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?"
