Chapter 6
Eternity in Two Days
by knight_b_4@hotmail.com
Story codes: Mff, hum, les, rom, preg
Author’s Note:  This story involves sexual activity between a variety of people, some of whom are underage. If it is illegal in your jurisdiction to read about such things, please delete this story immediately. (And know that you have my sympathies for living in such a repressive atmosphere.) This story is entirely a work of fiction; none of the events described herein actually took place (at least not to the author’s knowledge). The author does not condone sexual activity with minors, although he does recommend most of the following if done with a consenting adult.
This story may be posted with no changes or deletions on a free site, or the free area of a commercial site. The work is copyright 2012 by the author, and all rights are reserved.
The first thing I did the next morning was run to the bathroom and part ways with the remnants of that bastard Daniels and the dirty, sneaking Captain. I hadn’t been so drunk I had to puke in a long, long time.
Charlene’s prediction was right. It was morning, and I felt like shit.
I stumbled into the kitchen (amazed I remembered the way) and popped a couple slices of bread in the toaster, then drank a big glass of water. It came back up moments later, into the sink, along with a few other, more disgusting items. I rinsed my mouth out, poured another glass of water, and drank it down, too. This time, it stayed there. Muttering and complaining, maybe, but it stayed.
Startled, I jumped when the toast popped up. I ate it dry (butter would be a bad idea, jam or jelly worse), then started coffee and sat down at the table to wait for it, head cradled in my hands. I stared blearily at the clock, then realized I couldn’t see it because I’d left my glasses in the bedroom. Fuck it. I didn’t need to see to be miserable. Traveler, sensing my discomfort, jumped on the table and meowed loudly in my face. I scratched her chin, wondering if she always purred as loud as a chainsaw, then carefully put her down.
After my second cup and a couple more slices of toast, I realized maybe seeing clearly wouldn’t be such a bad thing, so I carefully made my way back to the bedroom and found my glasses. I stood there for a few minutes, looking at those red and green splashes of brightness on my pillow, feeling the pain of loss stabbing through me. And then I said “Enough.”
It wasn’t going to be a loss. I’d find Christie, and I’d figure out some way to talk myself back into her good graces. OK, maybe she didn’t want me to love her. Too bad, I do. Maybe she doesn’t want me to tell her. OK, I won’t. But I can be there for her, I can share her hurt and maybe I can take some of it off her shoulders. She wants someone to care about her, and I do, and I’m going to find her and help her.
Feeling somewhat better, I stripped down for a shower. I was fiddling with the temperature when the doorbell rang.
“Now who the hell is that?” I grumbled, as I turned off the water. The bell rang again, making my head throb, while I was tying my robe and heading for the door. So I was in a less than cheerful mood when I yanked the door open and said, “What?”
To find myself staring at two blue uniforms, one of them holding a leash attached to a German shepherd.
Oh, fuck.
Just how mad had I made Christie, and would she really call the cops? And why would they send dogs to help arrest pedophiles? Do they sniff around to see if you’ve got a little girl hidden under the couch?
“Are you Harry Potter?” the first uniform demanded. Wonderful. I’m going to jail in my bathrobe. That’ll make it easier for Mad Dog and his buddies, I guess.
“Yes. Something I can do for you, officer?” I think my voice squeaked, but I’m not sure. It didn’t sound very steady, I know that much. The cop looked at me for a moment, with that “I know you’re guilty of something, and I’m going to figure out what” face that all cops have. (Do they issue those your first day at the Academy? Or is it that only people with that face become cops? And why was I wondering about it when I was about to be hauled off to jail, and probably have “an accidental fall down the stairs” when I got there?)
The cop finally said, “We found this dog wandering the streets, Mr. Potter, and a kid down the street said he thought it might be yours.” His expression said that if it was, I was about to get a really ugly lecture and maybe a ticket or three.
Whoosh. How do you spell relief?
“No, sir, I don’t have a dog.” I looked at it a bit closer. “I don’t recognize it, either. The people in the red house just down the street have a shepherd, but I don’t think that’s it. But you might want to ask them.”
The cop looked hard at me for a moment longer, then nodded his head. “Thank you for your help, sir. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“No problem,” I said, “hope you find out where he goes.”
I closed the door, then peeked out through the little window at the top. They got back into their squad car, did a u-turn they’d have ticketed me for doing, and headed down the street. I leaned back against the door and took a few deep breaths before heading back to my interrupted shower.
The water felt good, and I was starting to approach “human” on the evolutionary scale when the doorbell rang again. Cursing, I shut off the water and threw on my robe as I stomped to the door at the end of a trail of wet footprints.
This time it was the FedEx lady, delivering Jim Jr.’s cane. She apologized profusely for dragging me out of the shower. I told her it was no big deal, and she sounded so sincere I decided to actually forgive her. I dropped the cane on the couch, considered going back to stand in the hot water some more, then decided I might as well get dressed instead.
The rest of the morning was pretty laid back. I checked my email, did a little work (very little, truth be told), drank lots of coffee, and played some games on the computer. Finally, a little after noon, I realized my head wasn’t pounding (much) anymore and I was actually hungry. I thought about fixing a quick sandwich or some soup, but I hadn’t eaten the night before and I was more than “lunch hungry” hungry. The idea of fixing a big meal wasn’t very appealing, but the idea of heading for Murray’s was. I went into the bedroom to dig my keys out of yesterday’s pants’ pocket, and on a whim, picked up the green thong and stuffed it in my pocket; didn’t want to leave the house without my talisman. I also grabbed the red pair and on my way through the living room, tossed them in the general direction of the copy holder (and missed, of course).
On the way to the door, the bell rang.
Now, this is the third time the doorbell has rung today. I’m betting each time it has, you thought I’d open the door to find Christie, didn’t you? And now you’re thinking “third time’s the charm” and she’ll be there, apologetic and ready for a tearful reunion and some more hot sex, am I right?
Come on. This is reality, not some cheesy porn story on the net.
It was my neighbor Mr. T again, come to see if I might perhaps still have a few of those molasses cookies. Noticing the keys in my hand, he apologized and said he’d come back another time, but I wouldn’t hear of it. I made him come in while I went to the kitchen and found the rest of the bag and presented it to him. He protested that he couldn’t possibly hide them from his wife, and I suggested he hide them in the garage, the same place he hid his cigarettes.
“You know about that?” he asked, incredulous. “I thought that was a secret.”
“She’ll never hear it from me, Mr. T,” I said. “But I was out for a late-night walk one time and saw a little red glow from the back of the garage when I passed by. Don’t worry, I won’t bust you for it.” He thanked me for that, and for the cookies. (Although he still protested he didn’t need more than one or two, I insisted he take the half-dozen or so left).
The drive to Murray’s was uneventful and I ignored the wistful tugging at my heart when I drove by the mall. Murray’s was crowded with the lunch rush, but since it was nearing 1 and time for people to get back to work, I didn’t have to wait long for a spot to sit. Joanne waved to me when I walked in, as did Olivia, the morning waitress.
Olivia brought me coffee, and we chatted briefly. She’d be leaving in just a few minutes; she and Joanne only overlapped a couple of hours, just enough to handle the lunch crowd. Olivia told me her daughter had just won a sports scholarship that would cover a little more than half her college expenses, and I congratulated them both on that. I knew Olivia had been worried about how she was going to cover it and pay the bills too, but she was absolutely determined that her daughter was going to get an education. Whenever I breakfasted at Murray’s, I always made sure to slip something extra into the tip; it wasn’t much, but every little bit would help come fall term.
Joanne finally came over to take my order, and looked closely at me.
“Well, I see she didn’t leave a mark,” she said offhandedly.
“Pardon?” I may have been feeling better, but the alcohol remnants still had me a little bit slow.
“When Christie slapped you,” she said quietly, so no one else would hear.
“You’ve talked to her?” I asked, pulse quickening. She nodded.
“She must’ve come here almost straight from belting you,” she said with a grin.
“How is she?” I asked anxiously.
“Not bad, considering she has a really stupid boyfriend. But we can talk later, when things are a little quieter, Harry. Now what do you want to eat?”
I finally had my reuben (two of them, actually), along with some iced tea and coleslaw. Maybe it had something to do with knowing Christie was “not bad, considering”, but I felt wonderful. That “she has a really stupid boyfriend” part didn’t hurt, either. Did she really consider me her boyfriend? (And isn’t there a better term than “boyfriend” for someone my age?)
I was sipping some coffee and enjoying the sunlight filtering in through the windows when things finally settled down enough for Joanne to come and sit with me.
“So talk. What happened?”
And I told her the whole story, from the time we’d left the other night. About our time in the car, about Christie’s words when she got out, about finding her with Lily and the boys, about the flowers and yesterday’s rape (although I left most of the details out), about the stupid idiotic asshole I’d been, about how Christie’d reacted, about how sorry I was and how worried. And I finished with, “So that’s it. The best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I screwed it up by being a big fucking asshole.” I was depressed again.
Joanne nodded. “That’s pretty much the story Christie told, including the part about you being a big fucking asshole.” I quirked a corner of my mouth up at that; I couldn’t quite bring out a laugh. I couldn’t blame Christie for saying it either, since it was true.
“Harry, I won’t tell you what all she said, ‘cause that was girl talk and in confidence.” I nodded.
“I wouldn’t expect you to, and would’ve been surprised if you had, Flower Girl. You’re a trustworthy old broad.” She grinned and flipped me off.
“That for your old broad, you old geezer,” she said. This time I did manage a smile. “But you’ve started something here, Harry, and she’ll have to have time to adjust to it. Christie’s had… a rough life, we’ll leave it at that. Last night, she stayed here until we closed, and then I drove her home- her real home, not the neighborhood you dropped her off in.” I quirked an eyebrow at that. Christie had lied to me? As if reading my mind, Joanne nodded.
“There’s a lot of things she has to tell you, Harry, but you have to be patient and wait for her to decide it’s time. She’s very vulnerable right now. She was coping with life by keeping it at arm’s length and wearing a suit of armor. And then you came along and the armor rusted and fell off, and she’s one very confused and scared little girl.” My heart twinged for my darling; I hadn’t meant to hurt her, and said so. Joanne shook her head.
“You can’t deal with life from behind a shell, Harry,” she said, looking directly into my eyes, and I knew that comment was as much about me as it was Christie. “You’ve probably helped her, but for a little while you’re going to have to be damned careful. She could come out of this in great shape, or it could fuck her up for life. Most of that’ll be up to her. But some of it’s up to you, too, Harry. And if you screw up again, it’s going to do some real damage. And then I’m going to damage you.”
Suddenly, I felt like crying again. My poor darling. What kind of hell was she going through? And how could I help her if I couldn’t even see her? I studied my coffee cup, willing the tears not to come.
“Harry, look at me,” Joanne commanded after a while. I looked up and our eyes locked; I couldn’t have looked away if I tried. “Are you really in love with her, Harry? Or are you just a lonely old man who’s so happy at getting his rocks off again that he’s confusing it with love?”
I opened my mouth to indignantly answer “Of course I am!”, but then shut it again. Was I really? Or was Joanne right? It had been a long time since there’d been any kind of woman in my life. My own shell had been pretty hard, too. (Had been? Are you so sure it’s gone?) (No, but I’m working on it.)
I thought about it for a long time, about a life with Christie, about a life without Christie, about loneliness, about sex, about fooling yourself. I thought about Heinlein’s definition of love, “that condition where someone else’s happiness is essential to your own.”
Finally, slowly, I nodded.
“Yeah. I really am. I know it’s crazy, I know we just met, I know most people would call me a sick old pervert, but there’s something about her- something about us- that just clicks. She makes me very, very happy. And I know I could make her- no, I know I could help her be happy, too.”
Joanne continued looking into my eyes for what seemed like a very long time, then she nodded too.
“Alright, Harry,” she said. “I think you really mean it. You’ll just have to be patient, then. She’s got a lot of things to think through before she’ll be ready for you. Don’t try to find her. Don’t go near the mall, not to say ‘Hi’ to Charlene, not even if you need to buy something. Wait and let Christie come to you.” She reached out and squeezed my hand. “I think she will, Harry. Just give her some time.”
I went home then, after slipping a $50 under my plate for Joanne to find after I left. Cheaper than a therapist, and a damned sight better, too. I made a vow to find something nice for Joanne, maybe a pair of earrings. She didn’t wear any necklaces, rings or other jewelry, at least not while she worked, but she always had a pair of oversized dangly things hanging from her ears, the more ornate and tacky the better. I’d have to see what I could come up with.
At home, there was a message on the answering machine from one of my clients. I grabbed pen and paper, replayed it and jotted down the changes. (Hadn’t this guy ever heard of email? So much easier.) The cane still lay on the couch, where I’d dropped it that morning, so I propped it next to the door, as a reminder to ship it next time I left the house.
Also just laying where they were thrown were Christie’s red panties, on the floor near the computer, with Traveler laying on top of them. I petted her and carefully moved her, then picked the thong up, pulled the green pair out of my pocket, and hung both from my copy holder. (Doesn’t leave much room for copy; good thing I don’t use it much.)
I was banging away at the keyboard, putting in the client’s changes, when my cell phone rang somewhere in the distance. “Christie?” was my first thought, followed quickly by, “Now where the hell did I leave it this time?” Following the chirping, I ran into the bedroom and dug it out of the pants I’d worn yesterday.
“Hello?” I must’ve sounded breathless, both from running and from hoping.
“Hi, Harry,” said a cheery, chirpy voice. “Had to run to find your phone?”
“Hi, Lily.” I was confused. Why was Lily calling me? “How are you? And thanks for finding Christie yesterday. You’re a sweetheart, and a good person; I don’t care what the other guys say about you.”
“You’re a smooth talker, Harry Potter;” she said, laughing.” Keep that up, and I might just have to try stealing you for myself.” She laughed loudly. “Like I could steal any guy from Christie, when she wants him.” My heart soared; did that mean she wants me? Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please.
“Well, you could give her a run for her money,” I said gallantly. “It’s hard to say no to a woman whose nipples are so hard they enter the room five minutes before she does.”
Lily snorted a laugh. “You’re such a flatterer. Or just observant.” She laughed again. “Listen, Harry, Christie asked me to call you, ‘cause she’s just not quite ready to talk to you herself, you know? She said to tell you thanks for the rose, wants to know if your face is OK, and says she’s sorry she hit you.” My heart soared more; pretty soon, it’d be out near Mars.
“Tell her I’m fine. And that she should have hit me harder, ‘cause I deserved it.”
Lilly laughed loud at that. “I think so too, but I’ll tell her. Oh, and she said to tell you- it was really weird, let me see if I can remember it exactly- oh, yeah. She said to tell you, ‘If white is for green, what color is for red?’ That make sense to you, Harry?
I was grinning so much it was hard to move my lips to talk.
“Makes a lot of sense, Lilyflower. Tell her I don’t know yet, but it’ll be something special, for someone special.” Lily sighed.
“You’re such a romantic, Harry. Maybe I’ll tell her you said you hate her, so you’ll fall into my arms for me to console you.”
“Don’t you dare, you little wench, or I’ll put you over my knee and spank you. Oh, wait, you might like that.” Lily snorted again.
“Don’t know, Harry, never tried it. But give me your address, grab your belt and I’m on my way.”
“Maybe another time, horny Lily,” I said, joining in her laugh. “I should know better than to tempt you. And God forbid I ever dare you.” I barked a couple of times, and Lily laughed.
“Hey, now. I said it was just once, and I was drunk. Anyway, I’ve gotta go. Mom’s yelling something in the kitchen.”
“OK,” I said. “Just tell her- Christie, not your mom- that I’m sorry, really, really, sorry. And that whenever she’s ready, she has my number. Oh, and that I’m patient- I can wait a long time. And thank you, Lily- a lot. I feel better, and I owe you a big hug next time I see you.”
“I’ll take the hug, but there’s a big something else you’ve got that you can give me, too. See ya, Harry.” And, laughing, she hung up.
What a day. Wake up with a hangover, get the shit scared out of me by the cops, an emotional roller coaster the rest of the time, and now I’m perched on top of Mt. Olympus. (Does the term ‘manic-depressive’ mean anything to you, Harry?) (Oh, be quiet, you.)
Whistling, I slipped Etta James into the CD player, sat down at the computer again, typed three words, then stopped. An idea had just flitted by in the back of my head. I just needed to wait for it to flit by again so I could grab it. It apparently gained some weight on its journey, because it was bigger and better formed when it came back. This time, it settled down in the middle of my head and looked around, while I stalked it with a net. I grabbed it, forced it into the light and took a good look.
Hmmm. I hadn’t done that in a while.
It could be done.
It could be shit.
It could be good.
Some of the others were damned good. A lot weren’t.
So if it’s not, she doesn’t see it.
That works.
I closed the client’s document and opened up a new page. At the top, in large boldface type, I typed, “Christie, My Christie”.
And for the next two hours, I wrote and erased and rewrote and edited and shifted phrases around and erased again and rewrote again and on and on until finally it was just so. Not great, I’ve done better. But good. I like it. My annoying little inner voice must’ve been distracted during all this, because when it finally noticed what was going on, it was amazed.
(Poetry, Harry? You’ve written her a poem? You haven’t written a poem in almost seven years. More than half her lifetime ago.) I winced at that thought; damned inner voice has a way of pointing out uncomfortable truths. I’d never written a lot of poetry, but for a long time I did at least one or two a year. Some of them were silly, some of them were fun, some of them were tragic, and some of them were even romantic. But I’d stopped a long time ago. I used to enjoy it, I thought; why did I ever stop?
(You’ve stopped a lot of things you used to enjoy, Harry. Prison wouldn’t be such a big change from the way you’ve been living for years, would it? Except that you’d spend more time seeing other people.) (Ouch. You’re way too right on that, my friend.)
I spent the rest of the evening with Etta, Miles, Muddy and Dave Brubeck, playing games and pissing around on the computer. The heck with work. OK, it wasn’t like I was getting out and seeing people, but I was at least breaking my routine.
The next day was semi-busy. I got up a little earlier than usual and took a walk around the neighborhood. I hadn’t done that in a while, either. It felt good to be out in the crisp morning air, I got to wave at all the poor saps heading off to offices and factories, and even stopped in to have some coffee with Mr. and Mrs. T. Poor Sheila’s arthritis is so bad she hardly ever gets out anymore, so she was glad of the company. Mr. T was glad to see me, too, not least because it made Mrs. T so happy.
I wondered if Christie and I would be like that after so many years, and shocked myself when I thought it. When had marriage crept into the picture? (Jesus Christ, Harry. It’s a week ago tomorrow that you met, and you’re already thinking marriage?) (I’m not really sure where that one came from. I haven’t consciously been thinking about it.) (Must’ve been you, Harry. I’m your subconscious, remember, and I sure haven’t been thinking about it.)
Then it occurred to me that we’d never have that many years together anyway, not given my age. The Towsleys had been married almost 60 years; in 60 years, I’d be 106 and likely dead. Guess we’ll just have to see what we can do with however many years we can squeeze in, then. (For someone who hasn’t been thinking about it, you sure accepted it awfully fast.) (I like you better when you’re silent.) (Tough. Silent’s not my job.)
I excused myself not long after that; the Towsleys would’ve been happy to see me there all morning, but I had things to do. Back at the house, I ignored the computer and grabbed my keys. I whistled my way over to the computer then and picked up the green thong and smiled at it for a moment before sticking it in my pocket. On impulse, I picked up the red one and held it close to my face. It still smelled like my Christie, pungent but fresh. (OK, you’re sniffing panties now, Harry. This is getting weird.) (I just needed to feel her presence, something more tangible than a memory, OK?) I inhaled again, a long deep breath, then hung them from the copy holder again. (But you’re right, that is getting a little weird.)
Grabbing the cane box, I left the house and drove to UPS, reminding myself that I’d have to email my brother it was coming. The next stop was at a computer store for some more blank CDs and a quick rummage through their bargain games bin; found a couple of old games I remembered fondly from years past, and bought them. (One wouldn’t run under newer operating systems, and the other wasn’t nearly as much fun as I remembered. Oh well.)
After that, it was a quick trip to a jewelry store down the street, where I picked out the gaudiest, dangliest, biggest pair of earrings I could find. I asked the sales clerk to wrap them for me ($12.95 for wrapping an earring box? Damn, I’m in the wrong business.) and picked out a card to go with it. I spent a long time with the card open in front of me, trying to figure out just what to write. I finally settled on the only thing that seemed appropriate- “Thank you. Harry.” I almost added “and Christie” but didn’t.
I pulled out my credit card to pay when on a sudden impulse, I went back to the earring counter. This time, I looked at the classy stuff. I wanted to get something for Christie. Oh, I knew I’d have to wait to give it to her, but I really wanted to get her a present, just to let her know I was thinking about her and to thank her, a little, for coming into my life. (I had lots of other ideas on how to thank her for that too, and no, they did not all involve full or partial nudity. Not even most of ‘em, in fact.)
There were a few I liked, but they had pretty high price tags. I was willing to pay that much, but I didn’t want Christie to think I was trying to buy her affection. I finally settled on a pair of reasonably priced fiery blue opals, with a little fancy silver filigree work around the edges.
I stopped at Murray’s for breakfast; it wasn’t quite 10, so Joanne wasn’t in. I gave the box and card to Olivia, and she promised to give them to Joanne as soon as she walked in. I tipped a little extra; I was in a crackling good mood.
Back at home, I checked my email and got to work on projects. I may be trying to break my routine, but I still had to pay the bills. And babies always needed something, not to mention a lot of attention, so I figured I’d better get work done while I could. (You’re scaring me, Harry. Her mother isn’t going to let her and the baby move in with you.) (I know. I’ll just have to go over there to help out.)
Another project finished and emailed to the client, and I finally decided to tackle the ditzy bitch’s brochure. I printed out her emails and spread them out on the desk, along with notes from phone messages, and started crossing out changes that she changed again later. By the time I finished, there were about half a dozen things left that she wanted altered. Half an hour’s work at most, I thought, as I opened her brochure in my publishing program.
Turned out to be closer to two hours, as some of her changes required me to redo other parts of the brochure to make it all fit. When it was done, I thought it looked pretty good. I printed it out, wrote a short cover letter (warning her we were almost at her deadline, she’d already paid for a lot of reworking, and subtly hinting that if she changed anything else without good reason, she could find someone else to do it), then put it all in an envelope and printed an address label. I dropped it on the desk, stretched and thought about what to do next.
It was dinner time, so I decided this was a good time to stop for the day. I slipped in The Wall, turned the CD player up enough I could hear it in the kitchen, and started working on a stir fry; hadn’t had it in a while, and it sounded really good. While the meat was marinating, I stuck the Jack Daniels and Captain Morgan bottles (each seriously depleted, I noted) in the back of a cabinet, tossed the two empty two liters into a box with other empty pop cans (I live in a state with a deposit law) and just generally futzed around cleaning up the place.
Dinner was good, and life looked pretty good while I sipped my after-dinner coffee. Only one thing was missing to make it complete, and I’d just have to wait for her. I imagined Christie sitting across the table, probably sipping an after-dinner Coke. I liked that picture, especially when it shifted slightly and a small auburn-haired baby with green eyes appeared in her arms. The phone interrupted that pleasant idea.
It was the house phone this time, so there was no scramble to remember where I’d left my cell. I picked up the kitchen extension and said, “Hello?”
“Ha-,” and there was a small cough, and someone cleared her throat. “Harry? It’s Christie.”
My throat closed and a hand squeezed my heart; adrenalin shot through me as I tried to panic and exult at the same time.
“Hi!” Down boy, don’t sound so eager. “How are you?”
“I’m,” she paused briefly, “OK, I guess. You?”
“I’m OK, too.” 
“How’s your face?”
“It’s OK. No permanent damage.”
So this wasn’t going to win awards for brilliant dialogue. Sue me. There was a brief awkward pause and then we both started talking at once.
“Harry, I’m sorry I got mad and hit you and-”
“Christie, I’m sorry I was an asshole and-”
And we both stopped, and then laughed. It was good to hear her laugh.
“Me first,” I said.
“OK.”
“Look, I was an idiot and I’m really, really sorry. Things have just moved kinda fast, and my head’s still spinning a little, and I got out of line, and I’m sorry. What you do and who you do it with isn’t any of my business, and I’m sorry I made you feel bad, and I’m really sorry I made you cry, and I really hope you can forgive me. I like you, Christie, and seeing you with those guys just kinda threw me. I know I don’t have any claims on you, and won’t ever say anything like that again. I don’t know what kind of spell you threw on Harry Potter” she snickered at that “but I like being around you. And I’d like being around you even if we weren’t having some of the best sex I’ve ever had.” She chuckled at that, too.
“We are pretty good together, aren’t we? I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have hit you, but it’s just-” she stopped for a few seconds. “It’s just that you’ve stirred up a lot of things in me, Harry, and it all exploded back out at you, and that wasn’t very fair, and I’m sorry. And you’re right- it isn’t any of your business, but I’m really sorry it got thrown in your face like that. If I’d known you were back there, I’d have gone somewhere else. Or maybe I’d have dumped them and come on back anyway. I like you, too, Harry. You’re nice to me. Not a lot of guys are nice to me. And I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
“Since we’re both a couple of sorry ass people, what say we just forget it, then? Maybe we can have dinner and just be friends for a night?” No, don’t push it, you idiot. Everyone tells you to take it slow, and the first thing you do is start pushing to see her again. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
“I’d like that,” she said softly. “In fact, that’s kinda why I called. Tomorrow’s Friday, Harry. I told my Mom I was going to spend the night at Lily’s. But if you want to, I’d like to spend the night with you. If that’s OK, and you don’t have any plans or anything. Lily will cover for me if Mom calls.”
She wanted to spend the night with me? I’d have bailed out on a private orgy at the Hefner Mansion for a chance at that.
“That sounds wonderful, Christie. Are you really sure that’s what you want, though? I mean, you don’t have to do it just to show me you’re sorry or anything.”
“No, I really want to. There’s some stuff I should tell you, maybe some stuff we should talk about.” She hesitated. “You know, stuff about me and… um, us. I mean, if you even want to think about… us.” She sounded scared, like she was afraid I would reject her.
As if.
“I’ve been thinking about us a lot, honey,” I said softly. “I really like the idea of an us. Are you sure that’s what you want, though? I mean, you’re a gorgeous and sweet little lady, and you could do a lot better than an old fart like me.”
Just as softly, she answered, “Nope. I don’t think I could do any better.” She actually sounded like she meant it; I glowed.
“What time should I pick you up, then?” I asked. “And where?”
“Well, I get out of school at 2:30, then I’ll have to go home and pack a few things. Why don’t you pick me up at the mall at 4? Say out back, the door by the food court?”
“Sounds good. How about dinner and a movie?”
“That would be cool, Harry. An actual date, like.”
“It’ll be a twofer for me. I’ll get to be with the prettiest lady in the restaurant and the theater.” She laughed at that.
“Lily’s right, you are a sweet talker. See you tomorrow, Harry.”
“OK. G’night, Christie.”
“Good night, Harry. L- Miss you.” And with that, she hung up.
She almost said she loved me. Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod. My heart raced at NASCAR levels. I felt like singing (dogs howl) and dancing (people howl) and jumping up and down (low ceiling). So I settled for calling one of the better restaurants in town and somehow got lucky enough to get reservations at 6.
Then, on an impulse, I jumped online and surfed to the local entertainment page for our city. The local university was hosting the traveling cast of Phantom of the Opera, and it was only half-way through its run and would probably be sold out but I tried anyway. Lady Luck was riding my shoulder that day, because much to my surprise I was able to get two tickets, and fairly decent seats, too. I didn’t know if she’d ever seen it, but I had and liked it. But no matter who they had playing the female lead, I was willing to bet my Christine was cuter.
(You’re getting kind of sickeningly disgusting, you know.) (I know. And I don’t care.)