After the divorce, my life dragged from day to day. I was not emotionally attached to anyone, and I didn’t look to become romantically involved. A friendly relationship had been the extent. Although I’d befriended Wilson Burton, he expected more. In my mindset, our friendship wouldn’t get any deeper. I hadn’t been into him like that. Wilson was someone I’d seen around at work. He’d always seemed polite and caring about others. Sure, he had decent traits, but we were just friends. This had been what I’d hoped to achieve with Wilson —a 100 percent Platonic relationship. Even so, I’d liked the fact he found me appealing; I had needed to feel wanted since the divorce. Wilson was twice my age and divorced. At least, that’s what he’d attested.
The crinkled up paper he pulled from his pocket and slipped into my hand contained his cell and home phone numbers. He was average height, with a thick, trimmed, black mustache. He had a round face and wore brown, square-framed eyeglasses. When he finally approached me, I made it clear that we’d remain nothing more than friends. He had a speech impediment— he was a stutterer. Of course, when he’d strutted up in his brown and gray checkered jacket accented with that brown, wide-collared shirt, his whole outfit gave me a quick flashback: been there, done that. Remember, I’d once married a man who wore a similar getup.
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