores of times. The questions, the back and forth answers, the thrust and parry—he had played this scores of
     times too. You didn’t know how it was going to end—in the sack or not—but the game itself was a delight. Lockwood relaxed
     into it.
    “I wasn’t making fun of them,” she said. “New York’s probably very exciting.”
    “I think it’s tops. I got to Paris once, too.”
    “When?”
    “Right after the war. I was just a kid then, and didn’t really appreciate it, but I remember walking around Paris a couple
     of days goggling over it.”
    She served supper after they had finished their cocktails —a couple of tender filets with Bearnaise sauce, twice-cooked potatoes,
     and squash to which she had done something wonderful with fresh herbs. He poured the wine he had brought, and they ate in
     a cozy alcove off the living room, lit only by the fire and the light from four candles on the mantle. Record after record
     played, and Lockwood relaxed more and more. He let the supper and the wine and the candle-lit mood play itself out. He would
     wait till they were having coffee in the living room before he made a move.
    A lot could happen in front of a fire, the two of them bemused by the red wine (it hadn’t been such a bad bottle) and the
     food, as they glided about the small floor in each other’s arms. Lockwood intended to play it so that every bit of it happened.
    Myra matched him glass for glass and they grew merrier throughout the dinner. The light in the dimly lit room gathered around
     her. The highlights in her light auburn-colored hair shone. The dimple below her mouth deepened, and her eyes sparkled as
     they talked. Everything he said moved her to laughter, to a smile, a light frown, to some new way of looking at things, and
     Lockwood felt equally moved by her every word, every gesture, every smile and movement. Supper turned into a flirtatious dance.
    Later, before the fire, having finished their coffee and a couple of Lockwood’s Camels, a new record fell onto the changer
     and the clarinet announced the first few notes of “Willow Wanting.”
    “Oh, God, I love this,” she said.
    “Let’s dance,” he responded.
    She rose and he took her in his arms, and tonight was a thousand times better than last night at Gurney’s. Last night he had
     enjoyed dancing flamboyantly to show her off and make the crowd watch them. Tonight he surrendered to the soft mood between
     them, to the mood she had created with the dimly lit evening. Lockwood had played it casually all evening, not rushing things,
     and now he didn’t increase his speed. He wanted their feelings to rise till both were eager for each other. He wanted to dance
     with her till their feelings overcame them, and he asked himself where her bedroom was.
    Right away he was pretty certain she wasn’t wearing undergarments. Three changes of records later he knew she was wearing
     nothing underneath the caftan—for he felt no elastic around her waist.
    And then Myra wound both her arms, the loose sleeves of the caftan falling back to her shoulders, around his neck. Lockwood
     put his arms around her thin back and drew her to him. Their bodies danced in harmony as if they were two parts of one creature.
     Lockwood wouldn’t have been surprised to find them breathing in unison. In the soft light he saw her big