The second I came through the front door my seventeen-year-old daughter asked, “How was your date?”
“Fine,” I replied. How else should I answer the offspring of my failed marriage? Could she see the lingering aura of pleasure on my face? Could she read my eyes and see what they had seen?
“He was a true gentleman,” I said, but my eyes gave me away as they saw a replay of his final throbbing thrusts before he knelt over my parted lips. I wondered if she saw any part of the scene as she watched my eyes?
“It was a night to remember, and he asked me out again,” I said, looking away while pouring a glass of wine. “Now go to bed my young curious child.”
She smiled, then leaned down and kissed my lips. I was reminded of her father’s height and wondered if she tasted remnants of the night’s pleasure with my new love.
Her eyes looked at my wineglass as she licked her lower lip. I saw small puddles at the corners of her eyes. Then she whispered, “I want you to be happy,” before walking silently to her bedroom.