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Authors: Tom Hilpert
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the rhythm of the song. I hadn't experienced anything like this since tenth grade, when Natalie Hensen gave me a dance that fired my adolescent dreams for years afterward.
I tried to push her away, but she tightened her arms. “You're strong,” she said in a little-girl voice. “Please don't hurt me.”
“This isn't appropriate,” I said. For some reason I was having difficulty with my breathing.
“I know, isn't it fun?” She rolled her hips against me, and leaned in, and I could feel all the ways in which men and women are different. At one level, of course I liked it. But at a more fundamental level, it reminded me of my dead wife Robyn, and I felt violated to be so close to the body of another woman whom I barely knew. A second later, I also remembered that she was married , too. I chided myself for not thinking of that first.
Abruptly , she flipped herself around, and backed into me, raising her arms and dancing, pulling my hands down along her sides and hips. I felt incredibly awkward and foolish. I could feel my face burning.
“Jasmine,” I said, stepping back, “This is all wrong , at so many levels.” I could tell that many people in the room were watching us. I'm sure Tony Stone was.
She stepped up and slid her arms over my shoulders again. “Would you fight Tony for me?” she whispered, her lips tickling my ears. She slid her hands down to my butt. I reached back and grabbed them, and mercifully, the song ended.
“I could ditch Tony,” she said. “We could go someplace.”
“We're done here,” I said. “I don't want to see you, except with your husband, in my office.”
Her eyes were unreadable. “You really don’t want to?”
“Want to or not, I won’t,” I said. “You may have just ruined any small hope I had of helping your marriage. No way Tony will talk about anything with me after this.”
Now she looked speculative. She waved her hand. “Oh, I can get Tony to come back, don’t worry.” She gave me another long , thoughtful look, and then walked toward the bar and her husband, glancing back at me once.
My face was red, and I felt like everyone in the room was staring at me. I felt dirty, and had an almost overwhelming desire to go home and take a shower. As I gathered my things to leave, I thought at least one thing was clear: whatever the exact issues were, there was no doubt that the Stones had a deeply troubled marriage.
CHAPTER 15
On Saturday morning , Ethel Ostrand called me up.
“What if I don't have enough money to pay for my funeral?” she asked me.
There are, of course, a number of possible answers to a question like this. Most of them, I consider to be funny, which means they are probably in poor taste. Finally, I settled for a truism.
“Ethel,” I said, “I promise you, you don't need to worry about paying for your funeral.”
I took a sip of coffee. More than one person had observed that I drink a lot of it, and that it may possibly have side effects some day, so I was experimenting with instant coffee, on the theory that I wouldn't like it, and would quit drinking so much. So far , it wasn't working. It just reminded me of camping, and waking up to pleasantly chill mornings in the outdoors and how drinking instant coffee is a really excellent way to begin a new day. Or, in the present case, to continue it. The cat didn’t seem to like it, though. As a rule, I was sharing all my food and drink with him, but coffee hadn’t caught on. All the more for me.
“Do you need anything right now , Ethel?” I asked.
“I need groceries.”
“All right, do you have a list?”
She read a me a grocery list over the phone. There wasn't much to it, but since she lived alone and was not particularly active, I assumed she probably didn't eat that much. Maybe, I thought, I should teach her the finer points of cooking well for the single person. After all, since I'd been single for five years, and she for almost twenty, there was a lot she probably still had
I tried to push her away, but she tightened her arms. “You're strong,” she said in a little-girl voice. “Please don't hurt me.”
“This isn't appropriate,” I said. For some reason I was having difficulty with my breathing.
“I know, isn't it fun?” She rolled her hips against me, and leaned in, and I could feel all the ways in which men and women are different. At one level, of course I liked it. But at a more fundamental level, it reminded me of my dead wife Robyn, and I felt violated to be so close to the body of another woman whom I barely knew. A second later, I also remembered that she was married , too. I chided myself for not thinking of that first.
Abruptly , she flipped herself around, and backed into me, raising her arms and dancing, pulling my hands down along her sides and hips. I felt incredibly awkward and foolish. I could feel my face burning.
“Jasmine,” I said, stepping back, “This is all wrong , at so many levels.” I could tell that many people in the room were watching us. I'm sure Tony Stone was.
She stepped up and slid her arms over my shoulders again. “Would you fight Tony for me?” she whispered, her lips tickling my ears. She slid her hands down to my butt. I reached back and grabbed them, and mercifully, the song ended.
“I could ditch Tony,” she said. “We could go someplace.”
“We're done here,” I said. “I don't want to see you, except with your husband, in my office.”
Her eyes were unreadable. “You really don’t want to?”
“Want to or not, I won’t,” I said. “You may have just ruined any small hope I had of helping your marriage. No way Tony will talk about anything with me after this.”
Now she looked speculative. She waved her hand. “Oh, I can get Tony to come back, don’t worry.” She gave me another long , thoughtful look, and then walked toward the bar and her husband, glancing back at me once.
My face was red, and I felt like everyone in the room was staring at me. I felt dirty, and had an almost overwhelming desire to go home and take a shower. As I gathered my things to leave, I thought at least one thing was clear: whatever the exact issues were, there was no doubt that the Stones had a deeply troubled marriage.
CHAPTER 15
On Saturday morning , Ethel Ostrand called me up.
“What if I don't have enough money to pay for my funeral?” she asked me.
There are, of course, a number of possible answers to a question like this. Most of them, I consider to be funny, which means they are probably in poor taste. Finally, I settled for a truism.
“Ethel,” I said, “I promise you, you don't need to worry about paying for your funeral.”
I took a sip of coffee. More than one person had observed that I drink a lot of it, and that it may possibly have side effects some day, so I was experimenting with instant coffee, on the theory that I wouldn't like it, and would quit drinking so much. So far , it wasn't working. It just reminded me of camping, and waking up to pleasantly chill mornings in the outdoors and how drinking instant coffee is a really excellent way to begin a new day. Or, in the present case, to continue it. The cat didn’t seem to like it, though. As a rule, I was sharing all my food and drink with him, but coffee hadn’t caught on. All the more for me.
“Do you need anything right now , Ethel?” I asked.
“I need groceries.”
“All right, do you have a list?”
She read a me a grocery list over the phone. There wasn't much to it, but since she lived alone and was not particularly active, I assumed she probably didn't eat that much. Maybe, I thought, I should teach her the finer points of cooking well for the single person. After all, since I'd been single for five years, and she for almost twenty, there was a lot she probably still had
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