When I turned sixteen, my parents let me watch them play. Occasionally, I got a chance to sit in for a few hands, while one of the men took a break to make drinks or go to the bathroom. I was an apt pupil and picked the game up quickly. Although my bidding was a bit quirky, I discovered I had a natural aptitude for playing the hand and enjoyed pulling off a tough bid with a nifty finesse. One of the moms, Etta, was very complimentary of my play and frequently encouraged her husband to let me sit in for him–often sending him off to refresh her drink so she could play with me. Etta was quite a good player herself, was patient with my bidding mistakes and always had a tip or two–or a compliment–after I played a bid we had won. ‘You can play with me anytime,’ she often declared, as I left the chair so her husband could rejoin the game. Etta was about 5′ 4′ and a very foxy, short-haired, ‘dirty’ blonde package with a slender but curvaceous figure and a drop-dead gorgeous ass. Picture. ’ Tom twirled his index finger in the coarse hair and felt her abdomen tighten. ‘Why?’ ‘I don’t know, I shouldn’t be. You deserve it. Go ahead and take it.’ ‘Take it? I don’t want to take it. I thought you wanted to give it.’ This whole scene was getting a little weird. Tom slipped the hand out and patted her hip. ‘I’m just trying to figure out what you want from me. After last night, I thought you’d like me to return the favor.’ He gathered his legs under him to stand. ‘If you’re not interested, stop teasing me.’ ‘No, wait.’ Willow grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down. Tom wondered if her hesitant and modest behavior might be just another well-rehearsed fictional character, but the tug on his heart felt just as real as the quirky tug on her braid. Tears welled up in her eyes, ready to spill over. They shimmered like the stream. ‘What’s the matter?’ Upset and unable to look at his face, Willow stared at his hand, still clutched in hers. She traced over his knuckles, between.
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