Like the little brother he’d never had.And two, he no longer just viewed Katy as the amazing mom next door who didn’t talk down to him and paid him to do jobs that needed to be done around the house. He saw her differently now. She was a friend, yes, but she was a woman. A strong, attractive woman. Some innocent flirting happened from time to time. So what if she’s fifteen years older, he thought. No harm done.He found himself admiring her pretty face, trim body, firm breasts, and tight ass. And he always noticed her fingernails. They were always manicured and neatly polished, and regardless of what color she’d chosen for her other seven fingers and her two thumbs, her right pinky was always the same: Bright, fluorescent purple. It stood out like a beacon, and Dillon didn’t know what it meant, but he liked it. He didn’t act on his desires, of course. Why would a thirty-something, semi-married woman with a sick child be interested in an eighteen year old boy? He tried to put her out. Real art, that is. There's a story about it, too. Hell of a story. Maybe tell you sometime ... Now? Take a while, you got time? Well, why not, then. Story I haven't told in ... Lord, I don't know how many years now. I'm over seventy, you know, coming down the home stretch now, haven't told it in ... well, it was back in the 'fifties when it happened, and after I told it a few times I sort of gave up and I haven't said much to anybody since then.Grab a beer, then. OK, get me one anyhow, and whatever you want, it's in the icebox over there. This'll take a little time.Ready now? Well, it all started with a girl. I was third year college and I was all in l-o-o-v-e just like any horny twenty-one-year-old and there it was, summer break looming up and her going out on field work for her damn major. Paleontology, that was—that's like archaeology, except a lot older. Anyhow, all I could think of was keep getting in her pants, and there were volunteer jobs doing the scut work, and what with.
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