Gino's was open for lunch, but I was the early bird. Becky, she's the night owl, with big round eyes and always a half-hour late. A half-hour late for lunch, a half-hour late to the dentist, a half-hour late for church.

She scared us when she was late for her period last month, but we sighed and kissed and told ourselves, even so, would it be such a bad thing? Becky and Baby and Me? I kissed her bare belly and pressed my ear against her tummy, listening for what I don't know. Becky cried.

But it was a false alarm. You see, Becky always runs a little late. It turns out Becky's tears were wasted. No sense crying over one's true nature, I thought at the time. But I'm no dope; I kept my tongue tied.

I drove into Gino's parking lot with my windshield wipers swishing though the late spring rain. Inside, out of the weather, Gino's was dry and quiet, most tables sitting vacant. Wine red tablecloths, precisely placed silverware, big water glasses holding folded cloth napkins. A waitress stepped up to the reservation desk and cleared her throat. She was a pretty one, blonde and pink-lipped, with pearly blue eyes. A gold nameplate on the swell of her breast said "Margot," and I gave Margot a smile. Her fingers were ring-less, and she caught me peeking at her hands, and she quickly covered her left hand with the right, an embarrassed gesture, as if she were naked and hiding her privates.

I leaned against the reservation desk and gave Margot my biggest smile. "I'm sorry, Margot," I began, and Margot blushed. But Margot was a pistol, her face all warm and pink, but she did not look down. Her eyes stayed right on me, strong and steady. "I am early," I said. "Is it okay if I wait at a table?"

"How many in your party, sir?" Margot said, a trace of a southern accent, her voice all business. But her face gave her away. Margot was an open one, for sure. Margot's lush and blushy face, and her nervous hands.

"Two," I said, and I held up two fingers, like a child's bunny rabbit, and I wiggled Bunny's ears. Margot grinned and clucked her tongue.

She held two menus to her lovely bosom and led me along, and I watched her from behind, at the feminine swing of her curvy hips. Margot knew I was watching. A little performance for the appreciative audience.

Bucking for a big tip, Margot?

She sat me at a table in the back and I settled down like an old man in his favorite chair. Margot left the menus on the empty setting. "Can I get you something to drink while you wait?" she asked.

I ordered a glass of wine, and Margot smiled. I smiled back. Margot swung her hips back towards the kitchen.

Margot, Margot, Margot. Too bad I'm spoken for. Isn't it funny? The instant you decide to settle down, and all of a sudden, every woman you see is available. Available and maybe even willing. When I was out and about and looking for lovers, where was Margot then?

Instead, I had Becky. Not that Becky was so bad. In fact, Becky could be great, when Becky wanted to be. She had been a little moody lately - the baby scare had put her in a pensive frame of mind. Becky was at her best when Becky wasn't thinking. When she got up on her toes, threw back her shoulders, and bumped into the world with her chest out. When she laughed without a second thought, loud and robust. When she danced with that swinging motion of hers, hips and shoulders turning with the beat. When we were in bed naked and she got big open eyes, and she thrust her jaw out and pulled my dick. And when I rolled on top of her and her thighs strained apart, opening herself up so far you'd think she'd split herself in two.

I loved my foul-mouthed Becky, the one who sang along with songs on the radio, replacing every instance of the word "love" with the word "fuck" and laughing when the song still made awkward sense.

"Let's make fuck," Becky would say when Becky was horny.

That is the Becky I would love to have babies with.

But for the past two weeks, I had only known a Becky who sat on the couch in her bathrobe, sometimes in her apartment, sometimes at my house, reading women's magazines and casting accusatory glances.

Margot returned with a glass of white wine and set it in front of me. "Can I get you anything else?" Margot asked. I loved the tone of Margot's voice, low and feminine, spoken from the diaphragm. No more blushing, either. Margot had composed herself while she was gone. She rested a slender left hand on the crest of her pelvis.

Could she get me anything else!

"No, thank you," I said.

Margot smiled and left.

I sighed. I opened my paperback book and began to read.

I had only read a few sentences before I caught a glimpse in my peripheral vision, just over the top edge of my book. A leg, a feminine leg. I let my eyes drift upward, and took in a curvy calf all wrapped up in dark hose. And a lovely knee. And slender feet in shiny black pumps. One leg draped over the other, the top foot bouncing up and down to the rhythm of some silent song.

Women! They were everywhere I looked!

I tried to go back to my book, but didn't read two sentences before my mind formed an image of naked legs. I let my eyes rise again.

She sat two tables over, chin in palm. She wore a knee-length red skirt and a red jacket over a white blouse. She was slim, and tall for a woman. Her hair was brown and pinned up. I watched as she removed her glasses, folded them, unfolded them. She stroked the earpiece lightly across her upper lip. Her eyes unfocussed. Then she sat up straight and set her glasses on the table. She put her chin back in her palm and tapped the table with flaming red fingernails.

All the while her foot bounced up and down, up and down.

Then I saw her brown eyes turn my way, first a glance, and then she turned and looked right at me. For whatever reason, I didn't look away, I just stayed steady, and she squared her shoulders around. Her eyes narrowed for just a moment, the crinkles gathering in the corners, her lips pressing. But then her face softened, and her lips twitched. She uncrossed her legs, and I watched transfixed as she slowly re-crossed them. The agonizing rub of leg against leg. She smoothed her skirt back down. Her right knee, now on top, was just as lovely as the left. I looked her in the eye, her dark brown eyes, and she pursed her lips and made a quick kiss in the air.

I dropped my eyes like a schoolboy who didn't know the answer to the teacher's question. My face burned.

Oh, but did I have wild thoughts! The bachelor thing to do would be to meet her gaze, just like good old Margot had done with me. But then Margot could afford it. Margot wasn't meeting Becky for lunch in half an hour.

The woman stood up, and I almost fainted dead away.

But she was greeting someone, not standing up to talk to me. "Hi, dear," she said. A man in khaki slacks and a green golf shirt walked up. She gave him a big, all-body hug. Her hands moved up and down his broad back. She looked over his shoulder at me and winked.

They separated and sat, and I breathed a sigh. I settled back down to read my book.

But bits and pieces of their conversation kept wiggling their way into my ears. Just as I seemed to get back into my story, I'd catch a word or two.

"How's the wine?" he said. "I'm taking the rest of the afternoon off," she said. "I have to take the car in tomorrow. Can you pick me up?" he said. "We should fix him up with Millie don't you think?" she said.

I scanned the page of my book, looking for where I had left off. I couldn't seem to find my place.

The restaurant was suddenly as quiet as a deserted back alley.

"I am so fucking horny," she said.

And just then Becky bustled in. "I'm sorry I'm late!" Her purse thumped on the table, and she ran her hands back through her dark hair. "Traffic was a disaster. It's raining, you know. I am so sorry I'm late."

I stood and we kissed, just a peck on the lips, and we slumped down into our chairs. Becky was her usual pretty self, a little disheveled and a little out of breath. She wore a casual dress, a light, flowery thing with a bit of a neckline and the round of her shoulders bare. If Becky were her old self, Becky would be bra-less underneath. As it was, I had to wonder. Becky opened a menu.

Becky read the menu, and I spied on the other couple. They ate their salads and grinned at one another. Long gazes into each other's eyes. They seemed smitten.

When she picked a cherry tomato up off her plate, I remember thinking, what would Emily Post think of that? And when she licked it, I was sure Emily would have huffed! But when she pressed it against his mouth, against his pursed lips, I was glad for Ms. Post that she was already dead!

She pressed the tomato against his mouth, he formed an "O" with his lips, and she used her thumb to force it through. He closed his mouth down, and his eyes slitted and his lips strained to stop from smiling. He bit down, and a little drip of tomato spilled out.

"You're leaking," she said and she grabbed her napkin and went to his mouth with it. He held still while she licked the napkin's corner and dabbed. She used short, slow strokes across his lips.

He stopped smiling. She dabbed his lips for a long time, long after all the tomato juice was gone. And then she simply dropped the napkin, and her fingers went right back onto his mouth.

She used her thumb and fingertips on his lips, back and forth, up and down, tracing the upper lip. He sat there and stared into her eyes.

And then he nipped at her fingertip, lightly with white teeth, and they laughed. She pulled her hand away from his face, and they laughed again. They went back to their food.

"What are you looking at?" Becky breathed.

"Did you see them?"

"Of course I saw them! But why are you looking?"

The man took a slice of cucumber and held it up. The woman giggled, a girl's giggle, and he folded the slice over, held it to her mouth, and used his index finger to push it in.

He pushed the cucumber in, but he didn't take his finger back out. She sucked on his fingertip, her lips tight around it, holding it in her mouth. And then a quick open and close, and his entire finger was in, knuckle deep.

He drew his finger out slowly, pulling out from between her lips, and when it was almost completely out, she opened up and let him go. She laughed.

She looked over at Becky and me, and she laughed again.

The man twisted around so he could see where his partner was looking, just a quick glance. He leaned and whispered something in her ear. The woman listened and looked at us and smiled.

I glanced at Becky, and her teeth were set, staring wide-eyed at the show.

The couple leaned together and kissed. And then they kissed again. And again. And then a short, hard kiss, so hard I thought they'd bruise their lips. They looked at one another for a moment, then her hand grabbed the back of his head and pulled him back and they kissed again. They attacked each other with their mouths, and their bodies surged together. Her butt slid clear off her chair until she was almost in his lap. He gripped her hips. Her skirt rode up the backs of her legs.

When her stocking tops showed beneath the hem of her skirt, my penis stirred. When his hand slipped between her thighs, Becky gasped.

He hiked her skirt up past her hips, exposing the broad expanse of naked flank and a black garter strap.

"They should get a room," Becky whispered.

I was mildly miffed. I turned to say something to her, but as soon as I saw Becky's face, I stopped. Becky's lips were moist and parted. Her eyes were wide and bright and darted about, as if she couldn't decide what exactly to look at.

I looked back, and the woman was looking right at us, staring right at Becky and me, as she clung to the man's shoulders, while he nibbled on her slim neck, his hand over her breast. Her legs pulled apart, her skirt slipped right up to her waist.

And there she was. She wasn't wearing panties. Thick, dark hair between her legs, and dark fleshy lips.

She looked right at us, breathing hard, took the man's hand, and placed it over her sex. She held his hand there, her hand over his, and fingers and palms began to undulate. She looked at us and breathed deeply through her open mouth. He kissed her neck and she rocked her head back and moaned.

And then, right in the middle of it all, they pulled apart. She just stopped, sat back down in her chair, and he picked up his fork. They panted loud enough for us to hear. She tried to yank her skirt back down, but was not completely successful - I could still see her stocking tops.

For a moment, they picked at their salads. He put his free hand on top of the table, and she put hers on top of his. Her right hand on top of his left, her long, slender fingers stroking his. Gentle strokes up and down his fingers, to the knuckle, then up on the back of his hand.

He rolled his hand over and they grabbed hands. The heels of their palms rubbed together. Their thumbs wandered against each other. They ungrasped long enough to rub flat hand against flat hand. Fingers slipped between fingers, lingering into the gaps between.

They stopped eating again, and forks fell to plates. She reached across and grabbed right between his legs.

He shot to his feet, fumbling with his wallet, and threw three twenties on the table. His penis strained against his pants. She stood up after him, wobbling on her heels; she had to hold onto the table to catch her balance. She awkwardly pulled her dress down and rearranged her jacket.

They dashed away, his hand on the back of her neck; she grabbed his ass, low and nearly between his legs.

Becky and I sat in stunned silence.

"Wow," I said.

"That was something," Becky said.

My penis was stiff. I shifted, trying to get a more comfortable position.

"I have to go to the bathroom," Becky said.