Yale, he
recognized. Tan legs shined; the slopes of their breasts visible in
their gowns seemed to flash at him. What flashed next was the image
of them nearly naked as they lay hidden on the hillock; but he
pulled away, just as some drunk yelled, “The human self is the only
thing that can be known and therefore verified!” and someone
responded “Bullshit! There is no objective basis for truth!”
This is some weird
party, Fanshawe thought. Finally, he broke out of the
crowd under the bar transom, almost desperate now to flee the
sudden tide of raucous drinkers. He turned toward the elevator, but
before he could stride away—
“Wha—”
A hand grabbed his arm with some insistence;
he turned around to see that Abbie had trotted after him. Her face
was beaming as more drunk professors shouted objections behind her.
“I’ll be right there!” she yelled to them, then turned back to
Fanshawe. “You didn’t give me time to finish before all those old
eggheads barged in. Day after tomorrow, I get off at seven. There’s
a great Thai place on the next block.”
Fanshawe was subtly rocked. She hadn’t
turned him down after all. “That’s great. Seven o’clock it is, day
after tomorrow.”
“So it’s a date. Just meet me here.”
“Sure thing, Abbie, but I hope I see you
before then.”
“So do I,” she said, then seemed surprised
she’d said it so abruptly. “But where are you going now?”
“It’s late; I’m bushed from the long drive.
And after four Witch-Blood shooters? I definitely need to go
to bed.”
Her grin amplified. “Not going to the
graveyard?”
The graveyard… “At night? Are you
kidding?”
From the bar, the professors were banging
their fists on the bartop, yelling “Barkeep! Barkeep! Barkeep!” in
unison.
“You better get back in there,” he advised.
“I think the professors are about to riot.”
“Good idea.” Her hand slid down his arm, an
inconsequential contact, yet Fanshawe felt electric. “See ya! Oh,
and remind me to tell you about the Gazing Ball.”
“The what?”
But Abbie was already bulling her way back
into the bar. The professors began to applaud.
I hope she’s got earplugs, Fanshawe
regarded. And…what did she say? Gazing Ball? But as he
waited at the elevator, he realized he was brimming; she’d agreed
to go out with him. The elevator took him up, and he saw his own
smile warped in the stainless steel siding.
What’s the big deal about a financial
mogul going on a date? he asked himself, but he knew, and he
knew what Dr. Tilton might say. The situation was unique because it
represented his re-emergence into “the regulated societal
stream”—which was her way of referring to the everyday, normal
world. For most of his adult life, exceptionally attractive women
had made themselves all too available, with sexual implications all
too apparent. Fanshawe had never been interested; they did not
exist at the other end of a telescope or pair of binoculars;
therefore, the were un exciting. Even in the year since his
marriage had detonated, he had not been interested. Tilton’s
right. Now that I’ve removed myself from the “purveying
environment” I WANT to go out with a woman, not lust after her
through a window. True, he’d felt the pangs during his walk
through town, but since he’d been in Abbie’s presence at the bar,
those old demons had barely reared their heads.
Any other time, he’d be itching to go on a
“peep.”
Maybe I really am getting cured…
Half-tipsy, he walked down his hall which
stood in total silence. The elegant tulip-shaped lamps branched out
from the flower-papered walls; they looked a hundred years old, and
added to the inn’s rich authenticity. He frowned when he reached
into his pocket for his card-key and found a twenty-dollar bill.
Unbeknownst to him, Abbie had slipped his tip money back, a
pick-pocket in reverse. Classy, he thought.
He went to bed and fell asleep instantly,
something that hadn’t
recognized. Tan legs shined; the slopes of their breasts visible in
their gowns seemed to flash at him. What flashed next was the image
of them nearly naked as they lay hidden on the hillock; but he
pulled away, just as some drunk yelled, “The human self is the only
thing that can be known and therefore verified!” and someone
responded “Bullshit! There is no objective basis for truth!”
This is some weird
party, Fanshawe thought. Finally, he broke out of the
crowd under the bar transom, almost desperate now to flee the
sudden tide of raucous drinkers. He turned toward the elevator, but
before he could stride away—
“Wha—”
A hand grabbed his arm with some insistence;
he turned around to see that Abbie had trotted after him. Her face
was beaming as more drunk professors shouted objections behind her.
“I’ll be right there!” she yelled to them, then turned back to
Fanshawe. “You didn’t give me time to finish before all those old
eggheads barged in. Day after tomorrow, I get off at seven. There’s
a great Thai place on the next block.”
Fanshawe was subtly rocked. She hadn’t
turned him down after all. “That’s great. Seven o’clock it is, day
after tomorrow.”
“So it’s a date. Just meet me here.”
“Sure thing, Abbie, but I hope I see you
before then.”
“So do I,” she said, then seemed surprised
she’d said it so abruptly. “But where are you going now?”
“It’s late; I’m bushed from the long drive.
And after four Witch-Blood shooters? I definitely need to go
to bed.”
Her grin amplified. “Not going to the
graveyard?”
The graveyard… “At night? Are you
kidding?”
From the bar, the professors were banging
their fists on the bartop, yelling “Barkeep! Barkeep! Barkeep!” in
unison.
“You better get back in there,” he advised.
“I think the professors are about to riot.”
“Good idea.” Her hand slid down his arm, an
inconsequential contact, yet Fanshawe felt electric. “See ya! Oh,
and remind me to tell you about the Gazing Ball.”
“The what?”
But Abbie was already bulling her way back
into the bar. The professors began to applaud.
I hope she’s got earplugs, Fanshawe
regarded. And…what did she say? Gazing Ball? But as he
waited at the elevator, he realized he was brimming; she’d agreed
to go out with him. The elevator took him up, and he saw his own
smile warped in the stainless steel siding.
What’s the big deal about a financial
mogul going on a date? he asked himself, but he knew, and he
knew what Dr. Tilton might say. The situation was unique because it
represented his re-emergence into “the regulated societal
stream”—which was her way of referring to the everyday, normal
world. For most of his adult life, exceptionally attractive women
had made themselves all too available, with sexual implications all
too apparent. Fanshawe had never been interested; they did not
exist at the other end of a telescope or pair of binoculars;
therefore, the were un exciting. Even in the year since his
marriage had detonated, he had not been interested. Tilton’s
right. Now that I’ve removed myself from the “purveying
environment” I WANT to go out with a woman, not lust after her
through a window. True, he’d felt the pangs during his walk
through town, but since he’d been in Abbie’s presence at the bar,
those old demons had barely reared their heads.
Any other time, he’d be itching to go on a
“peep.”
Maybe I really am getting cured…
Half-tipsy, he walked down his hall which
stood in total silence. The elegant tulip-shaped lamps branched out
from the flower-papered walls; they looked a hundred years old, and
added to the inn’s rich authenticity. He frowned when he reached
into his pocket for his card-key and found a twenty-dollar bill.
Unbeknownst to him, Abbie had slipped his tip money back, a
pick-pocket in reverse. Classy, he thought.
He went to bed and fell asleep instantly,
something that hadn’t
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