It's always the shy ones.
Rosemary was bookish. Most people thought of her as shy. She was friendly, but she didn't socialize a lot. When she did, however, she was fun and excellent company. "I may not go out a lot," she said, "but when I do, I do it all the way." She chuckled a little.
She was an attractive, well-proportioned woman of medium height, with short to mid-length dark blonde hair. It framed her neck and face well. She had no particularly outstanding feature, but all of them were attractive.
We had gone out a few times. Although she was generally reserved, she had dropped a few hints. One night we had gone out to dinner and for dessert, she ordered banana cream pie.
"I like banana cream," she said with a wry smile.
"Apparently," I replied, smiling back knowingly. Rosemary chuckled. She also blushed slightly.
Rosemary would softly touch me on my arm and chest. She liked to fix my hair.
Rosemary liked music. We went to a concert. On one number with a particularly vigorous beat, she leaned over and whispered "I like this rhythm. Nice and strong." She was dancing in her seat, in time to the vigorous rhythm.
She had mentioned in conversation one day that she thought people were mistaken about her shy personality. "I'm named after a spice, after all." She laughed at her own joke, just a little nervously, I thought. "We had a patch of it at our house."
"A bed of rosemary," I replied. She blushed, smiled, and responded.
"You might say that."
This particular evening had been particularly long and it was quite late. I dropped Rosemary off with a kiss. She kissed me vigorously, long and hard. She made a point of rubbing up close to me. I kissed her pretty neck.
"Come on in," she said with a smile.
"Well," I said, kind of vaguely, trying to make it sound like I might not. "It's getting late."