The Hot Flash Club Chills Out by Nancy Thayer Read Free Book Online

the hand.”
    Shirley rested her chin in her hand, trying her best to stay with him, but her mind kept drifting away. Stan’s manner of speaking reminded her of her high school geometry class, where the teacher spoke very slowly, pronouncing each word carefully, as if enunciation alone would enlighten his audience.
    “…a ninety-degree angle should exist between the shaft and the left forearm at the top of one’s swing…”
    Good grief, it
was
just like geometry, Shirley thought.
    The waiter brought their dinners. Shirley ate like a starving woman, thrilled to have something interesting to do.
    “…if one increases one’s wrist hinge for a full backswing…”
    Mentally, Shirley pulled out her hair. Did the man lack the normal conversational sensors? She didn’t think so. He spoke almost
confidingly,
as if he were sharing the secrets of his soul. What if he really was? There was a scary thought!
    When the waiter arrived with dessert menus, Stan said, at last, “Oh-oh. I have been going on, haven’t I? You must think I’m obsessed with golf.” Before Shirley could answer, he continued, “My wife would laugh if she were here.”
    Briefly, Shirley had the unnerving image of his wife at the table with them.
    “She used to get on me about how I go at things. I can’t help it. Before my knees went, I was a fanatical jogger. I ran two hours every morning before work, six days a week, fifty-two weeks of the year. I found that jogging helped me concentrate later at work. I learned to pace myself…”
    And we’re off, Shirley thought ruefully, listening to Stan present a treatise on jogging shoes, paraphernalia, and lore.
    He’s not an ax murderer,
Shirley reminded herself. During her life, there had been long lonely periods when that was about her only criterion.
He’s solvent,
she continued mentally,
he’s polite, he’s educated, he’s kind. He does resemble a big toe, but he can’t help that. He talks.
It was hard to find a man who actually talked about what was important to him.
    Finally, the evening was over. Stan paid the bill, stood in a gentlemanly way to pull back Shirley’s chair, and escorted her through the restaurant and out the door.
    “Let me walk you to your car.”
    “Thanks.” It was one of the ten words she’d been allowed to get into their conversation the entire evening. For a moment she couldn’t remember where she’d parked. She scanned the lot, thinking. “My brain’s clogged,” she joked. “I need Braino.”
    Stan stepped back from her quickly, as if afraid she might detonate. “Are you all right? Do you need an aspirin?”
    “No, no, Stan, I was joking. Drano, Braino, get it?”
    “Oh.” He thought a moment, then produced a dutiful laugh. “Ha, ha, ha.”
    Shirley spotted her car. “Over there!”
    When they arrived at her sporty little convertible, Stan surprised her by putting his hand on her shoulder. He was just her height, so he didn’t have to lean down as he kissed her. It was a tidy kiss, with no teeth, lips firmly closed, moderate pressure, and no hand-straying or body-bumping. Shirley bet Stan had calibrated a schedule for his sexual encounters. First date, handshake. Second date, thirty-second kiss. Third date—did she even want to know?
    Stan stepped back. “When can I see you again?”
    Shirley paused. She
did
wonder how many dates it would take him before they’d go to bed. And she did wonder what he’d be like in bed. Perhaps he’d be methodical, but he also seemed dutiful, so perhaps he’d make sure she was pleased. Perhaps she could do something that would make him deviate from his schedule. That might be kind of fun.
    “How about next Friday night?” she said. “Come to The Haven. I’ll make you dinner.”
    As she drove home, she regretted her invitation. He was such a nice man, but how long was she going to live and how much time did she have to spin on a man who monopolized the conversation? Stan hadn’t even asked whether she played golf.