Fiction: $170.42

As my date laughed, the crow's feet by her eyes widened from lines to full crevasses, like a river having carved out little ravines. Certainly, by the look of her forty-two years, she had been born in a prior geologic age. But then, so had I.

She had just uttered some quip about a college internship, which I missed because my attention had been diverted by a young waitress, with a very tight figure, performing the bee dance with her ass. The waitress waddled along provocatively to some other table holding several full plates in one hand, but my date's eyes had slow-blinked in laughter at just that moment. I don't think she noticed.

"He was so little, so precious, " she said, "I just knew right then that teaching was going to be my future." She lifted her glass of Chianti, rolled the red liquid seemingly entranced in thought, and then took a shallow sip.

I didn't have a good followthrough, but fortunately that waitress intervened to check on our dinner.

"Excellent. Thank you." I took a small bite of the creamed spinach with pine nuts to show my appreciation. My date ignored her.

"So, what do you do again?"

"I'm a chemist."

"Where did you go -"

"- Penn State for undergrad; UT for my Ph.D."

"Interesting." At that instant, her eyes appeared to fix upon the wine label, unwittingly expressing just how boring she felt my career path had been.

"Yup."

"So," she tried again, "why not the university life of a professor? Don't like teaching?"

"No, it's not that. My research didn't pan out like I expected. And it took a bit longer than most to earn the Ph.D. When it was over, I had a string of publications with obvious and predicted results. I took this big risk on radioactive solvents as catalysts, which went nowhere. And -"

"- Oh."

Her face showed the confusion everyone outside my field does whenever I try to explain its more obvious details. I should have known better.

"It's just a job. Pays the bills."

"Hey, we all need a job." She smiled and our eyes touched for the first time that evening.

Hypnotized, I forgot to sneak a look at the waitress as she passed by toward another table. For just a second, imperceptible to others yet for us like a slow-blues riff ringing out a whole note in vibrato, we existed together not as one flesh but as one soul. And then it was over.

My date found a spot in the tablecloth to be distracted by. Her forefinger slid up the stem of her wineglass to the rim, whereupon she made circling motions along its lip. Her face pointed toward the table, but her eyes just then peaked back through strands of auburn hair and I felt the stirring of flesh deep inside.

"Hey," she said, "try a sip of this wine." Her hand pushed the glass across the table toward me. As I reached for it, I felt her finger ever so slightly press against mine as the glass passed into my hand. At that instant, I heard the slight whisper of a gasp uttered from her lips.

"Excuse me," she said, "I'll be right back." The mood vanished before the napkin was off her lap and on the table. She stood up and walked to the nearest waiter, who pointed to the restroom.

The waitress stopped by to ask if we would like anything else. She had that perfect mix of professionalism to deter unwarranted advances by customers, yet while somehow also wearing unreasonably revealing attire. Nipples pierced back at me through her low cut white blouse like the eyes of a mountain lion. Her stomach flatter than Kansas, and think I noticed a belly button ring extruding out underneath black silk fabric. She wore some kind of rosemary light oil scent, but all I could smell was sex. Sex all over her. In that second I imaged that her boyfriend had just bent her over their kitchen table, lifted her miniskirt, and quick-fucked her silly on the spot only minutes before her shift had started. And I wanted to be him.

She stood there patiently waiting for my reply.

"Oh, yes. I mean, no. We're fine. Thank you." In an earlier decade I might have blushed.

The waitress left a folded leather booklet containing the check and walked away, without that bee waddling her step.

I placed my credit card down and waited. In a whirl, the waitress passed by and grabbed it without a glance. Shortly, my date returned and got herself resettled.

"So," I opened, "I know this cafe down the street and -"

"- It is getting a bit late."

It was 10:45 on a Friday night. Though at our age, perhaps she was right.

"How about if I just walk you home."

She glanced into my eyes for a split second, smiled, then averted her gaze.

"I'd like that."

The waitress again stopped by and left a receipt to sign. I did and left a twenty-five percent tip; those nipples deserved it. Then the both of us got up, sauntering past the few patrons left picking the remains of their dinners. Outside it was a beautiful late spring evening, cool enough to want a sweater or light jacket but not outright cold. In the slight breeze, fresh maple buds could be seen swaying upon branches on the trees which lined the street. We strolled through the Commons until we hit Newberry street and each got a cup of ice cream. Then she pointed toward a side street and we took a right. I was to her left and as we took the corner, her hand brushed against mine.

"That's one of my favorite buildings. I just love the architecture." She pointed to a majestic stone church by the corner.

"Beautiful." Our fingers brushed again and our eyes met. Then we were holding hands.

By means not understood yet fully effective, she somehow directed me down several side streets without my noticing the path. We were in front of her building. She turned to face me and offered her other hand. Our fingers intertwined.

"May I buy you dinner again?"

"I'd like that."

Our fingers and eyes explored each others' depths of what they could. I lightly stroked her face and she moved in. We kissed. First, tenderly. Then my arms were to her back and she pressed in close and we kissed until we panted. I stroked her face again.

"I think I should go. How about if I call tomorrow?"

Her fingers squeezed.

"How about a glass of wine first?"

My fingers squeezed back. She led the way to her door, we entered, and walked up a central stairwell to her apartment. It was a typical three bedroom 'luxury' unit that looked as decrepit as Boston feels. But I wasn't given a tour. She forgot about the wine and led me straight to the bedroom.

We made love. It was good lovemaking, better than any first-date sex deserves to be. We stroked; we caressed; we kissed. Soon we bumped; we pushed; we pounded. And then, blinded in sensation, we clenched and groaned until we could no more.

Her head lay upon me, her breath like a tide - softly in and out, in and out - lightly fluttering against strands of hair on my chest. I stroked her soft hair. She let out the sigh of oncoming sleep. But I remained awake; I'm an insomniac.

In time I felt the need to relieve myself and untangled her arms from me. She rolled over to the other side clutching a pillow as if it were a stuffed animal. Or a man. I found my way to the bathroom in the dark. Afterward, I flushed and went to the sink to wash up. It then occurred to me that I had a slight headache from the wine and so opened her medicine cabinet to find an analgesic. Searching through the shelves I picked out something to kill the headache, but I found something else too: A prescription. The contents were not what mattered, it was the name on the label: Mrs. Monica Bentworth. I searched again and found another bottle of his and a man's razor and shaving cream.

It stung, but I wasn't angry so much as despondent and empty. I wondered what he did or didn't do to drive her to a stranger like me. And I wondered if I would ever see her again. Would she answer the phone tomorrow? Maybe tomorrow he returns from a business trip. Should I even bother to call?

And I thought of that damn $170.42 I'd just spent just to quell our loneliness.

$170.42, ROUGH v1, Copyright ©2008 J. Maynard Gelinas.

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