A Benign Something

"You just look like someone who... I dunno," I stammered. "Maybe you run or play tennis or something like that. I'm just saying..."

Gayle slowly nodded, as I tried to explain myself, her grin growing wider. Then she chuckled and placed her hand on my knee, saying, "Ok, you can stop now."

As she pulled her hand away, she turned to her side and produced a small white paper bag.

"Cookie?" she asked, holding the bag between her thumb and forefinger.

I smiled.

"Um... Sure, ok."

She pulled out one large chocolate chip cookie between her long tan fingers, and then carefully handed it to me.

"Thank you."

Gayle licked her thumb and finger, replying, "...welcome." Then she plucked one out for herself.

For a moment, neither of us spoke, and an uneasy feeling came over me. I glanced at her from the corner of my eye, watching her chew and look around, as we waited for the talent show to start. Then she took another bite.

"And whadda you do?" she asked, holding a hand over her mouth.

"High school teacher," I replied, breaking off a piece of my cookie.

Gayle slowly nodded, and then turned her eyes to me.

"Yeah, I coulda guessed that," she said with a grin.

I chuckled, breaking off another piece.

"And why's that?" I asked.

She shrugged.

"The way you're dressed."

I chuckled again, my shoulders bouncing up and down.

"And how am I dressed?"

Gayle snickered, replying, "I dunno... like a high school teacher... a school marm."

I smirked and nodded, taking a bite.

"Ok," I said. "Fair enough."

"Whatcha teach?"

"English," I replied, smiling back at her.

Gayle grinned, saying her younger sister was an elementary teacher, as was their mother, though retired now.

"You like it?" she asked.

I picked away at my cookie and shrugged.

"Yeah, for the most part. But I dunno... Sometimes I think it'd be nice to be able to teach it to people who really wanted to learn it."

Gayle chuckled.

"Yeah," she said, reaching for her bottle of water. "I can remember being bored to tears in that class. The Great Gatsby," she said, holding the bottle to her lips. She took a few gulps, and then dropped the bottle down again. "That was a real snoozer," she added with a light laugh.

I grinned.

"Yeah," I said. "I guess it is a bit worn out."

Gayle set her bottle down and rotated her body so she was facing me. She crossed her legs and gave me her patented mysterious smile. And, I don't know why, but I could feel my face turning red.

"So what're you guys reading in your class?" she asked.

I slowly brought the cookie to my mouth, replying, "The Great Gatsby."

Gayle doubled over and slapped her hand to my knee, laughing out loud.

For the next hour, we sat and talked, even after the talent show had long since started. Every now and then, we'd stop to watch a particular act on stage, but then one of us would start up the conversation again.

Gayle was lively and fun, sometimes animated, when she spoke, and whenever she listened, she did so with great intensity, leaning forward and smiling and slowly nodding her head. There never really seemed to be a dull moment, during the conversation, getting to know one another. And the more she spoke, the more I wanted to know. So, it was with some sadness that it ended, when the show stopped and Rachel and Kate came walking over to us.

Gayle helped me to my feet, and then helped pick up my blanket and assorted belongings. We giggled and laughed, the same as we had been doing for well over the last hour.

"It was really nice meeting you," she said, holding out a delicate hand.

I grinned wide and offered her mine, and said likewise. And, as she held my hand in hers, she gave it an almost imperceptible squeeze, running her thumb gently over the top of it. My smile twitched, though I'm sure she didn't notice, and then, just as she released me, she winked, very quickly, but there all the same, and said goodbye.

That evening, as I sat at home watching television and nothing in particular, I found myself wondering what Gayle was doing at that moment. I couldn't imagine that someone like her - pretty and intelligent and a wonderful conversationalist - would be sitting at home alone. I turned to look up the steps, up toward the bedrooms. Rachel and Kate were in her room with the door closed. The stereo was playing, though not loudly, and every now and then, I'd hear one or both of them laugh. I turned back to the television and smiled and sighed. At least someone was having a good time.

When I finally went to bed, they were still in Rachel's room, although, once in a while, they had made sudden quick appearances throughout the course of the evening. Otherwise, they remained cloistered away inside her tiny bedroom.

I turned off the lights downstairs, save for that in the kitchen, in case someone woke in the middle of the night. Then I crept up the stairs to my room. As I reached the top step, I could make out the faint smell of incense coming from my daughter's room. I paused briefly by her door and could hear very soft music playing from inside. Then I heard what could only be a sigh. I took a deep breath and briskly stepped into my bedroom and shut the door.

I walked over to the nightstand beside the bed and clicked on the light. My room was large, and I had been its sole occupant for the last four years. My husband passed away much too soon, and I missed him terribly, but what I was starting to miss most of all was the company. I had long ago come to terms with his death, but never quite with the emptiness in my heart, my life, my home, even my bed. About a year and a half after his passing, Rachel suggested I might start dating – with her permission, of course. That's a difficult thing to do, no matter how you slice it. Sadness, regret, shame, even embarrassment. I felt it all, at the very thought of dating, of actively seeking out someone else, after having devoted myself exclusively to one person for so many years. My one true love was gone, the man with whom I thought I would grow old. But, more and more, I grew unhappy in being without a close friend, a companion, someone I could lean on and hold. I was tired of being alone.

I never told Rachel, but a short time after her suggestion, and while she was away for a weekend class excursion, I went to a bar in search of what I thought I needed. Not what I wanted, but what I needed. I met a man there, wholly not my type, and brought him home with me. We had sex, if you could call it that. I kneeled on the floor in front of the couch and took him into my mouth. He didn't last very long, and soon I was gagging, as he worked my head up and down. After he ejaculated into my mouth, I crawled over to a waste paper basket and spit, to which he responded with a disapproving chuckle. Even still, I crawled back and took over masturbating him, keeping his erection so I could have a chance to feel good, too. When he was fully erect again, he had me turn and drop my jeans and panties. I handed him a condom from my purse, and then he entered me roughly and fucked the same. And, as before, his ejaculation came all too soon. I hadn't felt much of anything, as we briefly had intercourse, except for a deep sense of regret that slowly enveloped me, as he thrust into my body.

I pulled up my jeans, and he did likewise, and then left with no great fanfare. He got what he wanted, and I was left feeling ashamed and angry with myself and the life I felt was unfairly handed to me.

To be sure, I had friends. I had friends at work, friends next door, even a few of my husband's former colleagues and pals who occasionally said hello, on the off chance we bumped into each other. But they had their own lives and families. Friends come second to family, something I could hardly hold against them. Sure, I had Rachel, the only child of our marriage. And since my husband's death, she and I had become closer. I still couldn't help but think her sudden "outing" as a lesbian was more a result of coping with the loss of her father, than it was a part of her nature to be attracted to the same sex. She had dated boys for a very long time, but I suppose this was her way of dealing with the trauma and loss. Mine was to sit at home and feel sorry for myself, trying to cope as best I knew how.

But Gayle struck me as a ray of hope - a possibility, though I don't know exactly why. It may have been a combination of things. I liked her personality, and we seemed to get along well enough, if only for the short time we talked. But what I think most intrigued me was that she didn't know my story or me. She seemed to know Rachel and might know something about the tragedy that befell our family. Still, Gayle didn't know me. Our friends, after my husband's death, treated me with kid gloves, and, to some extent, seemed to keep a respectable distance, likely their way of letting me mourn. The thing is, they never came back. A few tried, but when we made the attempt at resuming our normal routine, I could tell, it wasn't quite the same. They'd drop me off to a darkened home, while they returned to their family, and an air of discomforting gloom seemed to settle upon us, as we said goodbye for the evening.

But Gayle wasn't like this. She didn't treat me as if she felt sorry for me. With her, it felt like starting with a clean slate. Others might look upon our brief encounter in the park as insignificant, shrugging it off as one of those minor occurrences in life; you make a new acquaintance, perhaps with the possibility of becoming a friend, but if not, oh well. They already have plenty of those, as it stands. Friends come and go. But, in my mind, meeting Gayle carried slightly more weight. She could very well be my way back to a life of normalcy. I liked her, and she seemed to like me. We enjoyed each other's company. To me, she fit the bill. Gayle was what I wanted.

The next morning, I walked downstairs to breakfast and found Rachel sitting at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of cereal and reading the newspaper.

"Kate go home already?" I asked.

Rachel looked up and bobbed her head, as she chewed.

I opened the refrigerator and pulled out the milk.

"What time she leave?"

Still reading the paper, Rachel shrugged.

"Maybe half hour ago," she replied.

I walked over to the table with a bowl in one hand and glass of ice tea in the other.

While Rachel continued reading, I tried to think of a way to bring up the subject of Gayle. I reached over for part of the newspaper under her elbow, and she lifted it, still keeping her gaze fixed on the paper.

"Hey, I wanted to ask you something."

Rachel took another bite of cereal and looked over at me.

As I carefully opened the paper, trying to act very nonchalant about the whole thing, I asked if she knew Gayle's last name.

"Mah-nin," she replied with a mouthful of cereal.

I tilted my head and cocked an eyebrow.

"Pardon?"

Rachel chuckled, wiped the milk that had drooled onto her chin, and swallowed.

"Martin," she said.

Then she went back to reading the paper.

I tried to think of another way to ply her for information, but then she reached out for her glass of orange juice, and spoke.

"Why?" she asked.

"Why what?"

"Why'd ya wanna know?"

I shrugged, trying to feign innocence, which wasn't entirely contrived. It was a good question: why did I want to know?

"I dunno," I stammered. "She didn't mention it, and I didn't think to ask. Just curious."

Rachel nodded and took a long gulp from her glass, setting it down and continued reading.

I waited a few seconds, and then asked what she was like.

Rachel shrugged and turned the page.

"Nice, I guess."

I dropped my shoulders and sighed softly. That wasn't a very descriptive answer.

"So, she's a physical therapist?"

"Yeah... at the hospital."

Rachel worked part time there, so I figured that must be where they met.

I opened the newspaper and took a bite of my cereal.

"She seemed pretty nice," I said, fishing for Rachel to continue the thread, but all she did was shrug and give a curt reply.

"Yeah," she said. "She's cool."

I could see this wasn't going anywhere and decided to drop the subject.

For the remainder of the day, I tried to keep myself busy. It was a typical dull Sunday for me. I cleaned up around the house, tried to work in the garden, but still, I was bored to tears. Rachel had gone out with Kate somewhere, leaving me to my own devices. By 3pm, I was about at my wit's end. I couldn't take the silence and isolation any longer. I walked into the kitchen to the phone and flipped through the university directory looking for Gayle Martin.

And then I found it.

I picked up the phone and was about to dial, but stopped. What was I doing? I hardly even know her. We only talked for, perhaps, a total of an hour and ten minutes. And now I was calling her, as if we were dear old chums? I quickly hung up the phone. No, I thought. Even I would think it a bit strange for someone I had only just met to do that. And then depression set in. I slowly trudged out to the living room and fell back onto the couch.

"I need to get outa here," I mumbled, running my hands through my hair.

A few hours later, after doing the laundry and folding it, attempting to clean Rachel's room, but immediately stopping upon finding a sex toy under her bed, aside from the usual clutter, she finally arrived home.

She was helping me fix dinner in the kitchen, when she nearly knocked my socks off.

"Guess who we saw at the mall?" she asked, while slicing a cucumber.

I was rinsing a head of lettuce in the sink.

"Who's that?" I replied.

"What's-her-name."

I chuckled.

"And who would that be?"

Rachel tossed a small slice of cucumber into her mouth, replying, "That, uh, Gayle chick. Gayle Martin."

My heart instantly started racing, and all the blood in my body sank to my feet.

"Oh yeah?" I replied, trying to maintain some control and not seem overtly, even strangely, enthusiastic about this revelation.

I turned off the water and shook the lettuce in the sink, and then placed it in a bowl and began peeling it.

"And what'd she have to say?" I asked with a nervous grin.

Rachel picked up the cutting board and scraped the cucumber slices into a bowl.

"Notta whole lot," she replied.

My sudden glee quickly evaporated.

Rachel set the empty board in the sink and turned on the water to rinse it off.

"Oh... Almost forgot," she said. "She asked what you were doing Thursday night."

I had just picked up the bowl of lettuce and was about to turn toward the kitchen table, when she said that. I gulped and glanced at Rachel, who thankfully wasn't looking, as I'm sure I was white as a ghost.

"Yeah?" I squeaked.

Rachel pulled the board out of the sink and began wiping it off with a dishtowel.

"Yeah, said she's having some friends over at her place and wanted to know if you'd wanna come over too, I guess. I dunno... I wasn't really paying attention and she talks kinda fast, anyway."

Now I could feel my face turning red - red with anger. I wanted to toss the lettuce across the room and throttle my own flesh and blood. Instead, I forced myself to remain calm.

"Did she, uh... saying anything else? Any information? Like when and where?"

Rachel wiped her hands with the towel and turned to me. She seemed to be racking her brain, trying to remember, while I became more impatient.

"Umm... Oh, yeah," she finally said, and reached into her back pocket, pulling out a small slip of paper. "She wrote it down."

Rachel handed it to me, and there, scrawled on it in someone else's handwriting, obviously not Rachel's, was a name, phone number, address, and time. Below this were the words, "Dress casual". Next to that was a smiley face.

The blood that had boiled to my face now flooded back down to my feet.

"Gonna go?"

"Hm?"

I looked up and Rachel was staring at me. She poked her finger at the paper in my hand.

"Gonna go?" she asked.

"Oh... Um... Yeah, well, uh... Sure. Sure, I don't think I have anything going on that night, so, uh... yeah, you know, why not? Sure."

Rachel smirked.

"Yeah," she replied sarcastically. "You gotta real busy schedule, huh?" Then she turned and walked into the living room. "A real social butterfly," she said. "That's you."

For the remainder of the night, I felt giddy. I hadn't felt this good in a long time. For some reason this little, otherwise insignificant, invitation made me feel more alive than ever before. So much time had passed, since I last felt such joy in my heart, and I was happily becoming reacquainted with something I thought I'd never again experience.

Today was Sunday and the get-together, or whatever it was, wouldn't be until the following Thursday - four agonizingly long days. All evening, I fought the urge to call her. Over and over, I played out in my mind what I'd say, what my reason would be for calling. To thank her? To let her know I had accepted her offer? Or maybe she felt sorry for me. Maybe she and Rachel had been talking that afternoon and somehow my name came up in the conversation.

"Where's your mom?"

"Sitting at home sulking. She's really in bad shape. Boy, I feel sorry for her, don't you?"

Was this a pity invitation? No. No, it couldn't be. Besides, I doubt Rachel would talk about me like that. I think she understood what I was going through. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I reasoned out how that conversation probably went.

"Where's your mom?"

"Uh... Last I saw her, she was at home vacuuming the rug. Why?"

That was more like the Rachel I knew.

So, I didn't call Gayle. I wanted to. I wanted to very badly, but I didn't. I resisted the temptation. No, I thought, I'd call her tomorrow evening. Still, that would be a torturous twenty-four hours.

That night, as I crawled into bed, I leaned over to set my alarm on the nightstand. The phone was sitting next to it. I glanced at the clock once more, the fleeting thought of calling her coursing through my mind, but quickly turned away and pulled the covers up over my shoulders.

"Definitely not at this time of night," I mumbled.

Sure enough, the next day was pure Hell for me. I was nearly tempted to call her around noon, but thought better of it. That would probably be worse than calling her as soon as I got the invitation. So I waited. Every now and then, I'd glance at the clock in the back of my classroom, seeing how much longer I'd have to wait and suffer. The hands moved slowly, excruciatingly slowly. And even though it felt like the day would never end, with each passing hour, every minute that slipped by, I knew I was that much closer to home, the phone, and my new friend.

It wasn't until 4:30pm that I finally cast off the shackles and jumped in the car and sped home. By 5pm, I was standing in the kitchen debating whether or not to call. I looked over at the clock, my new tormentor, and bit my lower lip. Shaking my head, I forced myself to walk away.

"Too soon," I muttered. "Might not be home."

What about calling her at six?

I shook my head again. No. That might be too soon, as well. She might be out jogging or running or exercising or whatever it is she does.

All right, how about seven? Surely she must be done by then.

I sat on the edge of the couch and thought about it. Seven o'clock. No, let's make it seven-thirty, just to be on the safe side.

Ok, but what're you going to do until then?

Make dinner.

And that's how I busied myself for the next hour. By 6pm, Rachel was home, but said she had a late lunch and wasn't hungry. Although it would have been nice to know this before I prepared enough food for two people, still, it killed an hour. Half an hour later, I had finished dinner, chatted with Rachel for a few minutes about her day, and was ready to clean up. When seven o'clock rolled around, I decided that was long enough. I was going to call Gayle.