Switching it Up

Chapter Five-1

Chapter Five

Meghan

14:25

You up for some Chinese tonight?

The vibration of my phone in my pocket disrupts my trancelike state as I sit amongst the piles of papers on my sofa and coffee table on what has been a lazy Sunday. I’ve just started grading first assignments—we’ve already finished the second week of semester! It’s possible that I can get this marking knocked out by 6 p.m. if I focus, and then I can relax while I watch the game. Chris has been creeping into my head in my quiet moments such as this a lot lately. Refocusing has become an increasing challenge. I can’t deny I feel a little thrill when I see his name on my phone screen, but I am trying hard to take a step back and not fall for this guy. It would seem desperate to reply straight away.

14:26

My place, 6.30ish. Bears vs Packers. Yes/no?

He reads me like a book, hitting me again before I have the chance to put the phone down and play it cool. Damn him. I still have time to finish marking and am available then, and I want to watch that game. I’d been picturing doing the same thing at home alone in my sweats. I’d feel rude to not reply now. Oh, why not?

14:28

Sure, count me in. I’ll get a cab after I finish grading, around 6. (^o^)

14:30

Great, see you then.

The reluctance I feel is a mix of anxiety about whether I’ve just committed to stepping into a lion’s den and the awkwardness I always feel in this awful stage of getting to know someone. The connection is definitely there; our conversations in the restrictive environment during lunches in the staff room have helped me to realize we have a lot in common. Neither of us seem to be ready to finish talking by the time the long arm has reached the top of the clock again. Our conversations are so natural, too. I feel relaxed with him— he’s a great person to share time with.

His cheeky texts have put a grin on my face that I’ve had to reign in before facing my class on occasion. How mortifying would it be if they worked out why Miss Hunter had a big smile on her face? Their likely perverted, hormone-addled minds have probably invented a far worse range of assumptions and speculations.

These days I’ve got a good haste on when I’m getting ready for work each morning. I am leaping out of bed, keen to get the day under way. The anticipation of bumping into Chris compels me to look my best. I get a sense of power when I catch him looking me up and down, as hard as he tries to be inconspicuous about it. Like I don’t know why he wears sunglasses most of the time!

I’d be a liar if I denied that he’s been in my dreams each night too. Romantic scenarios that devolve into some pretty filthy, red-hot s*x always feature prominently—he’s definitely my modern-girl’s Rhett Butler character. The passion and electricity of his kisses that night last week after we rode home together were definitely the hook. A cold shower was required before bed.

So I think it’s safe to say that he’s interested in me, but I worry that it’s just the challenge to bed me that he’s chasing. If I submit to him like I want to, I worry that he will change and it will all have been a charade based on him just trying to get into my pants. Mrs. Davison’s warning advice and the word ‘player’ keeps jumping into my head. The thought of coming to work each day to face him and the humiliation of having become another notch on his bedpost would be awful. I hate the vulnerability I feel, the insecurity. Maybe I could turn it on its head and play him? Now that is a better way to think about it. I could absolutely use him, like I do in my fantasies. I have needs too. Anyway, this isn’t getting these assignments graded, and I had better get on with it if I’m going to be relaxing with Chris tonight.

***

The cool autumn evening air has some bite on the chilling breeze. As I pull my coat around me a little tighter, I see a cab in the distance nestled amongst the traffic. I watch him work his way to the right lane and I’m encouraged to believe it’s him who’s coming to pick me up. My heart lifts when I see his indicator light flash as he slows to a halt beside me on the sidewalk. My gloved fingers manipulate the door handle—I’m grateful for their insulation from the weather that seems to be setting in. “64 Newman Street, via the liquor store,” I request, the cabby nodding in acknowledgement. I buckle the seatbelt and settle into the passenger seat, soothed by the warmer air and absence of wind.

Catching a glimpse of my reflection in the rear-view mirror, I curse the moist air and what it does to hair—but it could be worse. Today’s lazy Sunday upstyle is fairly resilient to fly-aways and frizzies, and a little gentle stroking restores it to a mildly less-messy form. My sheltered day indoors getting that grading done wasn’t much of a challenge to its neatness. It feels great to have those assignments finished and now I have the last of the weekend free to relax and enjoy. It was pleasing to see so many good results too, very encouraging.

Grading papers is one of those times when it’s appropriate to close the door, shut the rest of the world out, and just try to feel the students through their writing. I love to read well-written assignments; it gives me encouragement that there are brilliant minds coming online in our intellectual world. I feel like a gold-miner for the means to tomorrow's hopes and dreams. Maybe that’s a touch self-important of me to think that way, but I really do feel privileged to see the students’ development. The grading practice I had during my master’s was a good way to earn some money, but also a great personal development experience.

The liquor store is a quick interlude in the journey—you could shoot a gun down the aisles tonight; not too many folks are out on Sunday night in Greenville, it would seem. My purchase, a bottle of whiskey, rides tucked between my calves in the taxi as we get back on the road. Rain has begun to fall in big, round drops on the windshield. I’m hoping I can get inside Chris’s apartment building before it gets any worse. A flash of white light illuminates the skyline—it’s going to be a stormy night, by the looks of it. Chris’s place is less than half a mile away, we will be there in no time. Traffic is never an issue in Greenville; I add that to the list of positives about this place as we slow to a halt outside number 64. After paying the driver, I scurry into the foyer of the apartment block as the wind drives the light drizzle against my coat hood and back.

Pushing off my hood and pressing the buzzer to summon Chris to let me up, I realize it’s probably a good thing that the weather is a challenge tonight, or else my nerves would be far more on edge. A few butterflies swirl in my belly at the recognition of this, accentuated by the lurch of the elevator as it rises to his level on the 4th floor. All too soon, I’m on his doorstep. Chris opens the door moments before the butterflies have the chance to establish a major flight path.

“Hey! Come in, come in!” he says in welcome, gesturing me through the door.

“Hi, Chris. Thanks,” I reply, holding the paper-bagged bottle out to him as I step across the threshold.

He doesn’t move aside, taking the bottle in one hand and subtly passing the other around my waist, leaning in and pecking me on the cheek as he guides me into the foyer. My eyes meet his. They’re smiling eyes that match my own. His withdrawal from the embrace is fluid and natural, turning to close the door behind us as though his actions were a routine part of our regular interactions, not requiring a second thought.

“Let me take that coat,” he offers, leaning in to ease it off my shoulders. I glance around the modern, open-planned, split level apartment while I rotate on the spot as Chris helps me out of the damp, heavy coat. “Looks like we’re in for some heavy weather this evening. Did you get your grading done?” His tone is warm and friendly and the familiarity of our conversation’s subject makes me feel more confident and relaxed.

“Yeah, all done, thankfully,” I reply. “Is whiskey all right? I didn’t know what you like to drink.” I’m inwardly frustrated that sometimes I’m not so great at remembering details like that. I realize it makes me seem uninterested, but it’s more about my sieve of a memory. I erred on the side of caution—whiskey is a fairly safe bet, most of the time.

“Whiskey is great,” Chris answers, to my relief. “Can I take your scarf and gloves?”

“Thanks, the gloves are a little damp.”

The temperature in here is thankfully much warmer than outside. I unwind my scarf and Chris takes it out of my hands, draping it around the collar of my coat on the coat hook. I unpeel my gloves as he guides me into the sunken-floored living room where he takes them from me and gently drapes them on the mantle above his gas fireplace. He’s a lot sweeter and more thoughtful than I’d perhaps originally given him credit for.

“How do you like your whiskey?” he asks. “Neat, on the rocks or with some soda?”

“Some soda would be great,” I respond as he heads toward the kitchen to get some glasses. “I love your apartment!” I can look around me from beside the gas fireplace undisturbed now, in his absence. Floor to ceiling curtains obviously conceal some huge windows—I bet they would allow in lots of natural light, as well as offering a decent view.

He smiles in acknowledgement as he goes about his task, leaving me to soak in the ambience as I stand beside the comforting warmth of the fireplace.

I’ve always loved the atmosphere that a live fireplace (or the illusion of one) gives to a living space like this, and I instantly feel relaxed by it. I linger beside the glowing heat and thaw my fingers, stretching them out and rubbing them together. My hair probably doesn’t look too glamorous, but I remind myself that I’m here to watch football and eat Chinese and that he’s lucky I didn’t come in my pajamas. It isn’t long before Chris returns to my side and offers my drink, gesturing me toward the nearby couch.

“Would you care to join me?” he inquires.

“I’d love to,” I reply and match his three steps to the two-seater, which is generously proportioned.

I sit a reasonable distance from him, not wanting to be overly friendly or appear eager to be close to him. My drink becomes terribly interesting, and I take a sip and fumble mentally with what is meant to happen next. We are both perched mid-depth on the seats. Chris makes the first move, sitting in the full depth of the seat, leaning back, and opening his arms on the backrest. He turns slightly toward me and catches my eye, patting the backrest with his left hand and nodding as though to encourage me to sit back. He displays a delicious smile for me; it’s half friendly welcoming and half predator with his victim cornered, like he’s just mentally toying with her for fun’s sake before deciding if or when he’s going to pounce for the kill. My superficial smile returns his and I set my drink on the coffee table before leaning back and facing him. I’m deliberately at the end of his reach, meeting his eye and drawing him to engage mentally with me. He adapts his approach to meet mine and his open-mouthed smile tells me that he’s loving this little body-language game.

“You hungry, Miss Hunter?” he asks. His tone is playful but matter of fact; he’s seen he can’t quite dominate the game this early and proceeds with his friendly, courteous manner.

“I could eat a miniature pony!” I respond. “What’s for dinner?” I know I’m being over-familiar, demanding, and perhaps it could be construed as even a little rude, but if we’re to be the great friends I want us to be, he’s going to have to see me as I am sooner or later. Might as well put it out there and see if he’ll adjust. And I hope it makes him stop looking at me like I’m the dessert dish.