The maitre d’ chats and flirts with the wives at the table next to ours while the husbands look on with bland expressions.The women wear brightly colored coordinated outfits with scarves and shoes and bags. Gold bangles clink over animated wrists and diamonds glitter on each ring finger. They are cheerful and boisterous—a centerpiece in the busy restaurant. By comparison, the husbands sit mutely in faded golf shirts and pleated slacks, mumbling now and then to each other about investment yields.

Pointing a long, gold-taloned finger at the menu the red-haired one inquires, “Which is the spicy dish?”

Leaning over her shoulder he whispers something only the ladies can hear. Their end of the table erupts in embarrassed giggles.

Sanjay’s confident, proud demeanor attracts my interest. The way he holds himself. Erect, shoulders back—lifting a proud, firm chest for a man in his early 40s. His waist is slim and fit—dress shirt tucked into tailored slacks that flatter his physique as he approaches our table.

“Those are friends of mine,” he confides, flashing straight, white teeth against dark brown skin. I smile back.

He raises one heavy eyebrow. “And for the lady?”

“I think I’ll start with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc.”

“Right away, Madam.” He bows and turns toward the bar, snapping his fingers at a young man holding a water pitcher.

“What are you thinking about?” David touches my hand from across the table.

Gazing around the room, I see couples and foursomes at varying stages of their meals, bustling servers. I hear pleases and thank yous and I hear the sounds of clinking silver and glassware from the kitchen.

“Nothing,” I lie. “Just daydreaming.”

I can’t tell him about what happened today between me and Lauren. Between me and Lauren and Jackie. I can’t tell him how I was almost late for our date tonight. How I scrambled to get dressed and out the door in time to take a shower and rush to the restaurant. And how I didn’t want to leave her bed.

Images flash through my mind as I sit there trying to make polite dinner conversation. Every time of think of what happened I feel a rush of excitement—the blood runs to my face and I’m sure I can’t hide my preoccupation.

“I’m hungry. What are you having?” He asks, watching a server walk by with plates of aromatic Indian food.

The first course arrives and the ladies quiet down for awhile. While the flatware clinks against the china plates, the women continue their gossipy chatter—quoting news headlines verbatim and tut-tutting the current state of affairs. They are a perfect distraction, masking the real subject of my reverie.

“Uh, yes…I’ll have the Chana special,” I tell the waiter.

I am hungry too, I realize, returning to the present moment, watching his face, nodding expectantly across the table. But he seems so far away.

“So, tell me about your new client…” He unfolds his napkin, neatly pressing it against his lap.

I am momentarily jarred by such a direct question, thrown into avid reflection on the events of the afternoon. A scene flashes into my mind.

“Too hot in the kitchen??

Jackie steps forward, bringing her face within inches of mine, fingering the buttons on my chef jacket, flipping it open. I am stunned. Silent. Lauren inches up behind me. I feel the warmth of her body moving closer.

I gasp with the boldness of her actions and sink  against Lauren’s warm, soft bosom. She is there, right behind me, stroking my hair, kissing the back of my neck, reaching beneath the cotton fabric to unhook my bra while Jackie presses in forcefully, crushing her lips against mine. I succumb. Eagerly. Wantonly. I don’t fight them at all. How can I?

Jackie’s insistent tongue urges me backward, against Lauren’s soothing caress, as she cups my breasts now in her smooth hands. Jackie peels off my jacket and moves to kneel in front, grasping my pant legs as Lauren nimbly unfastens the top. I stroke Jackie’s closely cropped hair with my open hands as I throw my head back against Lauren’s shoulder, releasing a low moan with the anticipation of what will happen next.

I shift in my chair, taking a deep sip of my wine.

“My new client? Hmmm, where do I start…”

To be continued…