The amber liquid from Monica’s glass swirled as she tilted it, the ice cubes clinking against the sides. I watched her, this woman who had been my wife for thirty years and now sat across from me in this dimly lit cigar bar, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. The air was thick with the scent of tobacco and aged whiskey, a perfect backdrop to the tension that had been building between us since we’d decided to meet tonight.

“You remember how much I love your smell, don’t you?” Monica asked, her voice low and husky, carrying across the small space between us.

I nodded, feeling a familiar stir in my groin. Even after all these years, her words could still make my cock twitch with anticipation. “I remember everything about you, Monica.”

She smiled, a slow, deliberate curve of her lips that promised so much more than words could convey. “Good. Then you remember what I like too.”

The evening progressed with several more drinks, the conversation flowing easily between us despite the decade we’d spent apart. There was a comfort in our familiarity, a knowledge of each other’s bodies and desires that no amount of time could erase. When Monica suggested we head back to her place in Grosse Pointe, I didn’t hesitate.

The drive to her house was filled with charged silence and stolen glances. I kept my eyes on the road, but my mind was elsewhere, remembering the countless nights we’d spent together in this very city. The rain began to fall as we neared her neighborhood, the wipers of my car creating a steady rhythm against the windshield.