“You already know the answer,” I told her.
“I do,” she said and I think we should explore the possibilities further.”
“Julie,” I said, “Not tonight.”
“I know. You already have a date,” she said. “I just wanted you to know that Santa is entitled to gifts for Christmas too.”
“I’d like that,” I said.
“So would we,” she said.
“We?”
“We! Before Christmas,” she asserted.
“The nights are short before Christmas,” I said.
“Okay,” she agreed. “After Christmas but before New Year’s.”
She left to talk to the other elves while I dressed in civilian clothes.
I got to Applebee’s near eight thirty. The lap sitting woman of my afternoon was sitting at the end of the bar waving to me. She looked different in the light of the bar. She was wearing the same clothes as the afternoon and appeared to be in her late thirties. She wasn’t overweight but she wasn’t morbidly thin either. I could admire some of her more promising attributes that escaped me in my earlier confusion.
I sat next to her with my back toward most of the restaurant and she turned slightly toward me to ease conversation. “Hi, Santa. I’m glad you came. I wasn’t sure if you’d show up.”
“Hi,” I responded. “I wasn’t either but I wanted to satisfy my curiosity.”
The bartender came by and she ordered a Sapphire martini with no vermouth and olives. I ordered a pint of Guinness.
We said very little to each other until the drinks arrived. “Thanks for wearing the same outfit as this afternoon. I might not have noticed you otherwise.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “I’m wearing the same outfit and I’ve added nothing,” she teased me.
“So,” she said, “tell me about your curiosity.”
“You did offer a hard to resist opportunity,” I told her.
“So,” she said.
“So?” I questioned.
“Are you going to check?” she asked.
“Here?” I asked, a more inviting repeat of my concern earlier in the day.
“Why not?” she asked. “This is less public, the lighting’s dim and I don’t think anyone is watching.”
When I didn’t move, she moved her stool closer to me until our knees were touching. “Give me your hand,” she ordered.
I offered my hand. She took it and placed on her knee under the hem of her skirt and separated her legs invitingly.
I still didn’t move.
“What’s the problem?” she asked.
“Here we are, having an adult conversation and you’re suggesting I slide my hand up under your skirt and verify something I already know is true and I don’t even know your name.”
“I guess I’ve gotten a little ahead of myself. Angela,” she told me.
“Angela,” I repeated. “I like Angela. Can I call you Angie?”
“Angie,” she mulled. “No one’s called me Angie since college.”
“It seems were on the way to repeating things we haven’t done since college,” I commented. “So, Angie it is.”
“I can live with that,” Angie said. “And you are?”
“Oh, how careless of me,” I admitted. “Nick.”
“As in St. Nick?” Angie asked.
“Only between noon and eight, every day until Christmas,” I said.
“And Nick is your real name?” Angie asked.
“It is,” I confirmed. “Any further resemblance between me and St. Nick is merely coincidental.”
“Angie and Nick,” said Angie. “I think we make a nice couple. Tell me, do you have a car outside?”‘
“No,” I said. I live nearby. I walk to the mall. Why do you ask?
“I like the idea of repeating some my college hi jinks but I draw the line at getting laid in the backseat of a car ever again,” Angie explained.
I had no response. I took a sip of my beer with my free hand.
“I’m still waiting,” said Angie.
“Waiting?” I asked.
“For you to check,” she said.
“As you request,” I said. I moved my hand between her legs, turned my palm up and slid my hand slowly between her thighs in the direction of her crotch. I confirmed the absence of panties. I also confirmed swollen labia and a damp and heated space between them. Satisfied, I began to remove my hand. Angie grabbed my hand through her skirt and held it in place. She slid her body toward me on her stool. I extended two fingers and Angie continued sliding forward until my fingers were between her labia and inside her up to the first knuckle.
Angie closed her eyes and we held that position for several moments. Angie opened her eyes and let go of my hand. I reluctantly removed it from between her legs. Not knowing what to do about the residue on my fingers, I put them in my mouth and cleaned them off.
Angie closed her eyes again. Her knees pressed together and I saw her tremble slightly.
“Fuck,” she whispered. “I can’t believe that just happened.”
“Did I miss something?” I asked.
“No, you caused something,” Angie said.
“I’m listening,” I said.
“When you licked your fingers,” Angie explained, “I had a small orgasm. Something that usually leads to something larger. That’s never happened before,” she asserted.
“You’ve never had an orgasm before?” I asked.
“No. I’ve had thousands of orgasms, just never sitting on a bar stool watching some guy taste me rather than wiping his fingers on a napkin or his pants.”
“You’ve done this before?” I asked.
“Actually, I haven’t,” Angie said. “I’ve never been this brazen. I think I like it but I’m a bowl of jelly inside.”