BackdraftMature

Mujcinovic Nezir.   That was his name.  I know this because I could not stop thinking of him.  His eyes had blazed through my robe burrowing into my heaving bosom, 

You may have already guessed that Peter Gerrard had recounted the numerous messages Mavis had left regarding her suspicion of a natural gas leak.  Peter was, understandably broken up recanting this tale to the police.  He would spent the rest of his natural life wishing he had been there only moments sooner.    Had I not been relieving an enormous sigh of relief, I may have been touched by the big man's despair.

But  Mujcinovic Nezir.  It was pronounced Muj-ick-novick. I know this because I have asked him.  I've discovered that a woman in her mid forties has different longings than women half her age.  Deeper longings.  Mine were more maturely gown, giving that I had spent the last seven or so years viewed as nothing more sensuous than the hardwood flooring Walter once sold..  

Days spent futhering my own advances, picturing the man who had embraced my feigned anxiety had me on the telephone one August morning.  My libido had overcome me with it's dramatized recollection of this blonde Adonis holding me in his rubbery uniform.

Whoever answered the phone had no idea that the woman they had spoken to had never felt this vulnerable in this years.  This only made my case more authentic as I described this man with such detail that I surprised even myself.  Although, the conversation was largely a blur, I remember the firestation being identified Local 613.  The dispatcher knew exactly who I was describing and asked me to hold the line.  My heart sank.  I was expecting to leave a message, and now equipped with the agitated butterflies of a schoolgirl's crush I waited on the line.

"Mujcinovic Nezir speaking, how may I assist you?"

Those words have embossed themselves into my memory.  A thick eastern european accent reminded me of a war movie.  Warmth spread from my lungs to my loins and my first instinct was to hang up, holding those words as a personal vibration device.  Instead, I gushed cliché about how he probably  didn't remember me amongst so many that wanted to offer him thanks.   He said he did remember and his voice resonated with anticipation.  My courage emboldenned, I coyly insisted that what I was offering was probably not within his professional boundaries. 

"That would be fine", he replied in a voice so proffesionally curt as to intentionally overshadow his instinct that he would be staying for more than dinner.

 

 

The End

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