During the entire fall semester, he’d done his best to stay out of Monica’s way. He’d wanted nothing to do with her. But they’d often been thrown together by circumstances. Since both were first year English teachers at the same school, it was inevitable.
And Owen just had to be nice to her.
Whenever an encounter couldn’t be avoided, he smiled and spoke to her in a friendly way as if he liked her. He was that way with everyone.
She seemed to react with her usual cold disdain.
Until that December morning when she asked him for a ride to the Christmas party. Cornering him in the teacher’s lounge, she said, “Could I ask you a big favor, Owen?”
“Sure, I guess so.”
“Are you planning to go to the faculty Christmas party?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Will you be driving?”
Oh, no.
“Yes.”
“Are you taking a date?”
If only.
“No, probably not.”
“The reason I’m asking, Owen—I simply can’t drive myself to the party. It’s so dangerous for a woman to be out by herself, especially late at night.”
“It sure is. Dangerous for anybody.”
“But it’s worse for a woman.”
“Sure. I’m sure it is. Worse.”
“And the party probably won’t get over till sometime after midnight. I can’t possibly drive home all by myself at an hour like that. So would you mind terribly taking me to the party? I don’t think I’ll be able to go, otherwise.”
Owen didn’t want to do it. He didn’t like her. But he’d already confessed his intention of going to the party without a date—blow—ing his best possible excuse. On the spur of the moment, he could think of no halfway decent reason to turn her down. So he smiled and said, “Sure, I’d be glad to give you a ride.”
It turned out to be more than a ride: it turned out to be a date. After their arrival at the party, she wouldn’t go away. She stayed by Owen’s side. She held on to his arm. She led him here and there, keeping him while she chatted with an assortment of faculty members and their spouses—usually the very teachers Owen liked least and would’ve avoided, given the chance.
Finally, Owen managed to sneak away from her. He got himself a cupful of red, potent punch, then spent a few minutes with his friends, Henry and Jill and Maureen.
Three minutes, maybe four.
Then Henry, keeping lookout, said, “Oops, here comes trouble. You’re up Shit Creek now, buddy.”
Owen said, “Delightful,” and gulped down his punch.
“If you can’t stand her,” Maureen said, “why not tell her to take a leap?”
“I can’t do that.”
Monica, arriving, greeted everyone with a rigid smile. Then she grabbed Owen’s arm and said to the others, “Will you excuse us, please?”
“Can’t,” Henry said. “You’re inexcuseable.”
“Oh, ho ho. Very amusing.” With that, she led Owen away from his friends. As she hurried him along, she said with a pout, “I thought you’d deserted me. You can’t just bring a girl somewhere and leave her stranded, Owie.”
He hated to be called Owie.
He hated the tone of her voice, as if she were talking to a three year old.
He also hated to dance. But she squeezed his arm and said, “How about tripping the light fantastic for a while?”
“I’m not much of a dancer,” he said.
“That’s all right. I’m a wonderful dancer. And a wonderful teacher. I’ll have you cutting the rug like Fred Astaire.”
“Fred Astaire’s dead.”
She smiled, shook her head, and said, “Don’t be morbid, darling.”
Darling? Oh, my God.
“I’d really rather not dance,” he said.
He despised dancing in general, but was appalled by the idea of dancing with Monica—especially at the faculty Christmas party, surrounded by teachers, counselors, secretaries, vice principals... the principal himself. People he had to see every working day. People who knew him.
“You can’t just bring me here and not dance with me. How would that look?”
You’re not my date! he wanted to shout. I gave you a ride!
Say “Thanks for the lift,” and leave me alone!
He thought it, but didn’t say it. Her feelings wouldn’t just be hurt, they’d be trampled.
He finally said, “I guess I can give it a try.”
She led him downstairs to the recreation room. It was decorated with red and green streamers, and dark except for the glow of Christmas tree lights strung across the ceiling. Owen noticed that there were no clear bulbs, no white bulbs. They were all deep, rich colors: blue and red and green and orange.
They looked gawdy and wonderful, but didn’t illuminate much.
Just as well, Owen thought.
The floor was crowded with dancing couples. Half of nearly every pair was somebody Owen knew from school. Many nodded, smiled, or spoke brief greetings as they made their way to the middle of the floor.
Stopping, Moncia turned to him and gazed into his eyes.
She is pretty, Owen thought.
But he suspected that anyone would look good in the glow of all those Christmas tree lights. He could see the shine of them in Monica’s hair, their sparkle in her eyes. They softened her face, blurring its harshness, hiding the arrogance and suspicion that could usually be seen in her eyes and lips.
She really did resemble Elizabeth Taylor. For the first time, the similarities seemed to surpass the differences.
And she looked great in her angora sweater. It hugged her body in such a way that each breast swelled out separately—they were twin, fuzzy white mounds with a glen between them.
She might’ve looked great in her pleated plaid skirt, too. It was very short and drifted softly against her thighs. But she’d ruined the skirt’s appeal by wearing tights. The black tights encased her legs, showing off their slender curves but hiding every inch of skin.
“Just do what I do, darling,” she said.
With that, she stepped forward until their bodies met.
She took hold of Owen’s left hand, placed her own left hand on his shoulder, and said, “Put your other hand in the middle of my back.”
He followed her instructions.
“That’s right,” she whispered.
A new tune began to flow from the speakers. “White Christmas,” sung by Bing Crosby.
They started to dance.
It was a slow dance, and they held each other close. Owen followed Monica’s lead. It was easy; she hardly moved at all, just swayed back and forth and took small steps this way and that.
She smelled awfully good—some sort of perfume that filled Owen’s mind with images of balmy nights and soft breezes in the tropics. He’d been smelling it all evening. But now it seemed to radiate off her skin in warm, rich waves.
A wonderful, exotic aroma.
But not nearly as wonderful or exotic as the feel of Monica as they danced: her face resting on his shoulder; her hair tickling the side of his face; her left hand caressing his back while her right clasped his hand; her breasts pushing firmly but softly against his chest; her belly pressed to his belly; her crotch rubbing him in a subtle way that seemed almost accidental; her thighs brushing against his with every step she took.
Before Bing was halfway through the song, Owen started getting hard.
Oh, terrific.
Just what I need.
Hoping Monica hadn’t noticed it yet, he bent forward slightly to break contact down there.
“Don’t be a silly,” she said.