loopytheone
Well-Known Member
~BHM, ~BBW, ~~WG Once off the campus of his boys' boarding school, a historian meets a woman who defies convention.
In truth, I’d never given my stomach a moment’s thought, any more than I would have given a moment’s thought to, say, my pancreas or tailbone. It was there. It functioned. End of story. And when Thanksgiving rolled around, I did as most everyone does: got together with family and friends, ate way too much for a couple of days, and then forgot about the whole thing.
That’s certainly what I expected this year. I’d driven to my parents’ house in the college town in Pennsylvania where they’d lived for decades and waded through the throng of greetings. Mom, Dad, assorted aunts and uncles and the odd cousin, my brother (Trey) and sister-in-law (Alison) and their two little daughters, Kinsey and Rachel, my sister (Erica), her girlfriend (Felicity), their son, Gunther, and “Stacey, my colleague,” Erica said. I shook hands with Stacey absently, then as always pretended to inspect the wheels of Felicity’s chair.
“Got a flat here, ma’am,” I said in a bad Southern drawl. “Put you up on the lift?”
“Anytime, sailor,” Felicity shot back, her usual response, and everyone chuckled. Felicity always called me sailor, a reference to my four years in the Navy. Now I piloted several history courses at a boys’ boarding school, a place distinguished for its lack of females. The dozen or so on the faculty were either married, gay, or off limits due to lack of interest. Believe me, after three years I’d scoped them all out and been scoped out in turn. It crossed my mind to assume that Stacey had been brought along to chat up the solo diner. I found myself sneaking a second (okay, first) glance.
Stacey was of medium height and curvature. At a guess, five foot five and “broad where a broad should be broad,” as the song went, but not remarkably so. She had an oval face, blue eyes, and brownish-blond hair in a bob or wedge or shag or whatever that short haircut is called these days. I ruffled my nephew’s hair and went off to chase and tickle my nieces, who at 4 and 7 were prime candidates for that sort of thing.
As the afternoon progressed, though, something about Stacey held my attention. I let it simmer on a mental back burner until I teased it out shortly before dinner. I will frankly admit that I notice women a lot, partly because there are so few of them around me most of the time. Any time I’ve ventured out into The World, my girldar is operating full out. And I’ve formulated a couple of observations. (Yeah, yeah, I’m a historian. I talk funny.)
One: Contrary to what pop culture would have us believe, 90% of the population does not have “perfect” bodies, “perfect” meaning stick-slender and curve-free. Most of us are at least a little misshapen compared with, say, Taylor Swift or Robert Pattinson. Two: Even though those of us with somewhat lumpy bods far outnumber the world’s pop deities, we still act as though we’re failures because we don’t conform to an all-but-impossible standard. Women more than men. I can’t tell you how many women I’ve noticed who hide their bodies behind swags of cloth, layers, drapes, camouflage; and whose posture, presence, and way of moving shout: Don’t look at me, I’m flawed.
Stacey, as I had already observed, did not have one of those little size 0 mannequin figures. Neither did she drape, conceal, or withdraw into herself. She wasn’t doing a catwalk strut through the living room; she simply held herself straight, moved with confidence, sat comfortably without twitches or self-conscious adjustments, and wore a periwinkle-blue shirt and dark gabardine slacks that fit and that showed that she had a chest, waist, and hips, like most of the rest of the female population. She radiated serenity and comfort in her own skin, and that was so unexpected in my worldview that it caught my attention.
Over dinner, Felicity and Erica subtly nudged me into conversation with Stacey. She worked at the reference desk of a branch library and was an amateur historian, having read all of David McCullough’s books as well as several by Joseph Ellis and Doris Kearns Goodwin, most recently Team of Rivals, although she confessed that at the moment her attention was being claimed by Jon Meacham’s biography of Andrew Jackson, American Lion.
“I actually keep seeing parallels between Jackson and a fictional figure who would have been his contemporary, Horatio Hornblower,” she confessed, glancing away as if embarrassed.
“Oh, really,” I said interestedly. “Like what?”
“His determination to serve his country, even if it made his wife unhappy sometimes,” she said slowly. “His pride, the way he led, the way he was in authority.”
“You know, you might be on to something,” I said, absent-mindedly heaping large second helpings of everything onto my mysteriously empty plate. “Especially his pride. Hornblower’s pride was both his master and his servant, and I think that could be said of Jackson as well.”
Her eyes lit up. “You know the Hornblower books?”
Erica snorted. “Gavin’s got them virtually memorized. Discovered them when he was 12 or 13. I think he’s read them all about forty times each.”
“Oh, thank you, Erica,” I said dryly. I held the dish of creamed cauliflower up to see if anyone else wanted any. Stacey reached out her hand, and as I gave her the bowl, our fingers brushed and I felt a tingle, an actual surge. I think she did too, because she blushed, rose on cream, and asked Felicity about the staying power of whatever boy band is on the label of the record company she works for. I forget the band. Some anonymous, androgynous quintet that makes 12-year-olds squeal. I turned to Trey and joined in his and Dad’s analysis of the Steelers’ chances.
A glass or two of wine, a warm room, good company, enjoyable conversation, and favorite foods that nonetheless appeared on the table only once or twice a year. I ate and drank in dreamy contentment, almost subconsciously feeling my belly begin to fill and then stretch, heavy with food, and it crossed my mind that I’d eaten enough. But then the stuffing went by again, and I really wanted another taste, and the cranberries, and the sweet potatoes, and the squash, and the cauliflower, and oh yes, gravy, and the last crescent roll.
Enough. I was full, I was achingly stuffed, I was about to pop. Seemingly as one, we all had reached the same conclusion, for chairs were being shoved back and all concerned were waddling, staggering, or rolling away from the table to the recovery areas. Stacey ended up with Alison, Erica, Felicity, and the nieces in the front room, while Dad, Trey, Gunther, and I claimed the den. Mom and a couple of aunts were in the kitchen, I think, Uncle Max and Uncle Steve were sacked out somewhere, and Aunt Anne and Uncle Ted had to leave right after dinner.
With an entirely inadvertent grunt I sank into a chair and stretched out my sock feet. “Oof. Hic. That’s it. No more room at the inn.” I hiccupped again and, wincing, gently rubbed my belly. It was normally thoroughly unremarkable, but at the moment it had most of my attention. I had stuffed it to the brim, and it was stretched and tender. My jeans appeared to have shrunk. I fumbled open the button and zipper and quite by accident groaned in relief. A tentative poke revealed that my midsection was swollen tight as a drum and incidentally produced a much-needed belch.
“Ooh, good one,” Trey said through a yawn. A huge hiccup. “Ow. Damn, man.” He patted his own belly, which like mine was visibly rounder, gorged with a disgraceful amount of dinner. Dad was patting his own stomach; from the look of things, he had partaken more modestly, but he contributed a few belches to the conversation. He switched on the football, and we all half-watched, dopily criticizing the officiating, and dozed in a food-induced slumber.
An hour or so later, Erica stuck her head in. “Trivial Pursuit, males vs. females, in the dining room, now, Mom says.” We blinked back to life and grunted and groaned ourselves upright. This was a Thanksgiving family tradition, and the teams were well matched. Alison had settled Kinsey and Rachel and Gunther with a DVD in the master bedroom.
As before, I was aware of Stacey. She had eaten her share of Thanksgiving dinner, and her slacks tugged at her visibly bloated tummy, but she still sat comfortably, and she made no move to hide the body she had. Beautiful. I was entranced by the curve and swoop of her lines. The game proceeded amid much laughter, though I was rather distracted by trying to catch discreet glances of Stacey, whose every move excited my notice. Finally the women won, though it was close, and Mom and Alison went into the kitchen to dish up pie and ice cream and coffee.
We all groaned and complained, then we all laid waste – er, waist – to the dessert. Afterward, Erica, Felicity, Gunther, and Stacey departed to their hotel and I surprised myself by minding her absence quite a lot.
Eventually I departed to the basement and the bagged-out fold-out sofa, Seventies vintage, of the sort that flops open once to create a single bed, and if you ask me, sturdier and more comfortable than those trifold deals that supposedly make a double bed and always skewer you with the bar right in the middle.
I’d eaten much too much, and my swollen and groaning stomach kept me awake for a spell. I occupied my time thinking about Stacey. It was so rare for me to see a woman whose body was like that of thousands of women but who carried herself with serenity and quiet assurance. Not defensive, not embarrassed, but calmly confident. If her chin doubled when she ducked her head, if her belly folded over her waistband when she sat, if there was some give to her biceps, so be it: she neither blushed nor was antagonistic about it. She simply was, and I found it both extraordinarily refreshing and extraordinarily pretty.
Grunting, shifting, and coaxing up an occasional belch, I finally drifted off into a fitful sleep with dreams that fled the moment I woke up. I took family privilege and appeared at the breakfast table uncombed, unshaven, and in pajamas, grunting drowsily over a cup of coffee. Only then did I shower, shave, and dress before departing to meet Erica and Felicity for breakfast at their hotel, another family tradition. By sleeping in, it seemed, I’d missed Trey and Alison, who with the girls had been up and away by 7:00.
As soon as I walked into the lobby, I felt my face break into a thoroughly goofy grin. Stacey was there with Erica and Felicity (Gunther, apparently, still sacked out) and my God she looked fabulous. She wore the same slacks with a scoop-neck lavender shirt that fitted snugly, showing that she had the curves that nature had intended. My heartbeat stuttered and my breath caught in my throat for a moment, so that my “Good morning” was croaked rather than spoken. Oh, suave, Gavin, very smooth.
Erica winked at me but said nothing as I gave her a kiss on the cheek and bent to give Felicity one as well. To my pleased surprise, Stacey tilted her face, and she got a familial peck, but this one shot a surge through me that jolted me awake more thoroughly than any coffee.
“I’m starving,” she said as we began to fill our plates. “Like I didn’t eat enough yesterday.”
I groaned at the memory. “Oof. I ate so much I thought I was going to bust right there.”
“Pig,” Erica said affectionately, reaching over me for the sausage links.
“No, that’s pig,” I replied, and she rolled her eyes.
We lingered, nursing coffee, doing far too much damage to the buffet. By the time we finally ambled out of there, it was a quarter to 11 and the staff were trying to set up for lunch.
“Well….” I stretched and groaned, providing my once-more-aching belly a moment of relief. Primarily to prolong my time with Stacey, I’d eaten a lot more than I’d wanted to and my gut was heavy and churning, working at breaking down an indecent assortment of sausage, pancake, syrup, egg, fruit, and pastry. Still half-stretching, I rubbed it cautiously, as if that would help.
“I need a nap,” Stacey admitted, smothering a yawn. She too stretched, tugging up the hem of her shirt and exposing, much too briefly, a stretch of palely rounded tummy pooching over the waistband of her slacks.
We said our goodbyes, and as I gave Stacey a properly brotherly embrace, I pressed my card into her hand. That fast, I wound up with hers in my other hand, both were tucked away without a hint of their existence, and they were gone.
I plodded away to my Prius, grunted my way into the driver’s seat, belched, and pointed the car toward home, on-campus housing once inhabited by my wife and me, and now inhabited by only me, as Suzanne simply couldn’t resist developing friendships that began in her real-estate office and ended in bed. Well, that’s not the nicest way to put it, but after the fourth one I’m afraid I lost patience with her loose definition of fidelity. To her mind, if she was home for dinner and spent the evening and night and next morning with me, she was faithful. Anything done during daylight hours simply didn’t count. Eighteen months, no children, and she’d taken her yappy dust mop of a dog when she’d left.
I brooded, contentedly, all the way back, and wheeled my suitcase into my on-campus living quarters in midafternoon. The day was sullen and overcast, clouds pressing low, snow threatening, and my stomach was still warmly full of that huge breakfast. Perfect conditions for a nap.
I woke, stiff and grouchy, around four-thirty. I heated up some soup and addressed myself to grading papers. Periodically getting up to stretch, pee, walk around, clear my head, make a cup of tea, I pegged away at the grading until nearly eight. By then, of course, I was starving. I made some more soup and two grilled-cheese sandwiches and finished with a bowl of ice cream. Put on some music and found myself picking up American Lion to re-read. Thanks to Stacey’s suggestion, I found Hornblower similarities everywhere.
I made myself wait until Monday evening and sent her a polite e-mail. It was nice to meet her, I’d given American Lion another look and she was spot on, natter natter about the weather and the students, antsy and distracted in the three weeks of filler between Thanksgiving and end of term. Finally, I mentioned casually that I would probably pop in on Erica and Felicity for my first few days of winter break – by any chance would she be around?
Cool and collected, Miss Stacey did not reply until Tuesday afternoon. Sure, she wasn’t going anywhere, call her when I got to town. Everyone was playing it easy – Erica hadn’t said a word beyond “Sure, if you want to,” when I invited myself for a visit at the start of winter break, something I’d never done before.
New York was far more exciting than South Kent, Connecticut (or Swarthmore, where Mom and Pop lived, for that matter). Erica and Felicity dutifully took me to a Broadway show and I dutifully took Gunther with me to the Lower East Side Tenement Museum at the corner of Orchard and Broome streets. He was 12 and had a particular interest in New York City history to the point where he had a Google alert on his e-mail for Caleb Carr. Afterward, I took him to lunch at Lindy’s, where we had a fine time trading lines from Guys and Dolls. I’d intended to have a light lunch, because I had an actual date with Stacey that night, but you know New York delis. By the time I slowly, slowly scraped up the last bite of cheesecake I was waddling. Gunther, being a growing boy, had downed his meal easily, but I had to ask him to slow down on the way to the subway. My belly was achingly full of pastrami, sauerkraut, rye bread, pickle, and the famous cheesecake, and I was puffing trying to keep up.
I hadn’t really planned to take a nap – it sort of took me – but I woke refreshed and found myself whistling “I’ll Know” in the shower. I’ll know … then and there. I’ll know … at the sight of her face … how I care, how I care, how I care. And I’ll stop … and I’ll stare….*
I did stop. And stare. I was standing by the maître d’s lectern and she walked in and I really think my mouth fell open. I quickly closed it and rearranged my features into a smile that I didn’t have to fake.
Stacey was wearing a v-neck deep blue dress that fitted a trifle snugly, and she strolled toward me smiling, doing that woman-sway thing in high heels, leaned in, and gave me a hello-how-are-you embrace and a peck on the cheek. Under the watchful eye of the maître d’, I didn’t do anything else, but I certainly enjoyed her rear view as I followed her following him to the table for two.
I’m normally a lazy and underskilled cook and get most of my meals at the school’s faculty dining room, where the food is ... well ... functional, so good food prepared by someone else was a treat. The pound or three I was sure I’d picked up over Thanksgiving had retreated somewhat, but I seemed destined to be adding it back on. In truth, I wanted this dinner to last as long as possible, so yes to appetizers, yes to salad, yes to dessert, yes to coffee, yes to brandy, those wonderful date-prolongers and digestifs.
As a teacher, I was reasonably skilled at letting a silence sit to encourage the other person or people to say something, so it was easy to let Stacey do most of the talking.
Stacey was a bibliophile from way back, and also curious, traits that led her to reference librarianship. BA in English, MLS, a brother in California, to which her parents had retired last year. I listened, and looked, as she chattered happily about history, California, weird reference-desk requests. We laughed companionably about students, prepared and un-, and I absently stuffed myself with calamari and spring rolls, a huge salad, too many rolls, trout amandine, baked apples, wild rice, broccoli au gratin, poached pears with chocolate sauce, espresso, and Remy Martin VS Grand Cru.
Damn and damn. I’d meant to stay alert enough for a carriage ride, but I could tell even before I stood up that I was sodden with food and drink. I’d probably doze off and drool on her shoulder. I couldn’t conceal a grunt of effort as I stood, and my achingly stuffed belly pressed painfully against the waistband of my trousers. I could feel its taut distention against the fabric of my shirt, and I didn’t even try to button my jacket.
Then Stacey stood up. I know nothing about women’s fashions, but the seams of her dress were visibly taking some strain. Her tummy ballooned, round and full, under the blue fabric, and the dress stuff clung to hip and thigh more than it had before our dinner. Evidently, while talking, Stacey had also enjoyed her dinner as much as I had mine. I took her arm, stifled a belch with some difficulty, and helped her on with her coat. I struggled into mine, and she said “Yes please” to that carriage ride.
Sitting down was a little scary – I was afraid for the rear seam of my trousers – but I was able to sink back against the leather seat, easing the pressure on my gorged belly just a little. I put my arm around Stacey and she snuggled against me. I thanked heaven for the cold air, which was helping keep me conscious.
Into the quiet, I said, “You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you,” Stacey said simply. Zing! No demurrals, no downplaying, no self-deprecation. Who was this woman! I wasn’t sure, but her soft shoulder was tucked into me and her hand rested easily on my bloated gut, and I felt her warm cushiony self curved into me and I was utterly contented.
----------------------------------------------------------------
* “I’ll Know.” From Guys and Dolls. Music and lyrics © 1950 by Frank Loesser. Licensing agent, Music Theater International.
As You Were
By Big Beautiful Dreamer
By Big Beautiful Dreamer
In truth, I’d never given my stomach a moment’s thought, any more than I would have given a moment’s thought to, say, my pancreas or tailbone. It was there. It functioned. End of story. And when Thanksgiving rolled around, I did as most everyone does: got together with family and friends, ate way too much for a couple of days, and then forgot about the whole thing.
That’s certainly what I expected this year. I’d driven to my parents’ house in the college town in Pennsylvania where they’d lived for decades and waded through the throng of greetings. Mom, Dad, assorted aunts and uncles and the odd cousin, my brother (Trey) and sister-in-law (Alison) and their two little daughters, Kinsey and Rachel, my sister (Erica), her girlfriend (Felicity), their son, Gunther, and “Stacey, my colleague,” Erica said. I shook hands with Stacey absently, then as always pretended to inspect the wheels of Felicity’s chair.
“Got a flat here, ma’am,” I said in a bad Southern drawl. “Put you up on the lift?”
“Anytime, sailor,” Felicity shot back, her usual response, and everyone chuckled. Felicity always called me sailor, a reference to my four years in the Navy. Now I piloted several history courses at a boys’ boarding school, a place distinguished for its lack of females. The dozen or so on the faculty were either married, gay, or off limits due to lack of interest. Believe me, after three years I’d scoped them all out and been scoped out in turn. It crossed my mind to assume that Stacey had been brought along to chat up the solo diner. I found myself sneaking a second (okay, first) glance.
Stacey was of medium height and curvature. At a guess, five foot five and “broad where a broad should be broad,” as the song went, but not remarkably so. She had an oval face, blue eyes, and brownish-blond hair in a bob or wedge or shag or whatever that short haircut is called these days. I ruffled my nephew’s hair and went off to chase and tickle my nieces, who at 4 and 7 were prime candidates for that sort of thing.
As the afternoon progressed, though, something about Stacey held my attention. I let it simmer on a mental back burner until I teased it out shortly before dinner. I will frankly admit that I notice women a lot, partly because there are so few of them around me most of the time. Any time I’ve ventured out into The World, my girldar is operating full out. And I’ve formulated a couple of observations. (Yeah, yeah, I’m a historian. I talk funny.)
One: Contrary to what pop culture would have us believe, 90% of the population does not have “perfect” bodies, “perfect” meaning stick-slender and curve-free. Most of us are at least a little misshapen compared with, say, Taylor Swift or Robert Pattinson. Two: Even though those of us with somewhat lumpy bods far outnumber the world’s pop deities, we still act as though we’re failures because we don’t conform to an all-but-impossible standard. Women more than men. I can’t tell you how many women I’ve noticed who hide their bodies behind swags of cloth, layers, drapes, camouflage; and whose posture, presence, and way of moving shout: Don’t look at me, I’m flawed.
Stacey, as I had already observed, did not have one of those little size 0 mannequin figures. Neither did she drape, conceal, or withdraw into herself. She wasn’t doing a catwalk strut through the living room; she simply held herself straight, moved with confidence, sat comfortably without twitches or self-conscious adjustments, and wore a periwinkle-blue shirt and dark gabardine slacks that fit and that showed that she had a chest, waist, and hips, like most of the rest of the female population. She radiated serenity and comfort in her own skin, and that was so unexpected in my worldview that it caught my attention.
Over dinner, Felicity and Erica subtly nudged me into conversation with Stacey. She worked at the reference desk of a branch library and was an amateur historian, having read all of David McCullough’s books as well as several by Joseph Ellis and Doris Kearns Goodwin, most recently Team of Rivals, although she confessed that at the moment her attention was being claimed by Jon Meacham’s biography of Andrew Jackson, American Lion.
“I actually keep seeing parallels between Jackson and a fictional figure who would have been his contemporary, Horatio Hornblower,” she confessed, glancing away as if embarrassed.
“Oh, really,” I said interestedly. “Like what?”
“His determination to serve his country, even if it made his wife unhappy sometimes,” she said slowly. “His pride, the way he led, the way he was in authority.”
“You know, you might be on to something,” I said, absent-mindedly heaping large second helpings of everything onto my mysteriously empty plate. “Especially his pride. Hornblower’s pride was both his master and his servant, and I think that could be said of Jackson as well.”
Her eyes lit up. “You know the Hornblower books?”
Erica snorted. “Gavin’s got them virtually memorized. Discovered them when he was 12 or 13. I think he’s read them all about forty times each.”
“Oh, thank you, Erica,” I said dryly. I held the dish of creamed cauliflower up to see if anyone else wanted any. Stacey reached out her hand, and as I gave her the bowl, our fingers brushed and I felt a tingle, an actual surge. I think she did too, because she blushed, rose on cream, and asked Felicity about the staying power of whatever boy band is on the label of the record company she works for. I forget the band. Some anonymous, androgynous quintet that makes 12-year-olds squeal. I turned to Trey and joined in his and Dad’s analysis of the Steelers’ chances.
A glass or two of wine, a warm room, good company, enjoyable conversation, and favorite foods that nonetheless appeared on the table only once or twice a year. I ate and drank in dreamy contentment, almost subconsciously feeling my belly begin to fill and then stretch, heavy with food, and it crossed my mind that I’d eaten enough. But then the stuffing went by again, and I really wanted another taste, and the cranberries, and the sweet potatoes, and the squash, and the cauliflower, and oh yes, gravy, and the last crescent roll.
Enough. I was full, I was achingly stuffed, I was about to pop. Seemingly as one, we all had reached the same conclusion, for chairs were being shoved back and all concerned were waddling, staggering, or rolling away from the table to the recovery areas. Stacey ended up with Alison, Erica, Felicity, and the nieces in the front room, while Dad, Trey, Gunther, and I claimed the den. Mom and a couple of aunts were in the kitchen, I think, Uncle Max and Uncle Steve were sacked out somewhere, and Aunt Anne and Uncle Ted had to leave right after dinner.
With an entirely inadvertent grunt I sank into a chair and stretched out my sock feet. “Oof. Hic. That’s it. No more room at the inn.” I hiccupped again and, wincing, gently rubbed my belly. It was normally thoroughly unremarkable, but at the moment it had most of my attention. I had stuffed it to the brim, and it was stretched and tender. My jeans appeared to have shrunk. I fumbled open the button and zipper and quite by accident groaned in relief. A tentative poke revealed that my midsection was swollen tight as a drum and incidentally produced a much-needed belch.
“Ooh, good one,” Trey said through a yawn. A huge hiccup. “Ow. Damn, man.” He patted his own belly, which like mine was visibly rounder, gorged with a disgraceful amount of dinner. Dad was patting his own stomach; from the look of things, he had partaken more modestly, but he contributed a few belches to the conversation. He switched on the football, and we all half-watched, dopily criticizing the officiating, and dozed in a food-induced slumber.
An hour or so later, Erica stuck her head in. “Trivial Pursuit, males vs. females, in the dining room, now, Mom says.” We blinked back to life and grunted and groaned ourselves upright. This was a Thanksgiving family tradition, and the teams were well matched. Alison had settled Kinsey and Rachel and Gunther with a DVD in the master bedroom.
As before, I was aware of Stacey. She had eaten her share of Thanksgiving dinner, and her slacks tugged at her visibly bloated tummy, but she still sat comfortably, and she made no move to hide the body she had. Beautiful. I was entranced by the curve and swoop of her lines. The game proceeded amid much laughter, though I was rather distracted by trying to catch discreet glances of Stacey, whose every move excited my notice. Finally the women won, though it was close, and Mom and Alison went into the kitchen to dish up pie and ice cream and coffee.
We all groaned and complained, then we all laid waste – er, waist – to the dessert. Afterward, Erica, Felicity, Gunther, and Stacey departed to their hotel and I surprised myself by minding her absence quite a lot.
Eventually I departed to the basement and the bagged-out fold-out sofa, Seventies vintage, of the sort that flops open once to create a single bed, and if you ask me, sturdier and more comfortable than those trifold deals that supposedly make a double bed and always skewer you with the bar right in the middle.
I’d eaten much too much, and my swollen and groaning stomach kept me awake for a spell. I occupied my time thinking about Stacey. It was so rare for me to see a woman whose body was like that of thousands of women but who carried herself with serenity and quiet assurance. Not defensive, not embarrassed, but calmly confident. If her chin doubled when she ducked her head, if her belly folded over her waistband when she sat, if there was some give to her biceps, so be it: she neither blushed nor was antagonistic about it. She simply was, and I found it both extraordinarily refreshing and extraordinarily pretty.
Grunting, shifting, and coaxing up an occasional belch, I finally drifted off into a fitful sleep with dreams that fled the moment I woke up. I took family privilege and appeared at the breakfast table uncombed, unshaven, and in pajamas, grunting drowsily over a cup of coffee. Only then did I shower, shave, and dress before departing to meet Erica and Felicity for breakfast at their hotel, another family tradition. By sleeping in, it seemed, I’d missed Trey and Alison, who with the girls had been up and away by 7:00.
As soon as I walked into the lobby, I felt my face break into a thoroughly goofy grin. Stacey was there with Erica and Felicity (Gunther, apparently, still sacked out) and my God she looked fabulous. She wore the same slacks with a scoop-neck lavender shirt that fitted snugly, showing that she had the curves that nature had intended. My heartbeat stuttered and my breath caught in my throat for a moment, so that my “Good morning” was croaked rather than spoken. Oh, suave, Gavin, very smooth.
Erica winked at me but said nothing as I gave her a kiss on the cheek and bent to give Felicity one as well. To my pleased surprise, Stacey tilted her face, and she got a familial peck, but this one shot a surge through me that jolted me awake more thoroughly than any coffee.
“I’m starving,” she said as we began to fill our plates. “Like I didn’t eat enough yesterday.”
I groaned at the memory. “Oof. I ate so much I thought I was going to bust right there.”
“Pig,” Erica said affectionately, reaching over me for the sausage links.
“No, that’s pig,” I replied, and she rolled her eyes.
We lingered, nursing coffee, doing far too much damage to the buffet. By the time we finally ambled out of there, it was a quarter to 11 and the staff were trying to set up for lunch.
“Well….” I stretched and groaned, providing my once-more-aching belly a moment of relief. Primarily to prolong my time with Stacey, I’d eaten a lot more than I’d wanted to and my gut was heavy and churning, working at breaking down an indecent assortment of sausage, pancake, syrup, egg, fruit, and pastry. Still half-stretching, I rubbed it cautiously, as if that would help.
“I need a nap,” Stacey admitted, smothering a yawn. She too stretched, tugging up the hem of her shirt and exposing, much too briefly, a stretch of palely rounded tummy pooching over the waistband of her slacks.
We said our goodbyes, and as I gave Stacey a properly brotherly embrace, I pressed my card into her hand. That fast, I wound up with hers in my other hand, both were tucked away without a hint of their existence, and they were gone.
I plodded away to my Prius, grunted my way into the driver’s seat, belched, and pointed the car toward home, on-campus housing once inhabited by my wife and me, and now inhabited by only me, as Suzanne simply couldn’t resist developing friendships that began in her real-estate office and ended in bed. Well, that’s not the nicest way to put it, but after the fourth one I’m afraid I lost patience with her loose definition of fidelity. To her mind, if she was home for dinner and spent the evening and night and next morning with me, she was faithful. Anything done during daylight hours simply didn’t count. Eighteen months, no children, and she’d taken her yappy dust mop of a dog when she’d left.
I brooded, contentedly, all the way back, and wheeled my suitcase into my on-campus living quarters in midafternoon. The day was sullen and overcast, clouds pressing low, snow threatening, and my stomach was still warmly full of that huge breakfast. Perfect conditions for a nap.
I woke, stiff and grouchy, around four-thirty. I heated up some soup and addressed myself to grading papers. Periodically getting up to stretch, pee, walk around, clear my head, make a cup of tea, I pegged away at the grading until nearly eight. By then, of course, I was starving. I made some more soup and two grilled-cheese sandwiches and finished with a bowl of ice cream. Put on some music and found myself picking up American Lion to re-read. Thanks to Stacey’s suggestion, I found Hornblower similarities everywhere.
I made myself wait until Monday evening and sent her a polite e-mail. It was nice to meet her, I’d given American Lion another look and she was spot on, natter natter about the weather and the students, antsy and distracted in the three weeks of filler between Thanksgiving and end of term. Finally, I mentioned casually that I would probably pop in on Erica and Felicity for my first few days of winter break – by any chance would she be around?
Cool and collected, Miss Stacey did not reply until Tuesday afternoon. Sure, she wasn’t going anywhere, call her when I got to town. Everyone was playing it easy – Erica hadn’t said a word beyond “Sure, if you want to,” when I invited myself for a visit at the start of winter break, something I’d never done before.
New York was far more exciting than South Kent, Connecticut (or Swarthmore, where Mom and Pop lived, for that matter). Erica and Felicity dutifully took me to a Broadway show and I dutifully took Gunther with me to the Lower East Side Tenement Museum at the corner of Orchard and Broome streets. He was 12 and had a particular interest in New York City history to the point where he had a Google alert on his e-mail for Caleb Carr. Afterward, I took him to lunch at Lindy’s, where we had a fine time trading lines from Guys and Dolls. I’d intended to have a light lunch, because I had an actual date with Stacey that night, but you know New York delis. By the time I slowly, slowly scraped up the last bite of cheesecake I was waddling. Gunther, being a growing boy, had downed his meal easily, but I had to ask him to slow down on the way to the subway. My belly was achingly full of pastrami, sauerkraut, rye bread, pickle, and the famous cheesecake, and I was puffing trying to keep up.
I hadn’t really planned to take a nap – it sort of took me – but I woke refreshed and found myself whistling “I’ll Know” in the shower. I’ll know … then and there. I’ll know … at the sight of her face … how I care, how I care, how I care. And I’ll stop … and I’ll stare….*
I did stop. And stare. I was standing by the maître d’s lectern and she walked in and I really think my mouth fell open. I quickly closed it and rearranged my features into a smile that I didn’t have to fake.
Stacey was wearing a v-neck deep blue dress that fitted a trifle snugly, and she strolled toward me smiling, doing that woman-sway thing in high heels, leaned in, and gave me a hello-how-are-you embrace and a peck on the cheek. Under the watchful eye of the maître d’, I didn’t do anything else, but I certainly enjoyed her rear view as I followed her following him to the table for two.
I’m normally a lazy and underskilled cook and get most of my meals at the school’s faculty dining room, where the food is ... well ... functional, so good food prepared by someone else was a treat. The pound or three I was sure I’d picked up over Thanksgiving had retreated somewhat, but I seemed destined to be adding it back on. In truth, I wanted this dinner to last as long as possible, so yes to appetizers, yes to salad, yes to dessert, yes to coffee, yes to brandy, those wonderful date-prolongers and digestifs.
As a teacher, I was reasonably skilled at letting a silence sit to encourage the other person or people to say something, so it was easy to let Stacey do most of the talking.
Stacey was a bibliophile from way back, and also curious, traits that led her to reference librarianship. BA in English, MLS, a brother in California, to which her parents had retired last year. I listened, and looked, as she chattered happily about history, California, weird reference-desk requests. We laughed companionably about students, prepared and un-, and I absently stuffed myself with calamari and spring rolls, a huge salad, too many rolls, trout amandine, baked apples, wild rice, broccoli au gratin, poached pears with chocolate sauce, espresso, and Remy Martin VS Grand Cru.
Damn and damn. I’d meant to stay alert enough for a carriage ride, but I could tell even before I stood up that I was sodden with food and drink. I’d probably doze off and drool on her shoulder. I couldn’t conceal a grunt of effort as I stood, and my achingly stuffed belly pressed painfully against the waistband of my trousers. I could feel its taut distention against the fabric of my shirt, and I didn’t even try to button my jacket.
Then Stacey stood up. I know nothing about women’s fashions, but the seams of her dress were visibly taking some strain. Her tummy ballooned, round and full, under the blue fabric, and the dress stuff clung to hip and thigh more than it had before our dinner. Evidently, while talking, Stacey had also enjoyed her dinner as much as I had mine. I took her arm, stifled a belch with some difficulty, and helped her on with her coat. I struggled into mine, and she said “Yes please” to that carriage ride.
Sitting down was a little scary – I was afraid for the rear seam of my trousers – but I was able to sink back against the leather seat, easing the pressure on my gorged belly just a little. I put my arm around Stacey and she snuggled against me. I thanked heaven for the cold air, which was helping keep me conscious.
Into the quiet, I said, “You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you,” Stacey said simply. Zing! No demurrals, no downplaying, no self-deprecation. Who was this woman! I wasn’t sure, but her soft shoulder was tucked into me and her hand rested easily on my bloated gut, and I felt her warm cushiony self curved into me and I was utterly contented.
----------------------------------------------------------------
* “I’ll Know.” From Guys and Dolls. Music and lyrics © 1950 by Frank Loesser. Licensing agent, Music Theater International.
