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Authors: Sherri Wood Emmons
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tickle the fur between her legs.
“There’s my little kitten,” he murmured, pulling her back down onto the bed. He rolled over on top of her, burying his face between her breasts, his hand still between her legs.
Bryn closed her eyes tightly. She felt sick and puffy and tired. She felt like glass. She wrapped her hand around his head, playing absently with the hair at the nape of his neck. Just don’t get sick, she told herself.
“What’s wrong, baby?” he asked, raising his head to stare at her face. “You’re so stiff.”
“I’m just kind of tense, I guess.”
“Well,” he said, rolling onto his back, “let’s just make this easy, then.”
He walked into the living room and returned with a joint. “Come on, Bryn. Loosen up and let’s have some fun.”
A wave of nausea rolled through her and she bolted from the bed. She slammed the bathroom door behind her and knelt before the toilet.
“Bryn?” Paul’s voice was muffled. “You okay?”
“No,” she called back. “I’m sick.”
She threw up the little she’d eaten at dinner, then leaned back against the wall, feeling tears well up in her eyes. When her stomach had finally settled, she rose cautiously and walked back to the bedroom, where Paul lay on the bed, snoring loudly.
She sighed and pulled a blanket from the bed to sleep on the couch.
9
C orrie sat at her desk, her head between her hands, staring blankly at the pages laid out before her. The winter issue was always so crowded. Christmas articles, alumni news, items put off from earlier issues that she wanted to run this year. And there were so many alumni pieces this time. She shook her head. Concentrate, she said to herself sharply. Just concentrate on this.
Her mind would not obey. Even during Mass earlier that morning, her mind had wandered. Usually, early Mass grounded her. The candles, the incense, the rosary, they calmed her like nothing else, but not today.
Like I can unplan an issue, just because he asks me to. Of course, his work is always the most important thing in the world, and mine is just . . . fluff.
She looked at the tentative layout before her. A piece on a student trip to Bethlehem. An opinion piece on religious displays on government property. A profile of a retired alum who worked as a department store Santa, complete with photos of the old guy with kids on his knees. The usual short blurbs about faculty publications and alumni awards. Class notes. Reunion news. Corrie was holding a page for the class photo from her reunion. She hadn’t gotten the file from the photographer yet. She’d asked for an extra copy of the photo to keep.
Yesterday, she’d been pleased with the way the issue was shaping up. Today, it looked like crap.
Fluff, she said silently. Fluff and mistletoe .
She put out a good magazine. The administration loved it. The Current consistently brought in contributions to the alumni fund. She did a good job.
So Daniel comes to town and it’s all just fluff? Some things never change.
She stood abruptly, knocking pages onto the floor.
“Kenetha,” she called. “Can you bring in the winter folder?”
Her assistant walked in, carrying a green folder bulging with papers and photos. She took one look at Corrie’s face and said, “Don’t even say it. Don’t even tell me you’re making changes. I am taking a vacation this month. I am going to Tampa with Jared. I am not missing another vacation.”
Corrie laughed. “Just a little change,” she said soothingly. “Just one little change.”
Kenetha sighed, dropped the folder onto Corrie’s desk, and lowered herself into a chair. “That’s what you always say.”
“This time I mean it. We’re just going to change the alumni profile.”
“You’re not using the old guy playing Santa? That’s such a nice piece. And you already paid the writer and the photographer.”
“I know, I know.” Corrie nodded, sitting on the edge of the desk. “But it just feels too fluffy. We need a
“There’s my little kitten,” he murmured, pulling her back down onto the bed. He rolled over on top of her, burying his face between her breasts, his hand still between her legs.
Bryn closed her eyes tightly. She felt sick and puffy and tired. She felt like glass. She wrapped her hand around his head, playing absently with the hair at the nape of his neck. Just don’t get sick, she told herself.
“What’s wrong, baby?” he asked, raising his head to stare at her face. “You’re so stiff.”
“I’m just kind of tense, I guess.”
“Well,” he said, rolling onto his back, “let’s just make this easy, then.”
He walked into the living room and returned with a joint. “Come on, Bryn. Loosen up and let’s have some fun.”
A wave of nausea rolled through her and she bolted from the bed. She slammed the bathroom door behind her and knelt before the toilet.
“Bryn?” Paul’s voice was muffled. “You okay?”
“No,” she called back. “I’m sick.”
She threw up the little she’d eaten at dinner, then leaned back against the wall, feeling tears well up in her eyes. When her stomach had finally settled, she rose cautiously and walked back to the bedroom, where Paul lay on the bed, snoring loudly.
She sighed and pulled a blanket from the bed to sleep on the couch.
9
C orrie sat at her desk, her head between her hands, staring blankly at the pages laid out before her. The winter issue was always so crowded. Christmas articles, alumni news, items put off from earlier issues that she wanted to run this year. And there were so many alumni pieces this time. She shook her head. Concentrate, she said to herself sharply. Just concentrate on this.
Her mind would not obey. Even during Mass earlier that morning, her mind had wandered. Usually, early Mass grounded her. The candles, the incense, the rosary, they calmed her like nothing else, but not today.
Like I can unplan an issue, just because he asks me to. Of course, his work is always the most important thing in the world, and mine is just . . . fluff.
She looked at the tentative layout before her. A piece on a student trip to Bethlehem. An opinion piece on religious displays on government property. A profile of a retired alum who worked as a department store Santa, complete with photos of the old guy with kids on his knees. The usual short blurbs about faculty publications and alumni awards. Class notes. Reunion news. Corrie was holding a page for the class photo from her reunion. She hadn’t gotten the file from the photographer yet. She’d asked for an extra copy of the photo to keep.
Yesterday, she’d been pleased with the way the issue was shaping up. Today, it looked like crap.
Fluff, she said silently. Fluff and mistletoe .
She put out a good magazine. The administration loved it. The Current consistently brought in contributions to the alumni fund. She did a good job.
So Daniel comes to town and it’s all just fluff? Some things never change.
She stood abruptly, knocking pages onto the floor.
“Kenetha,” she called. “Can you bring in the winter folder?”
Her assistant walked in, carrying a green folder bulging with papers and photos. She took one look at Corrie’s face and said, “Don’t even say it. Don’t even tell me you’re making changes. I am taking a vacation this month. I am going to Tampa with Jared. I am not missing another vacation.”
Corrie laughed. “Just a little change,” she said soothingly. “Just one little change.”
Kenetha sighed, dropped the folder onto Corrie’s desk, and lowered herself into a chair. “That’s what you always say.”
“This time I mean it. We’re just going to change the alumni profile.”
“You’re not using the old guy playing Santa? That’s such a nice piece. And you already paid the writer and the photographer.”
“I know, I know.” Corrie nodded, sitting on the edge of the desk. “But it just feels too fluffy. We need a
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