Meanwhile, in a Parallel Universe...

This comes from a story I reworked, writing a different plotline under a different title. For those who believe in parallel universes, it could have gone this way also.

A few years after we last did business, I cross paths with Melissa Hofstadter in the greeting card aisle of CVS Pharmacy in Lutherville, a suburb just north of Baltimore City.

Melissa was a mess of contradictions. At least that's the way I saw her when she was on my probation caseload for possession of something or other. She was the bad girl who'd cuss up a storm one minute, then cry over some tragedy that had befallen someone she didn't even know the next. She was hard and sensitive, selfish and generous, truthful and manipulative. A mess of contradictions, like I said, and so sexy in my eyes that her smile alone could trigger taboo thoughts. She was sexy, not beautiful, not even pretty. Heck, not even cute in the classic mold of cute (Selena Gomez, Gwyneth Paltrow, Sally Field, Meg Ryan, et al). Melissa did have a cute personality coupled with a wry sense of humor that made me laugh. She also had pretty skin, smooth and translucent. And her eyes, a shade of gray mixed with a shade of green (hazel?), could have hypnotized me had I let her. And man, did she smell good! Sometimes, to make a point, she'd lean over my desk and I'd get a whiff of her, a scent that didn't resemble any perfume on any woman I'd ever been with. It was intoxicatingly rich, a mix of coconut and vinegar, perhaps—a scent hard to describe but easy to love. I suspected it was all her but didn't dare ask. She'd been on my caseload, after all, and probation agents are strictly forbidden to socialize with their offenders. At times, that restraint frustrated me, for Melissa conveyed an image of raw, raunchy sexuality. I always suspected that she could get down and dirty with few inhibitions. My fantasies continued even after she completed her probation.

That was at least four years ago, when she was in her early twenties and I had just turned thirty. So neither of us had changed that much, certainly not slim, five-foot seven inch Melissa, perusing the greeting cards, wearing black stretch pants, a green, short-sleeve sports jersey and sneakers. I see her from the side, just a few yards away, picking up the cards, giving them a brief read and then putting them back. She wears her light brown hair the same way she often did, in a long ponytail that sprouts from the side of her head like a clump of thick bushes. "Melissa, is that you?"

She straightens up and turns. "Agent Wachter!"

"You can now call me Kip," I say, wondering if her greeting is one of surprise, fear, disgust, joy or all of the above. "I mean, it's been at least four years."

"At least," she says, throwing a hand on her hip and bending slightly sideways. She flashes me a sly smile while giving me the once over. "It's the first time I've seen you without your tie and sports coat."

She's right. Even while making field visits, I never wore what I'm wearing now on this warm, spring, Saturday afternoon—khaki shorts and a short sleeve, Under Armour workout top that clings to my jacked five-foot eleven inch frame like it's glued on. "Yep, I guess it is the first time you've seen me dressed down. How've you been? Keeping out of trouble, I hope."

She cocks her head to the side. "Keeping out of trouble? Well, not exactly but I'm not into anything I should get arrested for." She giggles. "What about you? Still supervising baddies like me?"

"Still on the job," I say, then add: "Actually, you were pretty good. That is, until you tested positive for marijuana a few times, forcing me to violate you."

She had gone back before Judge Mary Ann Gimbal who continued her on probation per my recommendation. It was a hot July day, and Melissa wore a short yellow dress. I sat next to her in court, staring at her tan, shapely thighs and inhaling that intoxicating scent of hers—all while being discreet, of course.

"And I'll always be grateful that you didn't recommend jail time," she says. "All water under the bridge now." I nod and ask her what she's been up to. "Working two part time jobs, cashiering at Target and clerking at Bel Loc Liquors. Keeping out of serious trouble, like I said. And—you'll like this—working out, something you recommended back then. Remember?"

"Very well." I had suggested it in the hope that the discipline of regular exercise would get her to stop taking illegal drugs. "You look in great shape," I say and mean it.

She then proceeds to tell me that she trains almost every day at LA Fitness, doing machines, free weights and cardio. "Looks like I traded one addiction for another," she laughs. "But at least this one's healthy."

Melissa was always slim, though now she looks toned and solid, her arms especially. Many young women have good legs, but only those that exercise their upper bodies can possess the kind of shape and definition in their arms that Melissa proudly displays. Better still, her skin has a healthy glow to it, quite a contrast from the pale, sallow girl I once knew.

Speaking of arms, I notice her checking out my own. "Damn, Kip, I always knew you were in great shape yourself. But you always wore long sleeve dress shirts, hiding those big guns of yours. No wonder you almost crushed me when we said adios."

She refers to the time we hugged on her last report day. I still sometimes debate if I should have surrendered to impulse and kissed her. I really wanted to, and I think she would have gone along. "You thanked me for being 'fair," I remind her. "Then told me I did a 'kick-ass job.' Remember that?"

"Of course I remember that. I also remember waiting for you to kiss me, the kiss that never came." She frowns.

"Technically, you were still on probation."

"But you wanted to, didn't you?"

"Yes." Not one to pass up second chances, I look up and down the aisle. "But now you're not. So, shall we?"

She grins. "Okay."

We embrace. First our lips touch, then our tongues plunge and wiggle. It's brief, but potent. I tell her she still smells great. "You've been told before, I'm sure." She nods. "So how does it feel to be kissed by your ex-probation agent?"

She holds her stomach and takes a deep breath. "Well, let me put it this way. It makes me wish we were someplace else other than in CVS." When I ask for her cell number, she asks if I'm married.

"Hell no. You?"

"No, but I have a boyfriend."

"Ah, it figures. A serious boyfriend?"

"He'd like to think so. Not me."

"Why's that?"

"I don't see a serious future with him. He's a high school dropout. Gets mad when I suggest he study for a GED. Goes from job to job. It's time for me to move on."

"So do it."

She looks alarmed. "If only it were that easy. Frank might do something bad if I left him."

"Bad as in..."

"He might hurt me. Might even kill me."

I shake my head, thinking of the male offenders on my caseload for domestic violence convictions. "That's not good. What makes you so sure he'd get violent if you break things off?"

"By his actions. A few weeks ago, I tried to talk to him about it and he slapped me hard across the face. Knocked me cold for a few seconds. He said, 'nobody drops me, I decide when it's time to call it quits.' I figure that's proof enough."

"Is he on probation for something?"

"No, not now. He was a few years ago for assault."

"Last name?"

"Gratz, Frank Gratz. Date of birth, September fourth, nineteen ninety-two. You can look him up." She glances at her watch. "Look, I gotta be some place at four. It was nice seeing you, Kip." She reaches out for a hug.

I respond, then begin to walk away before stepping back. "Look, I'll give you my cell number. Or, you can reach me at the office. You can call or not, it's up to you."

Pursing her lips, she hesitates, waving the greeting card she holds back and forth. Then she nods, and begins punching my number into her phone.

*****

Melissa's predicament disturbs me. In my eyes, men who assault women to keep them in line are cowards. It's not my problem and I'd be wise to keep out of it, I know, but I like Melissa. Other than the positives for marijuana, she never gave me five minutes worth of trouble. She always reported as directed and never with an attitude. And yes, I'll admit that I wouldn't mind spending a few hours in the sack with her. Is that my primary focus for wanting to see her again? Honestly, it was until she told me about this Frank and his threats. Running a rap sheet on him, I see the assault conviction and two other assault charges that were dropped. Even so, there's not much I can do to help Melissa unless she calls. Yet even then, what could I do? Probably nothing, so I'd do well to go about my business and forget about it. Besides, I doubt I'll ever hear from her again.

Except days later, I do. "Just like old times, huh Kip," she says, "when you had me calling in."

"Except now you're off probation," I say. "All is well, I hope."

A few seconds of silence pass. Then I hear sniffling. "Look, I need to see you. Can you meet me after work?"

"You don't sound so good."

"I don't feel so good. Can you be at the Starbucks out here around five?"

"Sure."

She's there before I get there, and I'm there at five on the dot. She's in jeans and a sweatshirt and I'm still in my work duds sans tie. She insists on paying for our lattes, and then we take a small table against a wall. "You sounded upset when you called me."

"Right, I was." She pulls up her sleeve to show me a nasty bruise on the inside of her forearm. "Frank's handiwork."

"You talked about leaving him, I suppose."

"Yes."

"Melissa, go to the police and charge him with assault."

"I'm afraid to."

I nod, for I fully expected her to say that. "So now what?"

She takes a sip and shakes her head. Her eyes tear up, narrow with the look of fear. She bites her lower lip. "I don't know, Kip, I really don't know."

Reaching out, I run my hand over her arm. "Not to change the subject, but I like your hair that way. You should let it down more often."

Smiling wanly, she squeezes my wrist. "Thanks."

I take a few quick sips in a row. Then: "Melissa, I'm not sure why you called me out here. Is this all about your problems with Frank?"

She manages to chuckle. "Partly. You always gave me good advice, motivated me. If not for you, I might not have taken up exercise or studied for my GED. Those ideas came from you."

"Okay, but the action that followed was all you. You could have ignored the advice as so many of the people I supervise do. To your credit, you followed through."

She smiles. "Don't you want to hear the other part?"

"Okay."

"I like you, Kip, and not just because you've given me good advice or you're a nice guy, although all that helps." She looks down and then back at me before she continues. "Well, I always got the impression that you were hot for me. Call it woman's intuition or whatever. Anyway, to put it bluntly, thoughts of doing stuff with you, not just now but when you supervised me, made my panties wet. Know what I'm saying?"

I grin. "I think so."

"So, maybe we could, you know, get together." She purses her lips and blushes.

"What about Frank?"

She grips both hands around her cup and exhales. "He doesn't have to know. Thank goodness, I didn't move in with him as he suggested. In my mind, he's history."

"In your mind. In reality, he's still hanging around."

She sighs. "Yes, unfortunately."

"Mind if I put you on the spot?"

"Go ahead."

"Whatever possessed you to take up with a character like him to begin with?"

"I ask myself that all the time. I think it's because of the poor self-image I once had. Look, you know my story. High school dropout. Drug user. Job hopper. Loser chick going nowhere. So I'm like, girl, you don't deserve anyone better than Frank Gratz. He's your own kind. Then, thanks to you, I got my GED, whipped myself into shape and dropped the drugs. I've been working steadily for a year now and saving for community college. For the first time in my life, I look in the mirror and like what I see. Frank's going nowhere, and it's obvious that he feels insecure about my success."

This warms my heart. Melissa is turning her life around, doing it on her own and not making excuses for the girl who once didn't like what she saw in the mirror. I do know her story. Her dad, a hardcore druggie, died of an overdose when she was ten. Her stepdad was no prize either, beating her on occasion for misdemeanors that he perceived as major. At sixteen, when she drifted into drug use and dropped out of school, her mom threw her out. Then she lived with a succession of relatives, first her grandmother, then an aunt, and went through a succession of menial jobs. She grew up with lots of strikes against her, faced the sort of adversity that I never knew. Yet somehow she rose above it, maintained an optimistic, almost cheery outlook on life. It still confounds me how people with similar life histories are able to do that.

I squeeze her hand. "I'm very proud of you, Melissa. Keep up the good work."

"I intend to. I'm so glad you came back into my life. My big wish is that you'll stay there. Will you?" She looks so cute the way she says this, her mouth closed, her expression one of little girl, hopeful anticipation.

"Yes, of course," I say. "And this time I won't give you reporting instructions or make you pee into a cup."

"No drug testing? Darn!" She snaps her fingers.

"Well, only if you want me to."

We both laugh. Then, before parting ways, I ask if she's busy on Saturday night. "Normally I am," she says, "with Frank. But you know the story there."

I tell her that we can make it another time if seeing me on Saturday will put her in any danger. "You seem to know what he's capable of doing."

She shakes her head. "Frank's got to learn one way or another that we'll soon be history. So, what time?"

*****

"Who is he?! Who the fuck is he, Melissa?!"

My cell phone feels like it's going to explode. Frank is screaming his head off after I tell him that I'm busy on Saturday night. I could have lied, told him I have plans with a girlfriend. Instead, I tell him the truth—that I have a date, though I withhold with whom. He doesn't have to know that. "Frank, it's over between us," I say. "It's been over for awhile. If you were honest with yourself, then—"

"Don't give me all that psychobabble bullshit, Lissa. You've been cheating on me, haven't you, you sneaky little bitch."

"Cheating on you? I didn't know we were married, Frank."

When he starts yelling again, I hang up. I'm on break at Target, standing outside and shivering like it's winter instead of late spring. Kip was right. I know what Frank is capable of doing, and I'm scared shitless he might do it. But enough is enough and I've had enough, and not just because Kip's now in the picture. A jealous, abusive boyfriend I don't need. I deserve better than that, I think, as I hear my phone go off, watching Target customers come and go on the parking lot. I can just imagine the message Frank is now leaving as my phone goes into voice mail. I've always heard that there's a fine line between love and hate. Well, now I'm seeing it firsthand. Frank hates me right now and if he keeps this up much longer, I'll hate him back. I don't hate Frank—yet. I just want him to leave me the fuck alone, let me live my life.

Break over, I go back inside. It's Friday afternoon and I'm excited about seeing Kip tomorrow. He's taking me to dinner and then...well, I'm not sure, though I can picture what I hope he has planned. The anticipation of seeing him makes the rest of the afternoon go faster. I'm extra cheerful with customers at the cashier. Merva, one cashier over, notices it. "Who is he, Melissa?" she teases. I play coy. Maybe one day I'll be able to tell her that he's my ex-probation agent.

My cheer ends when I return to Walton Woods, my garden style apartment complex, and I see Frank's red Dodge Ram pickup in the parking lot. I circle around in my white Toyota Yaris, debating what I should do. Frank sees me and leaps from his truck. He leans against the cab, his arms crossed against his chest. He's wearing an arrogant grin. He's in boots and jeans and a sleeveless white T-shirt looking every bit the bad boy he is and is proud to be. He was once my type of man, tats and all. No more. I'm not the same person I was back then.

Finally, I pull up beside him. "Put one hand on me, Frank," I warn, "and I call the cops."

He grunts. "Park the car, we need to talk." He holds out his hands. "Won't touch you, I swear."

I consider, then pull in a few spaces away. Phone in hand, I approach him still wearing my red Target employee jacket and long khakis. "I don't have much to say to you," I say, keeping what I consider a safe distance from his meaty fists.

He nods, briefly looks away, scratches his head. "I love you, Lissa. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

I sigh. "Frank, it's no longer working with us. It's time to move on, time both of us moves on. You'll find someone else, you always do."

"Looks like you already have," he insists. "Who is he?"

I shake my head. "He's not my boyfriend, Frank, just someone I'm going out with."

"For how long?"

"What?"

"How long you been seeing him?"

I'm getting pissed. "Frank, this is the last question I'm going to answer, and then I'm going inside. It's a first date, all right? Now, I hope you'll keep your promise and let me pass without attacking me."

He nods. I then back away, keeping my eyes on him. Proceeding up the walkway toward the entrance, I keep turning around. He stays put, then climbs back in his truck by the time I'm inside. Peering through the sliding glass doors, I see him pulling away. Whew! Somehow, though, I don't think I've seen the last of him.

"Just be vigilant, on your guard for awhile," Kip advises me when I call his cell. I almost cry when he tells me how excited he is about tomorrow night.

Sleep doesn't come easy. Kip's on my mind; Frank, too. I read and watch TV until early morning. Saturday I do some shopping, then get ready for Kip. I want to look sexy without looking slutty, overdoing it. That means a short dress, but not too short. Exposed cleavage, but not too exposed. Besides, there's not much cleavage to expose—my boobs are kind of smallish. He likes my hair down so I'll leave it that way. He likes the way I smell, so just a dash of scent will do.

When he comes to the door, I know I did well. His wide grin says it all. "You look great," he says.

He looks great himself, and what he wears does justice to his beautifully jacked body-a light blue, short-sleeve knit sports shirt and snug-fitting blue khakis without a belt. He wears his hair in a high part; it creeps just over his ears, longer than most guys nowadays. I like it, like his car, too, surprised that he drives a black convertible Camaro instead of something more, well, conservative, like a Camry or Accord.

"Red Lobster okay?" he says when we drive off.

"Love it." I smile when I notice him eyeing my legs, the same way he did in court that time. He tried to be discreet, but I caught him. I'm not wearing pantyhose, almost didn't wear panties either. Too suggestive. Man, who am I kidding? I have lots to suggest.

We wait close to thirty minutes before we're seated. Then we order a surf and turf combo, lobster and steak, with a big salad and iced tea to wash it all down. I'm having a blast listening to Kip tell me about some of the characters on his caseload. It makes me feel like a girl scout next to some of them. He asks me about work, boring next to his, and if Frank had tried to contact me since yesterday. "If you're lucky, he'll stay away," he says.

It's dusk by the time we leave. We're both stuffed, so Kip suggests we take a stroll in nearby Gunpowder Falls State Park. It stretches over thousands of acres and has miles and miles of paths for doing anything you want—running, walking, cycling, whatever. We hold hands, strolling along one of the paths beneath a canopy of trees. The sounds of crickets and chirping birds bombard our ears. Oh, man, how I love the sweet, pungent scent of late spring! I feel giddy, almost pinch myself, scarcely believing I'm here with this dude who once I saw only across a desk and in a courtroom. I squeeze his hand, then stop and look up at him. "You like me, Kip? I mean, do you really like me?"