Leon knew the type of woman I was. He’d have described me as headstrong, passionate, uncontrollable. I was prone to flights of fancy and loved the attention of men. We had an understanding.
At the market bus stop a cocky young man leant from his car window. ‘Need a lift?’
‘Sure.’ I loaded my boxes of ripe fruit onto his back seat and slid next to him. Summer sun dragged tannery smells from the buffed leather seats.
We hadn’t gone two blocks before his hand was on my knee, strong fingers gripping and releasing. By Havelock St they’d edged the hem of my skirt higher. I almost missed our building. ‘Here,’ I shouted. ‘The place with the awning.’
As soon as he parked we fell on each other with exploring hands and sweet, muscular kisses.
There was a knock at the window. Leon staring impassively. I waved over my lover’s shoulder. ‘It’s my husband,’ I said. And then, simply because it entered my head, I added. ‘He has a gun.’
How Leon and I laughed later. It had been worth it for the look on my lover’s face. It had been worth it for Leon’s mirth. The expensive car fishtailing down the street. And the lingering memory of stolen kisses.
‘I hope he likes tomatoes,’ said Leon.
small stories about love 