The kitchen light was on. The enchiladas on her plate were steaming and looked wonderful. Evan pulled out the chair for her and she sat down. He filled her glass with champagne. Before taking his seat, he switched off the light.
“Remember our spaghetti dinner?” he asked. “You were wearing your good white blouse and claimed you didn’t want to spill anything on it so you took it off?”
“Evan.”
“You were so lovely in the candlelight. Your golden glowing skin, your dusky nipples.”
“Stop it.”
“Sorry,” he muttered. He lowered his head, cut into an enchilada with his fork, and began to eat.
Alison’s appetite was gone, but she took a bite. She had a hard time swallowing and washed the food down with champagne.
For a while, they both remained silent.
This is lousy, she thought. What was the real harm in what he’d said? They had a wonderful time, that night. It shouldn’t be a crime to remember it, to mention it.
“Good grub,” she said.
He looked up from his plate. “Try some sour cream on it.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” She spooned a large glob of sour cream onto her enchiladas. “It was a good thing, too,” she said, “that I took off my blouse. I slopped all over myself that night.”
She saw Evan smile. “On purpose, I believe.”
“Yeah. I’m not, after all, a slob.”
“No, indeed.”
They returned to eating. Now, the food tasted fine. The cool sour cream added a tangy flavor to the enchiladas. She drank more champagne, and Evan refilled her glass.
“You’re really a terrific cook,” Alison said.
“I have my specialties. One of them is chocolate mousse pie, but I think we should save it for later. Give us time to digest all this.”
“Maybe we should take a walk when we’re done,” Alison suggested.
He said, “Maybe.” He didn’t sound thrilled by the idea. “I’ve got a tape of
“I’d like that,” Alison said. “I haven’t seen it in years.”
“I tought y’might like it, tweet-hot,” he said, flexing his upper lip.
He would turn it on and sit with her on the sofa. Soon, his arms would be around her.
We’ll be right back where we started before Thursday in Bennet Hall, before the ultimatum, before his date with Tracy Morgan, before the flowers and letter.
And maybe that’s not such a bad thing, Alison thought. Why fight it? What’s the point?
But what were the last three days all about if you give in tonight? You won’t have learned anything.
Sure. You’ll have learned that, no matter what, it all comes down to fucking.
It shouldn’t have to be that way, damn it.
She pushed her fork under the small portion that remained of her dinner.
Running out of time, kiddo.
She chewed. She swallowed. She drank the rest of her champagne.
Evan lifted the bottle. “Polish it off?”
“No thanks.”
He emptied the bottle into his glass and quickly drank the last of the champagne.
“I could use some coffee, if you have some.”
“Sure, no problem.”
Evan carried two mugs of coffee into the living room and set them on the table in front of the sofa. Then he crouched and slipped his tape of
He’s pretty polluted, she thought.
He walked carefully into the kitchen. While he was gone, Alison pushed herself off the sofa and turned on a lamp. As the lamp came on, the kitchen went dark.
She was seated again by the time he wandered in. He had a loose-jointed, swaying walk. He had a bottle of whiskey in one hand, a can of whipped cream in the other. “How about Irish coffee?” he asked, and dropped heavily onto the sofa beside Alison.
Beside Alison, no more than three inches away.
“I think I’ll take my coffee straight,” she said.
“Fine. Do not let it be said that I attempted to ply you with liquor. When all is written and the story told, let it not be reported that Evan attempted to cloud the fair lady’s mind with spirits, opiates, or scorcery.”
“You’re bombed,” Alison said.
“I’m… semibombed.” Talking out of a side of his mouth in a fairly good impression of W.C. Fields, he said, “She was a gorgeous, delectable blonde and she drove me to drink; it’s the only thing I’m grateful to her for.”
Alison took a sip of her coffee. “Barf, and I’m on my way home.”
“Barf and the world barfs with you.” But he left the whiskey on the table. He took a drink of coffee. Then he turned on the movie.
Alison sat on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward, until her mug was empty. Then she settled back against the cushion. She slipped out of her shoes, propped her feet on the edge of the table, and stared between her knees at the television.
She couldn’t follow the movie. Her mind was on Evan. She sensed that he was paying no attention to the movie, either.
He was slumped beside her, his legs stretched out beneath the table, his left arm not quite touching Alison but so close that she thought she could feel the heat of it against her arm. His hand rested on his thigh.
The lighted red numbers of the VGR’s digital clock showed 9:52.
We’ve been sitting like mannequins, Alison thought, for almost twenty minutes.
She had an urge to shift her position. But she didn’t move. A move might trigger something.
This is crazy.
She lowered her feet to the floor, sat up straight, and stretched, arching her back. She rolled her head to work the kinks out of her neck.
Evan said, “Here.” He reached up with one hand and began to massage her neck.
The fingers felt good plying her stiff muscles. Alison turned her back to Evan, sliding a leg onto the cushion.
Now it starts, she thought.
Both of Evan’s hands were on her shoulders and neck, rubbing, squeezing, caressing. They eased the tightness. Alison closed her eyes and let her head droop. The massaging hands made her feel weak and lazy.
He worked on the bare sides of her neck, beneath her collar.
Nice. Why not nicer?
Alison unfastened a button. Evan’s hands moved outward from her neck, kneading her skin, widening the bare area. Alison felt something loosen and realized, vaguely, that her middle button had popped open on its own. Evan tried to spread the blouse more. It pulled at her. She tugged, untucking it, and the loose blouse rose and opened, exposing her shoulders.
She swayed under the soothing motions of Evan’s strong hands. She felt powerless to lift her head or to open her eyes or to protest when, soon, he slipped the bra straps off her shoulders.
His hands no longer massaged, but glided over her bare skin, caressing her from neck to shoulders.
He stopped for a moment. The sofa cushion moved slightly under Alison and she guessed that Evan was changing his position. Getting onto his knees? Yes. From the sound of his breathing, he was higher now. He stroked her shoulders, eased his hands under her blouse and inside the sleeves to caress her upper arms, then slid his
