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Lioness Limousine

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A naughty lady and her young driver

In the spring of 1976, having passed my twenty-first birthday, I got a part-time job driving for a car service called Lioness Limousine. At that time I was a junior at the City College of New York but I wasn’t straining myself with the academic load of being a history major. I figured I might as well get a bit ambitious for once and do something with the spare time that accumulated outside of midterm and end-term requirements.

In my first couple of months, I wound up having a regular customer, a lady named Mrs. Olive Ruxton. She lived in an apartment building near Gramercy Park in Manhattan. I guessed that she was asking for me each time she called the service although I wasn’t explicitly told that.

One sunny Tuesday in May I went out to the garage in Long Island City and I found out that I again had Mrs. Ruxton for an assignment. It was going to be for the entire afternoon, but that was fine with me. She was always very polite and pleasant to be with. In fact, she seemed to have developed a kind of flirtiness with me that was entertaining.

On this day I drove a big blue 1974 Buick Electra across the 59th Street Bridge to her neighborhood. I didn’t have to wear a uniform but I did have to make some concession to professionalism by wearing a jacket and tie while on duty. When I got to her building around 11:00 AM I parked by a hydrant and stood outside by the passenger side of the car. That happened to be the side facing the curb.

My customer came out at the appointed time and the doorman opened the building door for her. Mrs. Ruxton must have been in her late thirties, maybe even forty. To my young eyes she was mature, a lady who could have been one of my professors.  She was a fairly tall woman with dark hair. She wasn’t slender but she wasn’t really curvy either; her body was sort of “straight” if that term makes sense.

Today she was wearing a tight green skirt, a green and white blouse, a light gray jacket, and white heels. She had her usual Louise Brooks bobbed hairstyle and her dark-rimmed glasses. The only item which seemed new was her white hat. What do they call that style, a cloche?

She spoke first, “Hello, Paul, how are you on this lovely day?”

”I’m fine, Mrs. Ruxton, I’m glad you decided to use Lioness Limo again.”

She replied, “There’s a reason I always use Lioness, which I will tell you about in a moment. Oh, do you like my hat? I think it makes me look like Audrey Hepburn.”

“Yes, it’s a really - ah, nice hat.”

Although she had dark hair and was only slightly above Hepburn’s five-foot-seven, Olive never reminded me of her. There was no impression of delicacy about her and she seemed somehow taller than her actual height.  She reminded me a little of Jackie Onassis on that day, an image I had gotten from her before. She also, I thought, had some resemblance to Cyd Charisse. Overall, I thought she was quite attractive although considerably beyond the age of the college girls I dated.

“And I know it’s not Memorial Day yet, but I decided to break the rule and wear white shoes today.”

I had never heard that bit about shoe colors. “Well, I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”

She said, “Anyway, I’m dressed in my ensemble to be out and about this spring day. I’m ready to go!”

She approached and I opened the rear passenger-side door for her. I got in behind the wheel and started the engine. The back seat of this car was rather low and her skirt had ridden up when she sat down. As she crossed her legs I could hear the sound of her stockings rubbing together.

“So, Mrs. Ruxton, where would you like to go today?”

“Oh please, we’re practically friends, isn’t this the fourth time you’ve driven me? I’d like you to call me by my first name, which as you know is Olive.”

She was the only person I had ever met with that name. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll do that.”

“And that word ma’am too, it’s just so formal. Makes me feel matronly, in fact.”

“All right, Olive, then what is your destination, please?”

“Well, I have a few small errands to do, but since it’s such a lovely day, I’d like to just go for a drive. You know, I’d like to go to Rye Beach in Westchester County. You can find that, I assume?”

“Of course, I was there as a kid. I can take you there.” I started driving along 21st Street towards the West Side Highway. I had heard on the radio that there were delays on the East Side’s FDR Drive.

I said, “You’re interested in the amusement park? Because I’m not sure it’s open until June.”

“That’s okay, I just wanted to walk around a bit. As a matter of fact, it would be nice if you came out with me for a stroll.”

That was a request I had never gotten from a passenger, but I agreed to do it. In fact, I realized I had developed a bit of a crush on her. She was a classy lady but there was a warmth and sweetness about her too.

She continued, “I was going to say, I always ask for you now when I call the company. You’re my favorite driver. In fact, if you’re not available on a certain day, I consider changing the reservation.”

That seemed flattering; I liked being appreciated for doing this job. Then as we drove along 21st she asked me, “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“It’s no problem, go ahead.”

She pulled out a cigarette holder from her purse; I had never seen one of those used before. I was about to offer her the lighter from the dashboard when she surprised me by taking out a doobie and planting it in her holder.

For a moment I pondered that she must have been in college in the late 1950s and I surmised that she probably had smoked her first joint a decade later when even her Silent Generation was lighting up along with the younger crowd. In any case, she had her own lighter and took care of that on her own.

“Excuse me, ma’am, I mean, miss. . .”

“It’s Olive, remember?”

”Yes, Olive, that might not be such a good idea if we get stopped.”

“I know, Paul, but you’re such a careful driver, the odds of that are infinitesimal.”

I was glad she appreciated my driving skill, but there was a fourteenth Murphy’s Law of driving and drugs. If you only had pot in a car once out of thousand times, that would be the time you got pulled over by the police. I wished I had checked the tail lights and turn signals that morning. Still, I enjoyed the novelty of seeing a cigarette holder being used. And it seemed to fit perfectly with Olive’s demeanor.

On the way over to the highway, she was telling me about herself. “Now my ex-husband, Mr. Ruxton, a Mister Clarence Ruxton, you know what I say about him? ‘I didn’t marry him for his money, I divorced him for it.’”

I chuckled at that quip because I had never heard it before, although it was one of those standard jokes that go around.

She continued, “I’m thinking of going back to my maiden name, which is Entwistle. Now the Entwistles were not upper class, merely upper-middle. My father was an anthropology professor at Yale.”

I noted that she was only taking a few puffs on her joint; it was probably a good thing she was going to moderate her use of it today. We were now heading north on Twelfth Avenue under the rusting hulk of the abandoned elevated highway.

“The Ruxtons, on the other hand, were old money, big money. They made their fortune in anthracite coal in Pennsylvania, and from one of the railroads that hauled it. You’ve heard of the Delaware, Lackawanna and Western?”

“Yes, I have.”

“They advertised themselves as the route of Phoebe Snow. They even had a jingle about it, how her dress stays white from morn to night, on the road of anthracite.”

This was familiar to me although I didn’t interrupt Olive’s conversation. I did know how the singer Phoebe Snow had been inspired to name herself after seeing the name on old boxcars in New Jersey.

We went up a ramp onto an intact portion of the highway and emerged into the sunlight. She said, “Excuse me, I have to put on my sunglasses.”

Then, “I’m sorry, I’ve been talking only about myself. I’d like to know more about you. You’re such a hardworking young man, putting yourself through college this way.”

It was strange to hear myself described as “hardworking.” That may have been true for schoolwork, but not so much for paid jobs.

She asked, “What is it like at City College?”

“We’ll be able to see it from the highway in a few minutes.” That seemed irrelevant but Olive didn’t notice the non sequitur. Instead, she asked me, “I imagine you have some girlfriends up there.”

I had to decide how to play that. “There have been a few, but things have been a bit unsettled recently.”  

I glanced over to my left at the sunlight sparkling on the Hudson River. It was indeed a pleasant day and I liked chatting with this lady.

She responded, “Unsettled; well, I think I know what that means.” I looked back and saw that she was smiling at me. “I mean, I get it; things have been unsettled with me too.” 

After that Olive rambled a bit about other topics, like how it was that the “ethnics” - presumably including Italian-German-Irish me - had built America. She also declared that the Kennedys were “vulgar,” including that “odious Ted.”

“What he did with that girl at Chappaquiddick was just inexcusable.” She went on, “I don’t care if they have their compound on Cape Cod, they just seem trashy to me.”

In a few moments, I pointed to the City College science building visible on Hamilton Heights to the right.

“God, what a hideous building,” she exclaimed.

“Well, it’s about the only new building we’ve got there. The whole campus is kind of – well, run-down.”

We were on the ramp up to the Cross-Bronx Expressway when Olive got back to talking about me, “Paul, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” She didn’t wait for me to respond. “I was thinking, it must be hard for a healthy young man such as yourself to go for a while without a girlfriend.”

I was instantly aware of the subtext of our conversation changing. She’s not chatting with me as a customer; she’s talking to me like a woman dealing with a man. I think I liked that but I decided to play it cool for the moment and let her lead the way.

I responded, “Well, I didn’t actually say that – I mean about a girlfriend.”

“True, but I know what you really meant. Am I right?”

As I tried to figure out what her game was I blurted out, “Okay, yes, you’re right. It’s been a little while.”

Actually, I had been suddenly dumped by my girlfriend Michelle the previous December. At the age of twenty-one, six months was indeed a while to go without sex.

She said, “I know about loneliness myself, although God-knows, Chuck - that was Clarence - was nothing to write home about.”

We entered a noisy section of the expressway, “under the apartments” as the traffic reporters called it, which was like being in a tunnel. This gave me a few moments to assess the situation. Was she just teasing me as a prank for her own amusement? How serious was this flirtation; was it just an act? I’d have to hear more from her before I could figure it out.

When we came out of the tunnel a minute later she asked, “Do you ever think about me when I’m not around?”

“What do you mean, Olive?” I knew but I wanted her to say it.

“I mean do you think of me at night, when you’re in bed.” She paused for a moment and then she continued, “Because I sometimes think of you, of being with you right here in this car. Or with me up in my apartment.”

All right, she just made a pass at me, I can recognize that. I glanced around to orient myself; out beyond our vehicle was the vast cityscape visible from the Alexander Hamilton Bridge.

Now I had a problem in that I didn’t know how to answer her question. In fact, I hadn’t had fantasies about her yet but I wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear the truth. I tried to buy a little time by fudging things, “Well, maybe, it’s a kind of a personal thing . . .”

Fortunately, she chuckled at that, “That’s okay, I know you’re young and, well, relatively inexperienced. I must be confusing you.”

Yeah, Olive baby, you’re definitely confusing me.

She rubbed the surface of the seat next to her. “I love the smell of leather, it’s so sexy.”

She then asked me, “Do you like my stockings?” I glanced back and she had uncrossed her legs and pulled her skirt up. I knew enough to say yes when a lady was looking for compliments.

She said, “These are not pantyhose, you know. On a warm day like this, I like to wear garters with belts. It makes me feel - hot, sensual. Here, take a look.”

I glanced back again. She had hiked her skirt up and spread her legs. I could see everything she had mentioned: the white garters, the belts, all the way to her white-panty-covered crotch.

The traffic was sluggish in this stretch - it wasn’t bumper to bumper, but we had slowed to less than twenty miles per hour. I used the mirror to look at her again. She had pushed her sunglasses up and she was smiling at me. Her cigarette holder and joint had been put away, which seemed like a good idea at this point.

A few moments later Olive’s hand appeared over my right shoulder holding her panties. These were basic white briefs.

“Here, have a sniff, although I did put them on fresh this morning.” She was right behind me, leaning on the back of the seat.

I figured that I should follow all reasonable client requests, so I put her drawers to my nose and caught a faint whiff of her aroma. Then I carefully placed them on the seat next to me. By now we were moving down the middle lane at about ten to fifteen miles per hour. The car was hemmed in by tractor-trailers left, right and to the rear.

She leaned back in her seat and commented, “Now I’ve really given you something to think about. I know young guys need to masturbate a lot.”

Jesus, did she really say that? I could feel myself blushing. If she was merely teasing me she was doing a great job of it.  

She said, “You don’t mind if I play with myself, do you?” I don’t know why she asked, because she just went ahead and got started. Her feet were up on the seat and she had both hands working on herself. As her driver, I didn’t know how to handle this situation. I didn’t want to appear indifferent, but neither did I want to seem impolite or overeager. As before, I decided to let her handle the flow of events.

A moment later she had taken a hairbrush out of her purse and she was moving the handle in and out of herself. I noted her thick, dark pubic hair.

“Ah, Olive, I was wondering if any of these truckers might see you.” It was an odd thought perhaps, but I was truly concerned about it.

“Oh, let them look if they want. It will give them something to jerk-off about at the next rest stop.”

From my position, I couldn’t see into the cabs of the trucks on either side of us. I guessed the guy behind us might blow his air horn if he noticed what was happening. Maybe Olive should order a car with tinted windows next time.

Meanwhile, she remained talkative through the early stages of her self-pleasuring.

“We’re such a puritanical society when it comes to masturbation, I would say. Everybody does it but no one talks about it. Self-abuse, what a strange term. Anyway. . .”

She took a moment to think, “You’re such a nice young man, and I know you haven’t any poon in some time now. Yet you’ve always been so polite, you never made a pass at me even though I wished you would.”

I hadn’t realized what an exemplary employee I had been.

“However, I bet you have a big erection right now.”

Even if I was on the job I owed her some male honesty, “Olive, that is an understatement.”

She laughed, “Don’t worry, I can take care of that. I’ve got some moves that those coed snips of yours don’t know about.”

That was a swipe at younger women in general but she was also comparing herself to the girls I had been with. I looked back again to see exactly what moves she did have. One of her hands worked the hairbrush while the fingers of the other circled her clitoris. She stopped long enough to blow an air kiss towards me.

Where were we now? I noted we were leaving the trestle over the central Bronx and entering another of the open cuts. Thousands of people had been displaced from their apartments to build these six lanes; I wondered if Olive had heard about that.

She said, “I’m not one of those ladies who uses vibrators; I can do just fine with my trusty brush and my own nimble fingers.” I was wondering how long Olive had gone without getting any poon of her own.

She said, “As I mentioned, I’ve thought about you when doing this. How about you? Who do think about when you stroke yourself? Maybe old girlfriends?”

I evaded the question, “Well, various people. Porn sometimes, I admit that.”

“That’s completely understandable,” and she giggled. “You could call it porn-tang!  Anyway, I hope I’m not distracting you too much.”

I did my best impression of a nonplussed employee, “It’s fine, think nothing of it.”

“You’re an excellent driver. Not many of them could deal with their customers so well.”

Then she said, “I have a serious issue for you.” She paused before going on, “Maybe you do want me, for real? I would very much like it if you were with me. Today would be great if you can find the time.”

I glanced back at her. Her expression was hard to decipher, but I caught a bit of concern in it as if she was worried I might reject her.

I decided to make a commitment. Why not, she’s not being subtle about it and I’m only human. “Yes Olive, I would like to be with you too.”

Then Olive was preoccupied with touching herself. I guessed from witnessing this with other women that it wouldn’t take her very long to reach an orgasm.

I tried to concentrate on driving while listening to her moaning in the back. I was aware of passing signs (Sheridan Expwy-Triboro Bridge), a huge Marlboro billboard, and then the Bronx River housing project. The traffic began to speed up just as Olive did. We were going through the Bruckner Interchange when she had a loud, completely uninhibited climax. I saw her lean forward and then flop back against the seat.

“Is everything satisfactory, Olive?” Maybe that sounded like dry wit. It was certainly fun to see Olive get so excited by her own scenario.

“Oh God, that was just amazing. I just came so hard!” Then she was against my seat back again, breathing heavily; I could detect her perfume. “Paul, you know the city, there must be some place we could park right now. I don’t think I can wait to go back to Manhattan.” She sounded quite insistent about it.

That was a challenge: where in the middle of the day could I find a place to park and bang this nice horny lady in the back seat? Then I had an inspiration. My habit of walking around and exploring New York might just pay off now.

I said, “I think there’s a place nearby that might work.”

“You’re still stiff, aren’t you?”

“Yes ma’am, if you want some, I have it for you.”

She wagged a finger at me and laughed, “I knew it, you have some bad boy in you after all.” Everything was going smoothly, I thought, and I exited at Pelham Parkway. Olive noted a monument, a column to our right inside the park.

She asked, “What is that thing for?”

“It’s a World War I memorial to the dead of Bronx County.”

“That lady on top, the statue, her boobs are hanging out.”

I said, “It’s Winged Victory, I think. When you’re allegorical you can wear anything you want.” I remembered the lost statues of Penn Station, Morning and Evening. Morning’s breasts were bared too.


I drove around a traffic circle and arrived at a driveway that went off to the right. The gate at the far end was indeed open. I guided the car into a small yard next to Amtrak’s Northeast Corridor. If our luck held out there would be no one down at trackside.

I said, “Olive, I suppose this isn’t the most scenic spot.”

“It’s fine, Paul, I’m not concerned. I know you’re very diligent about these things. That’s why I trust putting myself in your hands.”

I hoped her faith in me was justified. I turned right and drove past an abandoned building that looked like it had been a train station. For a few seconds, my mind was not on sex but security and I tried to assess the situation. I didn’t know if Amtrak even had a police force of its own. If workers showed up we could just zip out of there. But if cops arrived, that would be a different story. If they caught us in the act, would they laugh it off or charge us with something?

When we got to the Hutchinson River Bridge at the end, I said, “Look, I’m going to turn the car around, just in case we have to leave in a hurry.”

“I get it, you certainly are thorough. You think of everything.”

I was still concerned with the logistics and I looked around. Across the tracks was a large housing development, Co-op City. It appeared that the apartment windows were too far away for anybody to see into the car if they even noticed it at all.

I also assumed that any passing trains would be moving too fast for anyone on board to see anything. What Olive and I were going to do wasn’t completely risk-free, but it seemed like things were in our favor. We didn’t need all day in this yard, just enough time without interference for a quick coupling.

I got the car pointed outwards and turned off the engine. I said, “So is this okay? To paraphrase, ‘Americans don’t just go to the poorhouse in an automobile, they turn them into boudoirs too.’”

She laughed at my reference, “I don’t think that’s quite what Will Rogers said!”

Then she wagged her finger to get me into the back seat. I got out and opened the back door on the driver’s side. Olive went for me as soon as I was next to her, wrapping her arms around me and kissing me hard. “That mari-jah-wanna makes me extra horny.” It would have done the same for me too but I had to drive.

“Would you like me to suck on you?”

“No, I’m going to be fine,” I said. "I'm ready to go right now." I was starting to forget about the big, bright world of tracks and buildings outside our Buick’s windows.

She said, “I guess you appreciated my Cross-Bronx monologue. It would be splendid if you went down on me though.”

She leaned back and spread her legs. “I know it’s been a while since you’ve had any pussy.”  

As I began to lick her she said, “And it’s been a long time since your Miss Entwistle had any sex herself.” That confirmed what I had earlier suspected.

It was amusing that she kept her hat on for this and indeed would for our entire tryst. She said, “Chuck, that poor sap, he rarely would do this for me. He complained he didn’t like the taste.”

I stopped and improvised a line, “At Lioness Limo our motto is, ‘It’s a pleasure to serve you.’” Perhaps it was not my best line ever but Olive laughed anyway.

“Besides, I think you taste great.” I went back to my task. Her cunt was already moist and loose from all the vigorous masturbation she had done. 

“That pathetic Chuck, he couldn’t find a clitoris if a chart was attached to the headboard.” I tried to stifle a laugh but I think my guffaws just tickled her pussy more.

In a little while, she said, “It’s time, get up.” She undid my pants and took my cock out. “I just love a young man’s eager penis in me. Do you need some stroking?”

“No, Olive, I’m ready if you are.”

“Then yes, please, I need a proper fucking and I need it now.”

It wasn’t the time or the place for a long, leisurely screw; perhaps we could do that later in the evening at her place. This was going to be a bit more than a quickie, but not that much more. I entered and began a vigorous coupling with her. She put her right leg up on the driver’s seat so I had a good angle on her cunt.

“You’re such a horny bad boy.  I knew you could be had with just a flash of panties and a whiff of pussy on them.”

“You did a lot more than that. You’re such a hot, sweet lady - it’s an honor to be your driver.”

Some caution remained in me because I kept my pants high enough to cover my ass. Olive would have none of that; she reached back to yank them down. My thrusts became more rapid and her legs were moving around the interior of the car. In short order, she said hurriedly, “I’m going to come again, oh please, we can time it together I think.”

She grabbed my behind with both hands and told me, loudly now, “Come on, honey, push, push harder.” Then she said, “That’s it, I’m there, shoot in me already.” I arched my back and eagerly complied with her wish.

It seemed very quiet as we lay in each other’s arms, inside our glass and metal room in the middle of a metropolis of twenty million. Then I heard a train before I saw it through the windshield.  It was coming up fast around the bend to the south. There was a dissonance I suppose between being on top of and inside a woman and witnessing this spectacle just outside that made me stare at it.

An old electric locomotive in a gaudy Amtrak paint scheme rushed past, pulling a string of new Amfleet coaches. Olive raised herself a bit so she could look out the back window as the train crossed the bridge. When it was gone I said, “We really should get out of here.” I was surprised at how fast we uncoupled and got out our respective doors and into the front seat.  We were laughing as I started the engine; now all they could get us on was trespassing at the most.

She held me again. “Paul, after your shift is over, I want you to come down to see me tonight.”

“Sure, I can do that.”

She wasn’t done yet, “I know we don’t know what the future will bring, but will you, I hope, give some of yourself to me?  I’m not sure what I mean.”

I knew what she meant. “Of course, relax, everything is going to be okay.” I thought, these women, they really could get to you. Olive was worried that I would dump her, discard her, maybe tomorrow, maybe soon after.

As I started to drive through the yard she looked around the car and said, “Oh, where are my panties?”

“You’re sitting on them.”

We were still giddy when we reached the end of the driveway. Perhaps this was the way Bonnie and Clyde felt after a successful robbery; some banjo music should have been playing on my life’s soundtrack. We’re the Barrow gang; we don’t rob banks anymore but we do fuck in train yards.

I was still trying to get my clothes in order. “So, Mrs. Ruxton, where to? Do you still want to go to Rye Beach?”

“No, forget that. Let’s go to that Italian neighborhood, Arthur Avenue, I can pick up something for dinner.”

It was only a short drive over there. Olive stayed pressed up against me, her arm around my shoulders. She mostly talked about her ex, Clarence Ruxton.

“He was such a dip. As I said, he’d complain about cunnilingus, as he referred to it. ‘A barbaric practice,’ that’s what he said.”

“I think I would have divorced this guy myself.”

“I offered him whatever he wished sexually to keep him happy but it was a waste. He didn’t seem that interested in anything. I couldn’t even get him to spank me when I was naughty.”

“That’s really unfortunate.”

She looked at me, “I bet you think I’m a very naughty lady.”

“I don’t think it, I know it!”


I found a parking space on Crescent Avenue around the corner from where she wanted to shop. As I waited in our getaway car I could feel more of the tension leaving me. The sun was shining on the roof so I cracked the window open a bit. The next thing I knew I was coming out of a nap as she knocked on my window.

“Ah, Paul?”

I cranked it down further.  She said, “I’ve got some ravioli and sauce for us tonight. Do you have another assignment now?”

“No, you were the only one today.”

She smiled at me and she seemed to be considering a quip but she couldn’t come up with one. Instead, she got in the front with me again. “All right, take me back home. You’re invited, as I said, after you drop the car off.”

“Of course, I’ll be there.”

We went back down the East Side via the FDR Drive. Olive seemed very relaxed and we talked about ourselves as we drove along. I thought, well, we’ve both gotten laid after dry spells, and we’re going to get some more tonight. It definitely improves one’s mood.

When we got to her street she said, “Please stop a few doors down the block. It may seem strange, but it would be awkward if the doorman saw me sitting in front.”

That was an interesting bit of reticence on her part. I wondered what codes of behavior she had learned in 1950s Connecticut.

When I stopped I joshed a bit with her, “Olive, I know you’ve paid in advance, but it is customary to tip the driver too.”

She mock-scowled at me, “I think you’ve already gotten your tip, young man. In fact . . .” Now she leaned towards me. “You’ve been quite impudent, sneaking peeks up my skirt when you thought you could get away with it.”

“Really, is that what you think?”

“That’s what I know. I have a mind to take you over my knee and give you a good spanking on the seat of your trousers.”

“Well, as long as you don’t report me to the company, I’ll submit to that later on. By the way, don’t forget your underpants.”

These were still on the front seat and I picked them up and handed them to her. She seemed genuinely embarrassed.

She said, “Actually, it feels kind of nice with my crotch bare. Maybe I should do that more often.”

“Do it as often as you like. I certainly don’t mind.”

“So you’re coming right back here?”

“As soon as I can. It’s just across the river in Queens.” Then I said, “I love you, sweetie.”

”I love you too, baby.” She kissed me goodbye and got out.

On the drive back to the garage I thought about what had happened today. It was more than a one-afternoon stand, but beyond that, I had no idea what either of us expected to come next. Olive had to be at least eighteen or nineteen years older than I was. That was an entirely different generation from mine.

Well, maybe it’s just for the summer thenwe’ll call it Summer of ’76 like that silly book and movie. Except I was twenty-one, not a teenager, and I had to face up to my own decisions. Yes, Olive had started it but I had certainly finished it.

I rationalized that a bit by thinking that Olive was an adult too and she must have known the implications of an affair with a much younger person. She had already admitted that she was thinking of this long before she got in the car today.

At the garage, I checked the interior of the car before turning in the keys. Olive had left something else behind: her hairbrush was on the floor in the back. I put the handle of it up to my nose and caught her aroma on it. Then I put it in my pocket so I could return it.


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