He came to the doorway in a long-sleeved shirt and red jockey shorts, startling apparel for the distinguished conductor I knew. He drew me by the hand to the bed, covers tangled, books and papers strewn over the corner, and pulled me down next to him, saying, "Keep me warm, Sarah." I spooned against his back, wondering why he didn't use the covers, why he wanted me instead. He smiled and kissed my lips, soft pecking kisses, over and over and I wanted more than this closed-mouthed meeting. I moved from the bed, turned, and he was standing with his shirt open.

When I woke from the dream in the pale fog of morning I thought of Richard. Scenes replayed in my head, vague recollections now, incomplete. But enough to stimulate my fantasies. I couldn't help wondering if he had hair on his chest, a quality I hadn't questioned prior to the dream. Now it took center court, along with trying to recall the color of his eyes, the shape of his fingers, the taste and feel of his mouth.

I imagined my interview with him three days from now at his house. His property, his belongings, the necessary setting for a full understanding of the inner man. I pictured us sitting across an ebony table from each other, a large impressionist watercolor on the wall behind him, a celadon vase with white orchids. Sedate furnishings for the cultured mind.

I gazed at his high forehead, the mildly receding hairline giving way to sable waves, eyes sheltered beneath dark brows. Olive green eyes with gold flecks. Narrow nose flaring slightly at the tip. A mouth from a Raphael painting. I remembered those soft kisses.

"I… I want… you have the most…" Awkward words in no way describing my driving need to touch, to feel.

He leaned back in his chair, studying me. His eyes darkened and I stepped into the cool dampness of an awakening forest.

"When a woman looks at a man that way," he said, "she should know what she's doing. Would you like some wine?" He exited the room. I used the break to collect myself, striving for the professionalism already ruined.

He set a glass of Pinot Noir before me and sat down, cradling the sides of his glass in his palms, stroking the stem with his fingers. Long, slender fingers with well-kept nails. I wanted them on me.

"Whenever you're ready," he said.

I nodded and opened my notebook. The questions were there, recorded several days ago, in order from education and orchestra training to favorite composers and personal anecdotes. All I had to do was go down the list. Instead, I said, "May I see your hands?"

He placed them on the table. "What are you looking for?"

They were smaller than expected, not much larger than my own. "I'm not sure," I said. A half lie. A partial truth. Was one more accurate than the other? I was seeking sensation rather than measurement.

I examined the length of each finger, the webbing in between, the creases around the knuckles, how the fingers turned in, all this scientific foreplay while my mind screamed touch him, touch him and my skin tingled in anticipation. I reached forward and turned his left hand over, palm up, the fingers separating and curling inward. My eyes fixed on the fleshy pad of his thumb, the blue network of veins crossing the tendons below the wrist. I drew my finger across his palm and his fingers curled over mine.

My breath lodged in my throat, dry, dusty prickles. Our eyes met, the proverbial prelude to all romantic scenes.

He drained his glass and withdrew his hand, reaching behind him to turn on the stereo. I heard the soft strains of the Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto.

"Both hands are important," he said. "The right for marking tempo." He took my pencil and raised his arm in the air, counting down-left-right-up. I imagined his baton, the orchestra paying close attention. He continued, "And the left for expression." His left hand pushed against the air, palm down. The orchestra played softer. Then he circled the table and pulled me to my feet. "Now you."

He stood behind me, his hands on mine. The right hand marked a moderate four-count beat while the left moved upward as the volume increased. His body pressed against me, his breath in my ear, the movement of his arms keeping me in perfect unison. The violins breathed a muted sigh, then began a gentle climb, growing, merging with the deeper murmur of the cellos and basses. The woodwinds joined in and as the music swelled, so did my desire.

His hands moved to my shoulders. "Now the soloist," he said, and I nodded to the left to cue the violinist. Sweet and high, the notes played, haunting me with their beauty as Richard's touch haunted my body. "Now the strings," he whispered. His fingers dug in, urging me onward. "Don’t let them rush. Dolce. A brief crescendo, then soft. And, pause."

He stopped and stepped back.

My hands fumbled. I felt a chill and a wash of embarrassment. "I think I…"

He turned me to face him. "No. You don’t have time to think. You have to know, here," he tapped my forehead, "and here," he put his hand over my heart, his fingers resting on my breast.

Saliva slid down my windpipe. I coughed and tried to interpret the swirl of flecks in his eyes.

"Did you have questions?" His hand left my chest.

The prerecorded notes eluded my mind. "Have you ever had an affair?" His closeness derailed my thoughts. But his answer didn't matter. I was the married person in this equation.

"Yes." He stepped closer. "Have you?"

Suddenly his answer did matter. I hadn't expected a positive response. I hesitated.

Cut! cried the little voice in my head. This was a fantasy. No one cared about affairs or happy endings. I fast forwarded.

He leaned toward me. "Just remember you asked for this," he said, and touched his mouth to mine. Soft at first, the merest pressure of his lips, and I did my best to relax and be in the moment, savoring, trying not to want more, yet I wanted more. Much more. I realized I still didn't know about the hair on his chest and I'd wanted to know before I kissed him, then his mouth left mine.

Our eyes met, once again, and I swear this time they were molten yellow with just a hint of green. Then he wrapped his hand around the back of my neck, fingers wedged in my hair, and his mouth came down again, hot, wet, and I tasted the wine on his breath, his tongue, a silky blend of earth and vanilla and strawberry mixed with the deeper scent of him.

My hands gripped his shoulders, crushing linen into muscle. Curving bulges beneath his shirt that came as a surprise. I'd thought he would be more on the slender side, but there was nothing frail beneath my hands. All that raising and swinging of his arms, I supposed. If his back felt that good… I pushed away, far enough to undo the buttons of his shirt, intent on parting material, creamy linen folding back over the ridge of collar bone, the smooth expanse of…

A motorcycle roared by.

I emitted a half-groan, half-sigh, then laughed at my folly. Fantasies were a waste of energy. I would never feel his arms around me or his lips on mine or, God help me, unbutton his shirt and find out whether he was hairy or hairless. I should be using my time to prepare for the real interview, sans romantic intrigue. After all, I was a happily married woman. And Richard, well, he could certainly find an attractive, available woman, if he so desired.

Someone other than me.

Three days later, I drove to his house for the interview. Armed with my trusty notebook and a tape recorder, I climbed the gray stone steps to his colonial-style house. After a knock on the heavy wood door, I waited with nervous anticipation, determined to be polite, yet interested, and above all, professional.

At last the door opened. "Sarah," he said with a friendly smile. "Come in."

And I stood on his porch, unmoving, my eyes fixed on his chest. His shirt was open.

~Nanette Littlestone