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I wasn't happy about that but what's a girl to do? The funny thing about hitting my 50's is that while everything seemed to be in a slow decline, my desire for sex was staging a rebellion. As a young woman, my cravings had a hair trigger on them and, more than a few times, the slightest stray thought of flesh or a glimpse of my own naked body in the mirror would send my straight to the bed to feverishly work out that sudden flame of craving. Since my husband passed away seven years ago, I missed the joy of regular sex but I tried not to think about it, busying myself instead both to forget the pain of his loss and to forget the passion that had left my life.That thought was little comfort against the pulsing between my legs, a pulsing that grew through the evening and was starting to demand release. The bed was calling but that simply wasn't enough. Being honest with myself, it wasn't an orgasm I wanted per se. I wanted attention. I wanted to feel desired and craved. I also couldn't. . I wasn't Aleisha.. (the word .. yet.. echoed dimly in my mind). I stood up, and, taking a deep breath put the anklet down. Even Dr. Franklin, it seemed, did not feel the time was right.At last I was finished. I selected a pair of black open-toed pumps from the closet, grateful that the owner and I wore the same size. That was fortunate, since I knew that my feet were probably a couple of sizes bigger than most girls of my height.I walked to the door and looked out into the hallway. There was no sign of him, but I could hear soft music coming from downstairs, and there had been no music playing when we had arrived.So I went downstairs towards the sound of the music. I didn't recognize it, but it was soft jazz, with a female vocalist.The music led me to a large living room. It was furnished in a masculine sort of way, with dark leather furniture and a glass-topped coffee table. Abstract paintings hung on the walls, and sculptures stood in corners and on the bureau lining.
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