Hunting Pixies

Hunting Pixies, Part Two

Note: Thanks to those who have read the first part of this series and for the positive encouragement. I've struggled with where this fits in terms of story categories as it crosses over several. I placed the first part in "Mature," but it would easily fit as "Loving Wives" (or better, Loving Husbands, if that existed). I'm doing the opposite with this. This is a continuation of the slow build from the first story, so if you didn't like that, it might not be for you. If you did, I hope you enjoy this as well. Unlike the first part, this part does end with an explicit sexual encounter, so if that's all you're here for, maybe skip to the end. With the backstories complete, the rest of the series will be far more sexually explicit, although I will continue to use the story as a vehicle for exploring relationship dynamics.

I have outlined the rest of this story and anticipate at least two more installments, and probably an epilogue told from Margaret's point of view. I may then go back and do a final edit and reissue the full story as a cohesive whole, if that seems warranted. I have two other works published here that will be tied directly into this story at later parts. "A Long Walk Back" is basically Steve's origin story. "Fantasy and Reality" reflects the state of Steve and Beth's marriage at their 25th anniversary. These are much different in tone, but worth a read if you are enjoying this so far. And at the risk of pandering: I didn't think much about it before I started publishing here, but if you find something in this venue that you like, I would HIGHLY encourage you to post a 5-star rating. It is incredibly gratifying and motivating for the writer, and the best way you can encourage them to produce more works that you may enjoy..

With the band wrapped up for the evening, the venue is quickly thinning out. We check our table to make sure we didn't leave anything behind, and see nothing but a lot of empty cups. The tables around us are covered in the same. So I assume we don't have to bus it ourselves. "Did you have a purse?" I ask.

A small wave of panic washes over Margaret's face as she thinks about it and then remembers, patting the small bulge of her clutch in an apparently oversized pocket of her jacket. I hadn't noticed the bulge when we were dancing, so maybe she hadn't noticed mine? Not a chance, I think, but I'm not at all embarrassed. "Oh yeah, I forgot I picked it up earlier. I really only have my phone. For some reason, YOU have Daddy's keys," she says in clearly mock indignation.

"Oh yes," I remember, patting my pocket, "I seem to recall he left me in charge of you for the evening." I affect a devilish grin, but then pull the keys from my pocket, offering them to her, and add, "seriously though, you can have these back anytime you want."

She waves my gesture off and adopts a pout, clearly wanting to continue the playful banter, "I guess I'm at your mercy then...but before you have your way with me, do you think we could find a bathroom?" The pout sends an impulse to my groin. This woman is undeniably sexy.

"By all means," I say and lead her away to the "outhouse" a very nice set of clean public restrooms I recall being next to the square. The crowds from earlier have quickly dispersed, so it takes her only a minute longer than me and we rejoin in the square. She takes my hand as we meet. The "after party" has migrated now to the several bars around the square, and we walk around it at a slower pace, hand in hand, neither eager for the night to end.

The crowds of seniors who are also not ready to call it a night are overflowing from the City Fire and Blue Fin, with empty seats on the patios and the bars inside quickly filling. With the band silenced on the main stage, we can start to pick up the discordant tunes coming from the various venues. It sounds like karaoke may be getting under way in at least one of them.

"Is it really only 9:15?" she laughs, as she checks her watch, "that's so early, I thought it would be much later."

"Early? Nine is my normal bedtime. Is it a good thing that you think of this as early?" I ask. "This place seems to have a time continuum of its own. By the way, 'daddy' didn't mention what time you had curfew."

"Stop!" She laughs, punching my shoulder playfully. "You're old, but NOT old enough to be in bed at nine. And I think it's a very good thing. I'm NOT ready to go home yet. It's so damn hot in their house."

We share the laugh. I pretend that I was only kidding about my bedtime. I'm really not, but spending time with her is definitely worth staying up for. "But I do need a few minutes to check in with my kids before we do anything else. It'll be..." she thinks for a moment. "8:15 there, so they should all still be up."

"Of course," I lead us to some empty tables outside of a closed shop where it's reasonably quiet. I note without even a tiny bit of disappointment that it's Scooples, my would be ice cream destination. While I won't be getting any ice cream tonight, it's already been beyond worth the small sacrifice. As Margaret settles into a table and retrieves her phone, I say, "I'll give you privacy. Take as long as you need. I'll just be over here..." pointing vaguely. I'm not sure where.

"Do you need to check in as well?" She asks, a little raise to her eyebrow, maybe testing?

"I will, but probably won't get a response. It's a little past bedtime at my house," I laugh.

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

"My dad stays up until at least 10, and he's 80. Are you sure you're only 59?"

We laugh as I step away, but not before I catch a glimpse of her playfully sticking her tongue out. Damn sexy. Kidding aside, I know it is actually past our bedtime, and she told me not to overthink it, but I shoot Beth a quick text. "Hey, I know it's a little late, so you might not get this until tomorrow. Just wanted to give you a heads up that I've met someone...interesting. I don't know if things will go anywhere. I trust we'll be okay if they do. Talk to you tomorrow."

I wander around the square for a bit, lost in my own thoughts and absorbing the surreal environment of this place and the situation I find myself in. Observing the obvious mating rituals of the senior American this evening has been enlightening. Have I become one of them now? If so, I'm a fish out of water.

I've been insulated from the burdens and thrills of courtship for 30 years. If I'm going to successfully "hunt for pixies," I'll be putting myself way out of my comfort zone more and more. But even if I drop Margaret off in a few minutes and never see her again, I have to admit that the few awkward moments I've experienced tonight pale against the excitement of novelty. I was enjoying myself even before Margaret and I connected. And I was successfully attracting attention, not necessarily from those I may have chosen, but attention nevertheless. Validation is good for the ego and confidence, even if it's coming from someone you aren't interested in, I suppose.

When we sign on to a committed relationship, we gain a lot, but we give up the thrill of having "firsts" in our lives again. The first kiss I just shared with Margaret is already stored in my long-term happy memories. Along with others like it, it will now be a permanent part of me. The excitement and the nervous thrill, the anticipation of new possibilities, the energy of new relationships is exciting in so many ways.

But the mature love that can only be experienced in a long-term committed relationship is comforting in so many other ways. There is a lot to be said for knowing you will be accepted for who you are by a loving partner, through the ups and downs of real life. They're simply not directly comparable experiences. They trigger different emotions and fill different needs, and it's a shame that our wiring, or our cultural conditioning, makes them largely mutually exclusive, forcing us to choose one or the other. I'm now incredibly grateful for the gift Beth has given me, and I commit to ensuring I don't do anything that makes her regret it.

I've been walking with my phone absent-mindedly in my hand. I unlock it to see messages still open, and my last one to Beth on "delivered." No surprise at this time of night. I look up from it to check on Margaret. I've been so deep in thought that I didn't notice she had already wrapped up her call. I see her now sitting quietly, deep in her own thoughts. She glances up toward me with tears in her eyes.

I walk back to her and take a seat, gently asking, "Everything okay?" Knowing it must not be.

She collects herself, "It's, yeah, no it's fine. The kids are all okay. I just...miss them so damn much already. I drove down yesterday, so it's only been a day, and I have the rest of the week, and I'm already falling apart...you must just think I'm some kind of weak..."

"Shh. No, I think you're a mom who loves her kids. I can't even imagine having to be apart from them without a choice. Is this your first holiday without them?"

"Yes, the divorce was only really final last year, and David's already been weaseling out on his full share of custody, which I'm actually fine with. But this year he wanted them for the whole week for a big thing his family was having..." she trails off as her tears begin anew. I reach out with open arms. She accepts my embrace and falls into my chest, gentle shivering sobs wracking her small frame. I stroke her hair and back, soothing her as her breath calms. She melts into me.

After a few minutes, she's composed herself, "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Listen," she hesitates, "I'm a mess right now. I miss my kids, I've had a lot to drink tonight, and I'm not really looking forward to a week staying in my dad's overheated house dealing with Sue; but I've been having a really great time with the most interesting MARRIED man that I only met a little more than an hour ago. And I'm not sure I can trust my judgment right now because I find myself wanting to get way too comfortable with you way too fast."

I check my watch, thinking the timeline surely can't have been that short, but it is. "Wow, it really only has been a little more than an hour. And I've spent most of it talking about me. I really would like to get to know you, Margaret. You are the most intriguing person I've met in a long time."

"Everything I've been taught to be 'common sense' says I probably shouldn't, but I WANT you to get to know me, and I want to trust you, but how can I really know you aren't just playing some kind of weird pickup game by making up having your wife's okay with all of this? That this isn't just the way you get your rocks off while your wife sits at home wondering where you are?"

"Fair points. That's a valid concern, and asking for some 'proof' is a reasonable expectation, I think. I don't know what it will take to make you comfortable, and I don't have anything like a signed permission slip, but I can show you some 'receipts' that may help?"

"What do you mean?"

I open my phone to the last message chat with Beth from earlier in the evening, scrolling up to the start of the relevant conversation. I hand the phone to Margaret and she takes it and reads the thread, cautiously. As she reaches the final message, we're both surprised to see the bubble of a response coming in. She glances at it and smiles before handing the phone back to me. I read the response, "Wow, look at you, stud, lol. Wherever things go, we will be okay. I trust you."

I look up to meet Margaret's smiling eyes, and she says, "That seems like a permission slip to me. Thank you for sharing that, and she's beautiful, by the way..." Her last comment must be based on the contact photo at the top of the thread. She pauses, then continues, "She isn't using you to lure in unsuspecting women so you can BOTH have their way with them, is she?" Her tone is playful, but her question seems serious.

I chuckle a bit, "No, this is a solo project, all the way. She's just...supportive? More than I expected, really. And as you said, she IS beautiful. If we wanted to lure a third for the bedroom, don't you think she'd be the one playing the field, not this grumpy old troll?" I flourish a slow wave of my hand from my face to my chest as if presenting myself for consideration.

She laughs. I add, "And if I understand the lingo correctly, if we were looking for a third, that would make you a unicorn, and I'd be unicorn hunting. I'm very specifically here pixie hunting, as you will recall?"

She laughs again, "A troll hunting a pixie seems appropriate, not that I consider you a troll."

We're both silent for a few moments, each deciding our own next move or waiting for the other to make theirs. I sense that she's accepting that everything I've shared with her to this point has been the truth, and I'm buzzing from the fact that she actually seems to be seriously considering the possibility of filling the role of "pixie."

"So what would you like to do?" I break the silence. "Kidding aside, I'll be happy to take you back to your dad's now, if that's what you want. Or we can go in one of these places for a nightcap, or find somewhere a little more comfortable and private to continue getting to know one another...and see where things go."

"Let's go someplace comfortable. I admit, this all seems unreal, but I would very much like to see where things go. Where are you staying?"

"The Brownwood," I respond.

"Oh," she says, "that seems like a nice place. Dad and Sue took me to dinner there when I got in last night."

"I assume your dad's golf cart is in the lot out back? I'll give you the keys and let you drive, if you would like."

"Yes, it's out back, but you should probably drive. I have actually had more to drink than I ever do, so we should probably play it safe." I make quiet note of her unguarded admission and also take the information as a possible request to consider later. We start making our way from the square.

"As you wish," I respond as we continue to walk the half block to the golf cart-only lot. We're both quiet for a moment or two.

"That's twice now that you've quoted from one of my favorite stories. Do you fancy yourself as Wesley in this scenario? Because I'm a little short to be Buttercup," she breaks our silence.

"Wesley? No, I'm a LOT too ugly to be the handsome prince, I'm more like Miracle Max, the aging smartass," we both laugh. I add, "'The Princess Bride' is almost older than you, how is it one of your favorites?"

"I've only watched the movie a few times, and really enjoy it. But I'm more a fan of the book, it was one of Momma's favorites when I was growing up. She would read it to me all the time, just like the grandpa from 'Columbo' in the movie reading it to the 'Wonder Years' boy," her words grow quieter as she seems to focus on the memory they stir. "And other than the hair growing out of your ears, I'd say your resemblance to Miracle Max isn't that deep," she jokes, seemingly changing the subject. I let her, sensing the memories conjured by the reference are bittersweet.

"You're full of a lot of obscure references to some pretty 'ancient' media for someone who claims to only be 42," I joke.

"Hmm, you're probably right, but my parents were both professors who specialized in weaving classical studies with English literature and modern media. Those kind of references were wound around dinner table conversations at my house, so I think of it as pretty normal," she laughs. I'm further intrigued.

We've arrived in the parking area, and there is still a sea of carts, as the bars are all still hopping. I glance at my watch and it isn't quite 10.

"Do you remember which cart is your dad's?" I ask. Noting that while there are a large number of highly customized rides, most of them are fairly generic. But almost all of them have some form of banner, or flag, or other adornments to distinguish them. And yes, many of them are sporting loofahs. And I've heard the rumors about their meaning, but the rainbow of colors presented suggests maybe those are exaggerated. Although, as I discovered in my research, the spectrum of possibilities in the "lifestyle" community is pretty broad.

"It's the one over there with all the Wisconsin Badger logos," she says. I run through the seemingly useless trivia that my mind stores to try to recall their logo. It isn't one of much consideration for SEC fans like myself.

Then it hits me, "that's the accent I was trying to place. I was thinking 'Upper Midwestern' but hadn't nailed it down because it seems equally blurred with something else? I'm guessing you haven't lived there in a while?"

She laughs, blushing a bit, "You betcha, you can take the girl out of the dairy farm, but you can't take the dairy farm out of the girl." She hams it up, pulling the accent from muscle memory and laying it on thick. I find it endearing.

"But you're right, I haven't lived there since I left for college." We've reached the cart. It was VERY easy to find. It isn't the tackiest of the carts in the lot by far, but it leaves no doubt as to the owners' allegiances. I've started it up. The chirping beep when I put it in reverse breaks the relative silence of the lot, as I pull out to the cart path to make our way the few blocks to the hotel. I note a far more distinct chill in the air as the wind rushes through the open sides. Margaret is clearly cold, and I motion for her to move in closer on the bench seat to share my warmth. The cart drives easily one-handed, so I wrap her with my right arm, and she melts into me yet again. I stroke her arm as her head leans into my shoulder, and her shivering subsides.

"Where did you go to school?" I ask, distracting her.

"Alabama," she responds. My eyebrow raises, and she interprets it as a question, "I was on a scholarship, a gymnastics scholarship."

"Wow, that's great. You've certainly got the body for it." I don't even pretend to be embarrassed about the cheesiness of the line, and her compact frame definitely conceals the power needed for the sport. She still has the appearance of an athlete, only softened slightly by the alluring curves of maturity. Before I get too lost in revery and begin openly ogling her, I continue, "I'm going to go out on a limb and guess you've stayed around there since?"

She looks surprised, "how could you know that?"

I respond, "You've got a pretty good Southern accent over your base. I mean you aren't dropping a lot of y'alls or y'all alls, but you've got enough of a little drawl to suggest long term exposure. But your Wisconsin still comes through a little in some of your words; it's actually a pretty cute combination. And I'm not a linguist, I just play one on TV."

She giggles a bit and blushes, "Well, you're clearly from 'the South' based on YOUR accent, but it isn't as heavy as the Alabama locals I'm used to. Is yours what would be considered a 'Florida' accent?"

"Yeah, mine is definitely a spin on Florida Southern. Our accent is kind of mongrelized from all the transplants. I was born and raised here, but my dad is from Jersey and my mom from Boston," I laugh. "Neither has a thick accent from where they were born, but they both have tells, like yours. I also spent eight years in Birmingham, and my company is headquartered there, but I work with people throughout the South, so I've spent decades learning the nuances of the many variants of the 'drawl.'"

"No shit," she says, "when and where were you in Birmingham?"

"I moved there for my first marriage; she was a native. We rented in Hoover then bought a house in Vestavia Hills. Lived there a few years with her, then a few after she left me. Sold it to move to Asheville for a bit. Do you live in Birmingham?"

"Yes, Vestavia Hills," she laughs, a bit wide-eyed with surprise at the coincidence, "I bought a house there as part of the divorce; I didn't want to be in Mountain Brook anymore." We've arrived at the hotel with an understanding that we have much more in common than we thought five minutes before. I park in the area designated for carts. I kill the engine and hand the keys to her; she accepts with a slight raise of an eyebrow, putting them in her pocket.