[ WP ] One night after drinking perhaps too much you decide to call one of those `` call xxx for a good time '' phone numbers to see what would happen . A good time DID ensue , but not in the way you would 've expected . What happened ?

Replete, and feeling a contentment that spread to my toes, I stretched languorously, and leant back in my chair at the dining table. The kitchen was warm in a way I had not known before, and I wasn ’ t sure I could take the smile from my face any time soon. I felt wonderful. 
 
 “ Can I get you more coffee, Paul? ” 
 
 Turning my beatific smile toward Leonie, I simply shook my head, basking in the glory of her beautiful answering smile. 
 
 I could hear the morning greetings of dozens of birds in the garden, their cheerful twittering coming in the open window. And through the window, through the dancing lacy curtains, the soft colour of the dawn sky. 
 
 How long had it been since I had been up at dawn and sober and so happy? Awake at dawn, easy. Sober? Not likely, and happy? Well, forget it. Not worth trying to remember. 
 
 Leonie rose and took our plates and mugs away, and I felt relaxed enough to just sit and watch as she rinsed and stacked the crockery, humming quietly to herself as she worked. 
 
 I marvelled at the strange turn of events of the night. Who would have thought that a drunken call of a phone sex line would have turned out this way? I chuckled now as I thought about that first few moments on the line. 
 
 “ Tell me what you want to do with me, ” the breathy voice on the phone had said, but something had made me pause. This was a voice I knew! “ Or should I tell you what I want to do with you? ” 
 
 “ Um… Is this… Is this Leonie? ” I had asked, nervous and feeling like a complete twat. Nobody would own up anyway, and if she DID, then, that ’ d mean I ’ D have to own up to making this xxx call! Very stupid, really. 
 
 “ Who is this? ” she instantly demanded, all traces of sex gone from her voice. 
 
 “ Er, it ’ s Paul. ” 
 
 “ Paul? ” I could see her jaw dropping as if she were in the room with me. “ My… next door neighbour, Paul? ” 
 
 “ Yeah. ” 
 
 “ Um… ” 
 
 “ Yeah… ” 
 
 “ So. Paul. You ’ re drunk, huh? ” 
 
 “ Yeah. And Leonie. You ’ re a phone sex worker, huh? ” 
 
 “ Yeah. ” 
 
 And then, somehow, miraculously, the woman had hung up the phone ( thank god because those calls cost a fortune! ) and had turned up on his doorstep in a cute green dress, with an old-fashioned picnic basket slung over her arm. And on her glowing face, a smile worth dying for. 
 
 Her advertisement had promised a good time, but the night had turned into not only a good time, but the best night of my life. Sprawling on the rug before the fire, playing silly card games I hadn ’ t played since I was a kid, eating the wonderful things she baked herself, talking and talking and talking. 
 
 Finally being forced by hunger from the bubble we had created, we ’ d come into the kitchen, where again, she cooked. A wonderful breakfast of pancakes and fruit and then a steaming pot of freshly ground and brewed coffee; the kitchen came to life, using this vision for a beating heart. 
 
 I brought myself back to the present moment and stared at the woman I had seen in the yard beside mine for years, never thinking much of. She was merely my neighbour, and I merely a self-absorbed twat. Quite often a drunk twat. I shook my head, smiling, beaming! 
 
 What a woman! What a night! 

