This year found me at the work party chatting up a colleague who left years ago to move closer to his parents. He's (biologically) old enough to be my father. He's married. But the cadence of his voice and the twinkle in his eye melts me into a puddle by the time the open bar begins to shut down. He grabs me by my waist and pulls me close to him, asking me why I'm there by myself.
"No date this year?" he asks.
"When do I ever have a date?" I ask him rhetorically, eyes twinkling. He produces an exaggerated pout as I whirl away from him, beer in hand. I smile. We talk about music and television and how much work has sucked in the past year.
But now I'm home, alone, and I can't help but think about the fullness of his lips, the way his hand felt on my hips, and the way he eyed the cleavage visible in my dress. All I wanted was to take him home with me. But now I'm here. Alone. Awesome.