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Don't you love it when a family comes together?

"Just because your mom's dead and you don't talk to your dad doesn't mean other people don't think about their parents."

I put my fork down. How did parents replace sex? Had I wandered off the path to pleasure into a psychological cul de sac?

"That wasn't what I meant at all," I said, angry myself. "I can understand you're attached to your parents and hate to see them go. Just give yourself time to adjust. See a therapist if that would help. I did when my mom died two years ago." That was a nice recovery: revealing, truthful, but sort of a generic New York thing to do and say. "And, Sandi, what makes you think I don't think about my mother? I think about her every day. I can't believe you said that." I felt warm, but an angry, flushed warm.

Her eyes watered and she looked 15 years old then, not 25. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. Did I? I'm just a little on edge about them leaving. We've always been close. Forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive," I said. The flame I felt for her flickered. I just stared at her. Who was Sandi, anyway? What was I doing with her? We sat in silence for a minute, surprised by the surge of emotion on family issues. I couldn't let the giddy happiness and anticipation slip away.

"Deep breath time, OK?" I said. We both took exaggerated deep breaths and exhaled. At the same instance we reached across the table and intertwined our fingers. The turbulence passed.

Sandi broke the silence. Tell me about that magazine you write for. French Fry Monthly? That sounds like a cool East Village arts magazine."

"I work for Frozen Food Focus. No arts coverage, just articles about frozen foods. It's not what I had in mind in college, but it's a foot in the door as a writer. Lots of fun at the food shows. I walk around with a toothpick and eat anything I want."

"Don't let me forget to give you a toothpick when we leave here," she said. "You might be hungry when we get back to my place."

"Maybe before."

We liked the movie, longing for African warmth instead of New York's blizzard. The romantic tone seeped into us, as we sat against the wall of a not-very-crowded theater. I felt her fingers trace along my palm, sending jolts straight to my crotch. I returned the favor and then some, stroking my fingernails up her wrist, slightly under her blouse. "Mmmmm," I heard her say ever so softly. I turned my head to look at her, as she looked at me from under her halo of brown hair. "I like the sound of that," I whispered.

Looking straight ahead she put my hand under the sweater in her lap, on her blue jeans. The heat rising from her crotch seemed to scald my hand. My glasses fogged. To hell with Meryl Streep and Africa, I thought, and whispered, "I like the feel of that."

"Just you wait."

Cocooned by the layers of clothing, we had total privacy. Even if we made a little noise, so what? My fingers drummed lightly on her jeans and I heard her shallow breathing, little gulps of air as she shift in her seat.

Now what? Unzip her jeans and keep going? Put her hand on my crotch? Sorry, I'd be a sticky mess in 20 seconds the way things were going, and I loved the mounting, pleasant edge of tension.

I removed my hand from her lap and slid my right arm around her shoulders, tugging her toward me. She folded against me like a Chinese fan. My hand lingered on the roundness of her shoulder through her silky peach blouse. Her rhythmic breathing pushed her breasts, in a lacy front-clasp bra, up and down. My fingers trailed down her collarbone. "Undo the top button," I whispered. She did. My hand slipped lower, looping around her bra strap, giving the bra cup a friendly little tug upward.

Again she shifted, this time shrugging a little so my hand dropped lower still and easily covered her breast through the bra. The signals flashed a stronger green. "Danny, you're not in Texas anymore," I thought.

"Play with my boob, please," she whispered.

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