Sexy 60-year-old lady teaches willing 18-year-old.
He sighed, thinking that this was the point where he was about to 'Get Told' or at the least, see what she thought very clearly on her face, "I know. I'm an asshole." He looked at her, "Sorry."
"Nope," she grinned, "not really. Sounds to me like you've still got your set of original equipment. Congratulations. You're getting to be a rare breed. And as long as we're shooting the breeze here, I can say that I can admire that. By the way, I can handle myself."
He looked at her a little appraisingly, "I'm kind of getting that from you."
"Uh-huh," she smiled as she looked at her cup for a moment. She took a sip and then looked at him. "I put my old man in the hospital because he hit me. The next time that I saw him was the day that he died."
She punctuated the statement in the best way that she could think of, by sipping her coffee as though her admission had been something of an everyday thing at her house.
"What happened?" he asked, "Didja forget to take out the trash?"
She spit out her mouthful of coffee to keep from choking on it and she laughed."Hell no," she chuckled a little once she had it together again, "He told me that I had to quit my job and my gym membership so that I could raise his brats and be chained to the washing machine for him." She pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of her knapsack and she offered him one. He accepted and she lit it for him before lighting one for herself. He looked thoughtful for a moment.
He looked at her again, the lean build on her beginning to make a little sense to him now. He liked the way that her slightly puffy ponytail hung out of the back of her ball cap like the long tail of some kind of animal.
He looked a little serious as he leaned over just a bit. "What did you tell him?"
She shrugged, "I told him to piss up a rope, why?"
"And then he hit you?" He asked it as though he was deadly serious now.
"Uh-huh." She slurped her coffee again, careful now to swallow if he looked as though he was about to say something.
He nodded, "Good for you." He took a drag of the smoke and let it out, "Fuck him if he can't take a joke." He turned to her, "If it's not too forward of me. Ma'am, May I please have your name?"
She held out her hand, "Savannah Smith, since we're so suddenly formal. What's yours, sir, if I may be so bold?"
He shook her hand and grinned at her, "I think that you're a remarkable woman, Savannah. I'm pleased to meet you. My name is Hunter. Hunter Kurtz, though it has happened once or twice that I've embarrassed myself by announcing it while being rather drunk at a bar."
"Really?" she said, liking his first name, at least, "and how is that, Hunter?"
"Well, "he smirked, "A little too much good whiskey, and I made a Spoonerism out of it at the top of my lungs."
"Yup," he said into the depths of his take-out cup, "That's when you accidentally swap the first letters of two words in a sentence and get your mords wixed up."
Savannah thought about it and she began to laugh. She couldn't get the image of it out of her head.
"Oh you're good," she said, wiping the tears of her laughter from her eyes after a minute.
Farah awoke to find herself warm and comfortable, wrapped in the comforter. She looked around and heard the soft crackle of the fire pit. A good look told her that he'd brought the fire back to life and had added a little wood for her to be comfortable, but not overheated. She noticed the daylight through the drapes and wondered what time it was.
Then she noted that she was alone, and wondered a little about that until she noticed that if she took the time for it, with a little thought, she could actually feel that he was still here in the house.