It was more like she was having difficulty acting normal with me constantly there, as if she couldn't concentrate because she was aware of me all the ...ime. I think I was making her excited.It was in her mannerism somehow that I couldn't precisely define. In her voice, for sure. There was a nervousness, a fragility that made her voice sound as if she was holding her breath, like she might if she was stepping gingerly over some sharp pebbles. I tried hard not to glance her way and probably didn't. Sometimes, she likes to think that’s what she is, other times, she feels as if she has let down the image that everyone so strongly believes in. It is the fear that she struggles with each and every day. She is a small town girl. She grew up in the heart of the Midwest in a small, white house on Second Street. She was raised by her mother and grandma (who she calls Granny). Her dad was never around. He was in jail when she was born and he was never around much when she was little. He tried to. I know what I’m doing,” I said after a short hesitation. I reached out for her ankle and caressed it, at first shyly, then more confidently. She didn’t move, nor did she say anything, as if she wanted to encourage me. My hand moved up and started to massage her calf. I didn’t know what exactly I was about to do, but I was highly excited. When I placed my hand over her knee, she clicked the pen a couple of times, but didn’t stop me. Her thighs felt like silk… “Debbie, the boss wants to see. I totally enjoyed the secondglances that many of the men stole away from their wives and dates justto wantingly look at me. Turning back to Richard I saw the amusement inhis eyes."You do make a perfect picture of a lovely trophy wife that any of themen in here would desire possessing and showing off as a status symbol totheir moneyed peers. I am very proud of you and proud to being seenherewith such a lovely girl."The waiter interrupted his words by standing ready for our orders.Looking at me.
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