Sylvia Jennings thought that George was utterly transparent. Intelligent, yes, but she could read all his thoughts from his actions. She soaped herself slowly under the shower, and thought about him.

For all his talk about 'celebration,' for example, he wanted morning sex. He thought that spoiling her the night before would get her in the mood this morning. And, of course, he was right. Not that getting her in the mood took as much effort as he put into it. She enjoyed the sex, didn't try to hide that from him; but she enjoyed the spoiling as well. Maybe 'transparent' didn't even apply to that; the first time or two he wanted to skip the night before to enhance morning sex, he'd stated that explicitly.

He sure wasn't being explicit about his job prospects, though. Was she supposed to ignore that he was getting his Ph. D. in a few days? No. She was going to the ceremony. Was she supposed to be ignorant that he would have to get some sort of work? Maybe. People like George didn't connect working nine-to-five with having food on the table the way her family did. Was she supposed to be the one adult in the USA who didn't know that there was a draft on? They watched the nightly news together.

Anyway, he would be leaving Boston, leaving the USA if his job prospects in Canada came through. Did she want to go with him? And keep getting this spoiling? For that matter, she'd trade her teaching career just to get the sex. Did he want her? Well, she'd find out.

And she had a lot of money saved up. She put out half their joint expenses, and got a little more money busting her ass in school every day than he got from his trust fund. She had car expenses and spent more on clothes than he did, but he paid tuition. He also paid restaurant bills when he took her out. So she couldn't spend more of her money on rent, food, etc. than he could afford to spend of his.

Of course, next year, he would be getting a salary instead of paying tuition. She'd be waiting tables again. Still, her contribution could match his for a long time. And he could be reasonable; if she started running out, she'd explain the situation to him. She'd held back so he wouldn't run out. If she knew George, he was more likely to offer to pay more than half than he was to demand that she go broke. He'd bought the food for the dinner the night before out of his pocket money, for instance, not the food budget.

Anyway, George was waiting. The bed was waiting. Breakfast first, flavored with anticipation. George had cooked breakfast, a special one.

"Sit and drink your coffee," he said. "I'll fix your eggs. Sunny side?"

"Sunny side. Just one. You're spoiling me."

"I was up first. Celebration isn't spoiling; habit is spoiling. Anyway, you've cooked me more meals in the last month than I've cooked you in the last two years. Am I spoiled?"

It was a miracle that he wasn't, wasn't quite. And it had nothing to do with her actions. "I take the fifth."

He smiled at that. The man had his faults, but he could laugh at himself. He could cook, too. He put a fried egg and two slices of bacon in front of her.

She let the anticipation build during breakfast and as she brushed her teeth. He was in bed when she came out, and she decided to tease him. he took a supply of underwear out of her dresser and started back towards the bathroom.

"Why don't you come back to bed," he said, "instead?"

"But I think I've had enough sleep," she answered.

"But have you had enough exercise?"

"I can get my exercise outside."

"We'd scare the horses." She recognized the reference, 'Anything you do in sex is all right, so long as you don't do it in the street and scare the horses.' She'd had her tease, and he'd topped it. When she came over to the bed, he got up to take off her robe before kissing her. He caressed breast and ass. His prick pressed against her.

In bed, the caresses continued. His tongue dueled with hers. He kissed her neck. She needn't worry about hickeys today, but that tickled. She spread her legs to make his approach easier. Finally he touched her clitoris and sucked on her right nipple at the same time. This sent a thrill through her.

Thrill after thrill followed, culminating in a climax.

"Darling girl," George said, "darling Sylvia." She couldn't answer right then, but she thought he was a darling, too.

As she relaxed and tried to catch her breath, George was kissing her face without blocking her breathing. His hand, however, remained within her.

Soon, indeed, he had two fingers inside. They kept moving in and out in imitation of his prick. Which she needed right then. She felt another climax approaching. "George?" She couldn't find the words to ask him to finish it.

He responded by kissing her, his tongue moving in her mouth as his fingers were moving in her pussy. She felt the fire rise in her, rise further yet, rise impossibly high. And then it was burning her up.

George sucked her right nipple in the same rhythm as the flame. The flame burned hotter, consumed her utterly. Then it left her, and she dropped. "I love you, Sylvia Jennings," George said from a great distance.

He was right there when she next was conscious of anything besides herself, though. He was kissing her skin and his fingers were still in her pussy. They started moving when he kissed her breast. She was considering how to tell him of the absolute impossibility of her becoming even slightly aroused again that soon, when her body interrupted her.

It was highly aroused. She tensed, all the sensations coming together. He kissed over her stomach. When the fire was at its height, he moved to the other breast and sucked there in time with the pulses of the fire.

She didn't really come down. She would relax for a moment, and then his caresses would set her off again. One of those times, he was in her. She felt his spasms meeting hers.

She vaguely felt him remove his weight from her. Then she felt nothing at all. Until her bladder woke her. Luckily, George wasn't using the bathroom. She couldn't have held it in. "Good morning," he said when she came out.

"Morning." Was it really? Felt like the middle of the night to her.

When it really was morning, though, she felt grand. She showered and dressed in the bathroom, and came out to see what was available to eat. It was too late for breakfast. Hadn't they had breakfast? "What do you want for lunch?" she asked George.

"Have I ruined your meal plans utterly?" he asked. Considerate -- not helpful, but considerate. Anyway, who makes meal plans on her last working day?

"Not at all. We're starting to pile up leftovers, though. Want spaghetti for lunch? Maybe piece it out with peanut butter sandwiches?"

"Sounds good," he said. "I'm taking you out for dinner. Celebration's not over."

"After what you put me through, I'll be lucky to get to the table for dinner, much less a fancy restaurant." Which was true. She didn't feel exhausted, though. She felt energized. She also felt famished.

"Seemed to be enjoying it at the time."

She had. He could tell? Probably the neighbors could tell. "Oh, I enjoyed it. To use a euphemism. If I'd enjoyed it much more, you'd have had to call an ambulance. I might not be able to walk tonight, though." She did feel weak in the legs, despite all the energy.

"We can go tomorrow night," he said.

"I was thinking of 1980." Then she laughed. "You really know how to treat a girl." She considered her state inside. She didn't feel weak, and she did feel hungry. Another good meal felt like a great idea. "Strangely enough, I'm starved. Let's go out tonight."

Lunch tasted great. Then she took over the table to sort out her school stuff. Some of it she should have tossed out before this. A few things she would want even if she were to abandon teaching forever -- Strunk and White, for one; the letter from the girl who had given her hell for the whole year and then thanked her from college, for another. Some things she could ship to her mom if she weren't going to teach next year. And some she should toss rather than do that.

Actually, she should toss them anyway. Still they could be useful. The difference between experienced teachers and neophytes was as much in the stuff the experienced ones could dredge up from their files as the stuff they could dredge up from their minds.

The sorting took a lot out of her, but after a brief nap in the late afternoon, all her energy returned. So did her appetite. She moved a few pieces of paper from one pile to another, and then asked, "Did somebody say something about eating out this evening?"

George took the hint. He even carried half of her discard pile down to the trash can.

Her tension barely interfered with the meal. George dithered, though. When the waiter had brought the wine -- the last thing George ordered -- the last thing he could order, there was no more time for dithering. She could see him brace himself. "Sylvia, you know I'll get my degree next week." She nodded. "You know I have to join the workforce, and you know I've been worrying about the draft. Even if I wanted to take the risk, I doubt that I could get a position teaching anthro in Boston." She waited.

"I love you, but.... But they are starting a new university in Regina, in western Canada. Prof. Vrooman, who was one of the leaders of my expedition, will chair the anthro department. He's offered me an instructorship. I've accepted it."

There. It was out in the open. She felt like asking him if he felt better now. But this wasn't the time to ask a question, this was the time to give an answer. Did she want to continue with George?

But once it was out in the open, he continued to get it out. "It's not as if I'm choosing this over living with you. If I get drafted, I'll still be farther away. I know you'd have trouble getting a teaching position in Canada. But anywhere you could, the draft board would find me. It's not a Massachusetts draft, it's a federal draft. I do love, you. It's not as if staying with you was a real choice. It's...."

Well, she had her answer. "George...," she began.

"We have until September. It's not quite the end now. Don't hate me...."

"George...," She couldn't give her answer until he stopped rattling on.

"Look, I've loved this time. It's the best period of my whole life. Let's not end it in acrimony."

"George, shut up!" Looking shocked, he did.

"Whither thou goest," she said. "I shall go." That is if he'd have her. But he really treated her as if he cared for her.

"You mean it?" he asked.

She bit back sarcasm. This wasn't the time for it. "I mean it."

"Is that a proposal?"

"No." It wasn't. Their life together had been fine without license from church or state. It could go on under the same terms.

"My job then." He knelt on her side of the table. "Sylvia, will you marry me?"

"You're making a scene," she said. Her face burned; she must be blushing scarlet.

He didn't get up. "Do you need more time?"

She could imagine him kneeling there all night while she considered. Well, really, what was there to consider? They went well together. "No. Yes." She was babbling. "I don't need more time -- more time to answer -- we'll need a lot more time for preparations. Yes, I'll marry you. Now get off your knees."

He finally did. She didn't look around the place. She was never coming back here again! But they got out and headed home. She felt exhausted.

"Charles?" he asked. She felt that the walk home was challenge enough.

"I'm feeling drained. Could we go home instead? Are you feeling energetic?"

"Delighted. I was dreading this, and it turned out so great. We'll pick out the ring together? I should have had one for the proposal, but this is an outcome I hadn't expected."

"Could you make another trip down tonight, then? I have another pile for the garbage." And garbage pickup was tomorrow. She waited for some joke about the husband's duty to take out the garbage.

Instead he said, "Sure. I probably could have carried it down earlier."

"But I was only going to throw it away," she explained, "if we were going to leave Boston." Maybe she shouldn't have told him that. But she really felt drained.