I Miss You, MK: Trust UR Instincts

TRUST YOUR INSTINCTS

My initial encounter with MK was accidental, unplanned and the most delightful first meeting of a woman I had ever had. Nothing could or ever would top it.

It was a Sunday afternoon in spring, light clouds dotted the blue sky, a breeze shifted loose cherry blossoms across the ground. I was supposed to meet a blind date at a particular coffee shop before going to an M.C Escher exhibit at the art museum.

The date had been arranged by a very dear and long term friend who was convinced that I needed, at the very least, female companionship, if not a "main squeeze" as she irreverently put it. I was rather dubious about the whole thing, but agreed to give it a try.

The photo I was shown of my date was of an attractive blonde woman with a slight, but adorable, overbite, green eyes, and a nice figure. She was described as cultured, bright, fashionable, vivacious, "a free spirit" and "just what I needed". When pressed for more details about the last phrase, my friend just said, "you'll see." My intended date also received an image of me—chosen by my friend. Okay, that was fair.

Although the lady in question and I had each other's phone numbers our contact was, by her choice, via text. I should have paid more attention to that but, honestly, my heart wasn't into the dating game so I didn't really care.

My future date had said that it was a "dressy" art event and gave me the date, time and location to meet her. I texted that, to leave no doubt as to my identity, I would have a newspaper tied with a red ribbon. Her response was "????? Lol" Nearly every text of hers ended with "lol". Communicating via texting may be considered a step or two below smoke signals unless you really know the person.

Despite my friend's assurance that we would 'hit it off famously' I wasn't convinced. Her other texts left me with the impression that our meeting was very secondary, that I was not important. But I chose to assume innocence and committed to the occasion.

As I was to learn it was another life lesson in 'trust your instincts'.

Actually, on that day I had two such opportunities for that particular lesson and, with bitter sweet recollection, remembered that I did follow 'my instincts' on the second test. Otherwise I would not be writing this.

To me, "dressy" meant a suit and tie. I had not dressed up for an occasion, woman or no, for a long time. I had some nice pieces of masculine attire which I had acquired over my lifetime. I decided to actually dress up, instincts be damned.

Highly polished dress shoes, a crisp, white, French-cuff dress shirt, gold and amber cufflinks, a gold fine-link tie chain and silk tie with matching pocket square were features of my ensemble. I chose a simple navy blue double-breasted suit with a yellow silk tie with a small blue rep pattern and pocket square to match.

My small leather notebook, a hand-me-down from my grandfather, and a fountain pen slid into my shirt pocket. Other hand-me-downs from my grandfather that I decided to break out for the occasion were a gold agate moss stick pin, a gold collar stay and his 1939 Gruen 'Curvex' wrist watch. A piece I was especially fond of.

All I needed to complete my 1940's film noir private detective impression was a fedora - which I did own- but didn't take with me. Later, and in retrospect, I kind of wish I had; one person I met that day would definitely have appreciated it.

I was, if nothing else, prompt and punctual. In fact I was early as was my want. The coffee shop was crowded, standing room only. I ordered a small coffee that I didn't really want or need, then found a spot out of the way but within sight of the door to take up station; the red-bedecked newspaper held conspicuously under my left arm.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

No text. No phone call (not that I expected one). Nothing. There was no disappointment, not even annoyance. I mentally shrugged. As I was getting ready to toss my untasted coffee in the garbage and leave when the door opened. My date, with half a dozen chattering men and women in tow, flowed noisily into the space.

Moving past me to the counter, the group seemed oblivious to their surroundings. After a moment or two I saw one woman turn and look back at me then whisper to my 'date'. That worthy separated herself from her friends and approached me, "Hey, there you are!" As though I had been trying to hide from her.

She turned back to respond to a now-forgotten comment from her group and I had a moment to take her in. She was a very nice looking woman with a pleasing figure and a lilting voice. But her manner was so casual and informal I sensed that if I disappeared in a puff of smoke before she turned around to face me she would just shrug her shoulders and give it no thought.

"Wow," she said, finally facing me again. Her friends, now quiet and watching the introduction with what appeared to be bemused interest. "Talk about over dressed! You really took me seriously, didn't you?" I thought I heard a snigger from her crowd.

The attire of both herself and her friends told me either she really had meant the "dressy" adjective in jest or her concept of what to wear was so vastly different than mine as to form an inseparable gulf. Which to be fair, was understandable. I readily confess that I'm more than a little traditional (read old fashioned) in my view of "dressy."

Black and pink Keds-style sneakers sheathed her feet, tight jeans with the required rips and tears fit her lower half nicely, a bulky but unzipped hoodie covered a white T-shirt with an abstract design fit her torso. Her hands were fitted into her back pockets, her blonde tresses were twisted into a haphazard and immensely unattractive bun on the top of her head and her makeup was minimal. Fortunately, she was graced with the kind of features that did not require much adornment.

"My apologies. I chose to err on the side of caution." My smile was a bit forced.

"Ok," she answered hesitantly. "Well, I ran into some friends on the way here and we got to talking. We're gonna skip the museum and go out to Sally's place for the afternoon. I'll text ya the address. You can meet us there." Before she finished with "museum" she had her phone out and was tapping away with both thumbs. She turned to her friends without waiting for a response from me. Somehow I doubted meeting her friends was accidental.

I kept my face very, very neutral. Took a deep, slow breath and, in case she needed one, I had a polite if non-committal reply formed and ready. A response, as it turned out, was not needed.

Someone had ordered for her and with their drinks ready by the time my phone buzzed with her text, the group moved toward the door in a self-absorbed cloud of chatter and laughter. Except for a quick "See ya there!", she, and they, disappeared without another word or glance.

I remained standing. Breathing slowly, deeply, concentrating on not crushing the paper cup of cold coffee. I was acutely aware that I had likely been the center of attention for a sizable number of patrons and desperately wanted to present as dignified a presence as possible - if that was even possible.

Or to vanish instantly in a puff of smoke. That would have been preferable.

This time I would trust my instincts. I had no plans to join my 'date' and her friends.

I turned a bit to allow a lumbering figure to pass, hands full of a cardboard drink carrier that I just knew was loaded with caramel and peppermint stickiness that was destined to land on me, and found myself facing a well dressed and immensely attractive brunette looking me straight in the eye.

Seated, her table for two was occupied only by herself. There was an interesting mix in her eyes, perhaps a twinkle of humor and with only my instincts to counsel me, believed was not directed at me. I thought I saw reproach for my 'date' and something that said 'I like you'. Or perhaps, 'I like how you handled that awful situation'. Perhaps I only saw what I wanted to see.

She was wearing a very nicely fitting and tasteful gray pinstripe suit and skirt, a red blouse that was unable to conceal an ample bosom and encircling her neck was a pearl choker. Her makeup, although more involved than my intended dates', was tasteful, well done and presented a very, very pleasing picture. A ceramic cup of coffee, held with slender red-tipped fingers and an empty plate with crumbs rested on the small table in front of her.

Her hair was wrapped very attractively on and around her head and off-set bangs were draped at an angle across her forehead. I did not know what term to use for that hair style but, later, I shared with her that my first thought at seeing her was "fetchingly beautiful". I recall the beaming smile with which I was rewarded upon sharing that opinion.

A smile - not the beaming one I would eventually know and love to see - appeared and she lifted her right leg, straightened it - holding it for just a bit —, pushed the second chair out from the table toward me and, again holding her leg out for just a bit longer than was really necessary, she set her stilettoed foot down with smooth grace and with a touch of flourish.

I would in time come to greatly appreciate and look forward to such teasing gestures; they would form such an integral part of our relationship.

It was then that I noticed the eye-catching black patent leather stiletto (4 inches at least) and the sheer black stockinged leg. A very shapely....sheer....stockinged....leg. They had to be FFs or RHTs. No other piece of hosiery had 'that look'.

Oh. My. God. What have I stumbled upon?

"Take a load off.....Fanny. If you want...." I smiled at her musical reference.

I pulled my eyes from that sheer vision of loveliness and met her gaze. The smile now confirmed that she had noticed that I had noticed and there was a merry amusement in her eyes.

I was a touch embarrassed to be caught so flagrantly admiring her leg and choice of both hosiery and footwear, but gratefully accepted the lifeline I felt she had thrown me.

I was still feeling an unearned embarrassment over what had just happened and, real or imagined, could feel the eyes of every single person in that shop boring into me.

I could have said, "no, thank you' and left.

But I didn't leave.

Something told me to accept.

Trust your instincts.

I moved the step or so needed to seat myself and I set both the newspaper and the useless coffee cup down. She set her cup down and extended her right hand. The smile was now more radiant, but as I would learn in time, still muted, "I'm MK."

Her grip was warm, firm and utterly sincere. She did not immediately release my hand and when she did it appeared to glide in a most sensual way to the table top, her long red nails resting on the surface.

I shared my name and seated myself. Placing my elbows on the table, I leaned my chin and lower lip against my nestled hands. Our respective gaze did not waiver and I admired the warmth of her deep brown eyes.

"Well, that had to be the rudest, most disrespectful thing I've seen in a long, long time." She brought her cup, now held in both hands, to her red lips and sipped. Her sincerity was genuine and appreciated.

I paused. Not really knowing how to respond.

"Blind date? Setup by a friend?" Neither was a question.

"Regrettably, yes. On both counts."

"And the friend thought you'd hit it off, you need to 'get out there', meet some people, do you good."

In retrospect, I should have seen that it was that obvious, but this woman.....seemed different. Little did I know then how right I was.

"Besides possessing great beauty, I can see that you are a talented and bewitching seer."

Where in the hell did that come from?

I've never in my life said anything so forward to a woman I'd just met. I just didn't do that. I could be charming, even silver-tongued, but it's always once I know the situation. I could not believe I'd just spoken those words with what sounded like smooth sincerity.

Except I did.

And I didn't regret it.

A smile peeked from around the cup. A red nail tapped the white ceramic. Silently, her eyes, lovely deep brown eyes, revealed that the compliment was acknowledged and accepted.

"You....want to talk about it?" A sincere and genuine offer, a lifeline to another soul who might need a touch of sympathy and understanding. As I would later learn this was typical of her.

"Well, as your crystal ball has revealed," another smile, again from behind the cup.

"I.....I....took a path offered by a well intended friend and, despite my instincts...my....misgivings....I elected to continue. And.....well, here I am."

Her gaze was calm, kind and sympathetic. She held mine unflinching. The red nails a lovely, stark contrast to the cup.

I liked this woman.

Trust your instincts.

She nodded.

"What was the plan?"

"A visit to the art museum. M.C. Esher." She nodded again, silently encouraging me to continue.

I never understood what possessed me to do so; it was contrary to my nature. "I was told it was to be a 'dressy' occasion", somehow feeling a need to justify the disparity in my attire and that of my erstwhile 'date'.

An eyebrow arched (a gesture I would come to find to be a combination of sexy, endearing, scolding and full of promise).

"No details so it was left to my imagination as to what that constituted."

"Well," she had what I thought was a quintessentially feminine voice, impossible to accurately describe, but very, very attractive.

"I think your imagination is most.....impressive. I haven't seen a man wear cufflinks, let alone a stickpin, in...well...outside of a Humphrey Bogart movie...never. And I love the Curvex. You look very, very handsome."

I blinked, several times, the surprise evident on my face. "Thank you. You're...very ....gracious."

My response, uncharacteristically, stumbled out; normally I'm an accomplished conversationalist. But this woman had me speechless and tongue-tied.

She set her cup down, leaned forward, arms on the table.

"I can tell you that if it were me meeting you today, I wouldn't have sauntered off with friends, let alone treated you so....so....shabbily. That was...that was.....so disrespectful....". I was touched that she was offended for me. It was both kind and endearing.

What came out of my mouth next was completely unexpected, especially by me — somehow my brain and my mouth were not cooperating.

Or it was my instincts doing for me what they knew was the right thing at the right time with the right woman. Even today, I like to think so.

"Well, you've met me today and you've yet to saunter off, with or without friends. You've been most gracious and kind. Perhaps......". I stopped, thinking I was about to go too far.

"Perhaps....what?"

There was that arched eyebrow again, a faint smile tugged at her lips and what I later would confirm as mischief in her eyes.

"Perhaps you might care to be my date to the Esher exhibit?"

She leaned back in her chair, grasped and lifted the cup to her lips, perhaps to give her time to consider, took a sip and replied, "I'm not sure I'm dressed for the art museum."

There was mischief in her voice, her eyes and in her burgeoning smile. She was clearly mocking my 'date' and I loved it. It was nice to have someone on my side.

Rising to the occasion I replied, "Well, MK, I'm willing to make an exception, just this once. Out of respect for the kindness you've shown me today. But, please don't let it happen again."

The smile, not fully beaming but very impressive, graced her features. "Oh, you think there will be other....opportunities?"

"I can but hope, MK, I can but hope."

Her smile held fast and genuine.

This I later recognized was the beginning of our game of tease. A game to which we were both well suited and, together, immensely enjoyed. Later in the day the game started in earnest.

That afternoon was a kaleidoscope of delight; verbal, tactile, auditory and visual.

Her touches on my arm, a bump from her hip to mine when she silently wanted to draw my attention to something, her ready laughter, her arm looped through mine as we strolled the galleries, watching her cross and uncross her stockinged legs when seated (I had determined she was wearing fully fashioned stockings); all of it was intoxicating.

Much to my delight she had discerned that her legs and heels were a major interest to me and played that up at every opportunity.

I was loving MK the tease.

I honestly could not recall a single one of Escher's works. I could not describe a single piece in the entire museum, even the ones I paid attention to.

MK. She was all I remembered of that afternoon.

I had never in my life so thoroughly enjoyed the company of a woman. She was a tease and a flirt, she was smart and witty, she was feminine and sexy and I found we shared many, many little things.

Archaic or obscure references to old movies anf TV shows, similar experiences and views on a range of topics and an interest in the fashion of a bygone era. I learned that she was a ballroom dancer and moved with a fluid grace that I envied. She had a keen eye, noticing the little details of my attire and she was fully aware that I noticed her.....details.

At one point we were in a gallery, alone, looking at a large abstract painting. It was kind of interesting, the only interesting one in that gallery, and I spent a minute or so pondering it. There was something about it I liked.

MK sat down on a padded bench to my left, just inside the edge of my vision. After another minute or two she said, "Is it really that interesting?" I detected dry mirth in her voice. Turning slightly to look at her. I froze, my response lay silent on my tongue.

MK was leaning back on the bench her hands, palms down, were supporting her. Her legs were crossed. Her eyes locked onto mine.

With a devilish grin on her red lips she slowly uncrossed her legs, crossed them again with deliberate, seemingly excruciating, slowness and repeated the activity three more times before stopping and letting a stiletto dangle.

The gallery was deathly quiet and, closing my eyes briefly, I soaked in the delicate, captivating whisper of her nyloned limbs sliding against each other. It was an audio treasure I wanted to sear into my brain.

"More interesting than.......this?"

"No." My voice, itself a whisper, as I soaked in the visual of those sheer stockinged legs.

"Good," she uncrossed her magnificent gams, the stiletto effortlessly taking station on her foot, stood, tilted her head a smidge and said, "I'm feeling a mite peckish. Let's get a bite."

Without waiting for a reply she turned, no, she flowed, and began walking away in the direction of the museum cafe. I followed, somewhat woodenly, my eyes never leaving her form. The sight of her from behind wearing those stilettos, those stockings, was mesmerizing. I finally knew what heaven truly looked like.

That there was an unspoken, yet clear, mutual attraction was evident to both of us. What to do about it was also unspoken.

We found seats in the cafe and finished a light lunch when she deliberately brushed her foot against my leg. She slid her calf up mine and said, "So, you're a leg man I take it." Her eyes, full of mischief, held mine and I felt this was a significant moment.

"Actually, a stocking and stiletto man. An aficionado of sheer, fully fashioned stockings to be precise." In for a penny, in for a pound. "Or RHTs." I offered a small shrug. Definitely in for a pound. "By preference, worn by a graceful and beautiful brunette with mischief in her eyes."

And, as if on cue, a very mischievous smile appeared, matched in her eyes, "My, my...... So would I be correct in assuming that I pass muster?"