She focuses on his back, starting with the broad lines of his shoulders. ‘I thought if I’d just said a word in that closet, you’d know how much I’d love you, and you’d feel sorry for me. You’ve always had so many women. I was selfish, and I wanted all of you. Now I just want…some of you. Something to remember.’ Her thumbs drag down along his spine, and she kisses a trail down, tasting his skin with little flicks of her tongue. ‘Now that I get to taste you, to touch you, to have you under my hands, I won’t have to chase you. I’ll be able to remember. And that’s enough.’ She presses her body to his back and slides her hands down from his collarbone to his waist, her arms locking around him. She presses her ear to his back to hear his heartbeat. Standing there breathing together in eventual unison, he speaks, his voice spiced with exasperated amusement. ‘Am I to understand from what you are saying, that you think you have the slightest chance of walking away from me…ever?’ Her voice is. A handshake is a much more personal act than most people realize. I try to give a man a firm, but gentle handshake, with adequate pressure for him to feel the texture and softness of my hand, and then I linger just long enough to signal that I like the man, but not too long, which would be flirting. I never flirt with my customers. It’s just tacky and crass. When a man comes in looking to buy a million dollar Bentley, he doesn’t want some low-class skank flirting with him. He wants to feel respected, made to feel important, treated with professionalism, and never be made to feel that he’s not absolutely serious about the car. Of course, the mildest bit of flattery goes a long way too, but NEVER flirting. That’s what brings me to this short story. It was a slow Wednesday morning and there were no prospective clients around. Most of the staff were out with clients or delivering cars, and I was the only sales staffer available. I was walking past a row of gorgeous, sleek Bentleys.
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