We did it for the first time in a Holiday Inn on Jericho Turnpike.
Like teenagers — but in our 50s — Steven and I “got a room.” When we were young, we worried about our parents catching us. Now, we had our own teenagers to sneak around.
I was working in a preschool program alongside three other single women. During the kids’ naptime, I shared news of Steven’s and my upcoming rendezvous. I hadn’t “rendezvoused” in eight years. That’s when my first husband died in a car accident on his commute home from work. I was about to end that lengthy dry spell with Steven, a dear man I’d met on Match.com.
“What will you wear… to bed?” asked Gladys, a big bossy widow in her 70s who lived with a pet rabbit named George.
“I usually sleep in sweats,” I told her.