Reluctant Veronica

The steel-gray sky seems oppressively low this morning, and the streets are slick from a recent rain. Veronica stands on the steps to her flat, surrounded by luggage, as a cab pulls up that will take her to Heathrow airport. Her husband has left her, and now she will leave the UK. She flies to America this morning. An administrative job awaits her at the University of Wisconsin.

In the cab, Veronica is still brooding about her divorce. She wishes she could think about something else. Her husband was attractive and powerfully built; he was a former rugby player who, after marrying Veronica, was employed in the lower echelons of the British Foreign Office, where he met someone else. Veronica doesn't know who it was, but she suspects it was a man. A

man

, which makes it seem somehow more insulting. Ruefully, she wishes that she had persuaded him to seek employment elsewhere, as if that would have made a difference.

It's raining again, and a blustery wind spatters raindrops against Veronica as she disembarks from her cab at Heathrow.

The Wisconsin air is clear, bright and shockingly cold. It stings Veronica's face, the only part of her that is exposed. Bundled up with her cap, scarf and gloves, she hurries down the street, which is lined with leafless trees. At the end of the street is a gray-green wooden house, where her flat occupies the second story. She goes bounding up the stairs and lets herself in, relishing the comfort of her heated rooms. She methodically removes her outer garments, her armor against the assault of the Wisconsin winter, and plops herself down in the armchair, from which she gazes thoughtfully out the window, looking down the hill at the smooth white surface of frozen Lake Mendota.

She is grateful for her job, which offers her many challenges and occupies her mind throughout the day. She often goes from the time when she wakes up in the morning, to this very moment when she returns in the early evening, without thinking of Avery, her ex-husband. Avery was not a tall man; he was perhaps half an inch shorter than Veronica. But he was very muscular, and looked impressive. Veronica thinks about making love with Avery. She admits to herself that it was not terribly gratifying to her, sexually, but she cherished it nonetheless, because that was the one thing that she shared with Avery that was theirs alone.

Avery spent so much of his time with his mates, many of whom were his former rugby teammates, watching BBC Sport on television and reminiscing. Veronica didn't discourage this or resent it; she was proud of Avery's achievements on the rugby field, and she wanted him to be happy. She had met him in college, and become an enthusiastic fan of his team.

In those days, Avery was lovely to look at naked, despite his frequent cuts and bruises. As a lover, he was strong, perhaps a little too strong, since he seemed to have only one gear: overdrive. If Veronica was sufficiently aroused, she could reach orgasm with him, but often it was simply too fast, too hard, too soon. Veronica didn't care. She wanted the intimacy that she felt with him in the bedroom.

And now, she thinks, it's all gone.

They are showing re-runs of "The Practice" on television, and it occurs to Veronica that she fancies Dylan McDermott. That night, before going to bed, she stops in front of the mirror to evaluate herself. Veronica is slim, and her blond hair is cut short; she thinks that her bosom is not heavy the way American men are said to like it. But her bum is nicely rounded. She still has the poised and gracious posture from the dance lessons of her youth. She concludes her inspection by thinking that the last thing that she needs right now is another man in her life.

It's that time of the week again, when "The Practice" comes on, but Veronica doesn't remember until it's suddenly on the screen. She's had a difficult day at work. She stopped at a liquor store on State Street on the way home, and picked up a bottle of white wine. And she has had two glasses of it, as the evening went on. When Dylan McDermott appears, she fancies him all over again. And later, when she is lying in bed, she imagines him naked. In her imagination, he looks rather like Avery. Her nipples grow taut, and she is embarrassed. She puts it out of her mind and goes to sleep.

Today one Professor Rafael Cervantes came into the office, seeking a permit to use a conference room. He smiled at Veronica, and there was a look of evaluation and approval in his eyes. Veronica recalls this, now that she is home, and it annoys her. Prof. Cervantes is not her type. He must be ten years her senior, too tall and lanky, his hair graying and a little too long.

Still, it was flattering to be looked at that way by a man.

A week has gone by, and suddenly Prof. Cervantes is back. He's got some big project to do lord knows what, and he needs all sorts of paperwork. He wears a mustache and, his green eyes peer out through fashionable glasses. He remembers her name and smiles at her; she is very cautious with him, and discreetly scrutinizes his glances to see if that look of appraisal is there again, but she doesn't see it. He's wearing a tweed sport coat; isn't that a bit of a cliché?

Tonight, Veronica remembers that "The Practice" is coming on, and she deliberately watches something else.

Prof. Cervantes is setting up some sort of academic task force, and he comes up Bascom Hill to the office every day now. And what is more, it seems clear that he wishes to court Veronica. Although he is polite and decorous, he has made his intentions known by asking her out to dinner. She politely declined, and went so far as to explain that she recently went through a somewhat painful divorce, and she wishes to avoid any romantic entanglements. Prof. Cervantes was very understanding and sympathetic. At home in her armchair, contemplating the lake, Veronica is relieved and appreciative of the fact that he took no for an answer.

Oh lord. Professor Cervantes is back, and he wants to know whether Veronica would care to catch a quick lunch with him at the Memorial Union. Not wishing to seem unfriendly, she says yes. After a quick walk down the hill to Lake Street, they are soon having sandwiches under the arched ceiling of the Rathskeller. Professor Cervantes - except that he's "Rafael" now, per his request - explains that he is an associate professor of architecture. His wife, Gretchen, passed away ten years ago. Veronica tries to nod sympathetically - she's really never sure how best to respond to reports of this kind. Rafael likes to go hiking and camping. Veronica knows that she is expected to reveal something about herself in turn, so she says she's from England, as if that were not obvious from her accent, and the fact that from time to time, she says that she "fancies" such-and-such. She does not speak of Avery, and Rafael does not ask.

Quick lunches with Rafael are becoming a regular event now, once or twice a week. Veronica is careful that the talk does not become any more familiar. It turns out that they both enjoy "Foyle's War," which is evidently re-broadcast on some U.S. channels. They both take their coffee black. The conversation does not stray from safe topics.

Rafael is visiting the office again. Veronica is pleased because she wore the teal sweater that compliments her short blond hair, and then she is annoyed at herself for feeling that way. She doesn't want to offer him any encouragement, and that little twinge of vanity is unproductive.

Today he has an unusual gleam in his eye. What can that be about? Then he asks her, "Veronica, may I ask what size shoe you wear?" What sort of question is that? But to refuse to answer would would be awkward. "6", she says. "Why do you ask?"

"I was cleaning out my attic this past weekend," says Rafael, "and I came across Gretchen's old ice skates, along with my own. Hers are in fact size 6. Have you ever gone ice skating?"

Veronica experiences a flash of panic; she has no idea how to respond. She loves to ice skate. When she was a girl, she took ballet lessons, and pursued it quite seriously. Then one day her instructor suggested that she take up figure skating. She tried it, and took to it like a duck to water. Soon she was competing on a local level, and doing well. She carried it with her into college and was contemplating becoming a serious competitor when she first met Avery. As she became more and more attached to Avery, she devoted less and less time to skating, and became absorbed in his successful rugby matches instead. When they were married, she gave it up altogether.

Veronica maintains her composure, but her head is spinning. What would it mean for her to skate again after all these years? And should she be sharing such a momentous occasion with Rafael?

She hazards a glimpse into his eyes, and sees only courtesy and friendliness there. He has no way of knowing the significance for her of his offer. She accepts.

Veronica has not told Rafael that she is a former skater. He probably is prepared to give lessons to novice. She is in her flat, selecting an outfit to wear tomorrow, which will be Saturday. She is looking for something akin to what she once wore to compete; she wants to re-live that feeling, and if Rafael must be there with her, so be it. He's a nice guy.

She chooses a thigh-length pleated skirt. She is surprised that she actually brought that from the UK. The skirt is creme-colored, the tights are burgundy. The burgundy sweater matches them closely. She has checked the weather forecast on the internet, and it will not be so cold that parkas will be necessary. It will be perfect.

And the day is perfect. The temperature is cold enough so that the surface of the ice on Lake Mendota will be good for skating, but not so cold as to be uncomfortable, once she is engaged in energetic activity. There is a spring in Veronica's step as she proceeds down Lake Street toward the Memorial Union. She will meet Rafael on the patio outside the Rathskeller, and from there they will simply walk down to the beach and out onto the ice.

Veronica feels attractive in her burgundy-and-creme ensemble. She wants to be attractive, not necessarily for Rafael, but for all the people who are going to see her skate. She remembers the uncomplicated joy she used to feel when competing, from creating something beautiful that would enchant the audience. She knows that she won't be skating at the level that she did when she first went to college, but it doesn't matter. Her memory of skating is that for her, it is as natural as breathing.

She spots Rafael from a distance and sees the white skates dangling from his glove. This is the only hurdle that remains to be crossed: will the skates be of good quality? And will they actually fit her? She hurries toward him to find out.

The skates are Riedells. Gretchen must have been a serious skater. The two of them walk toward the lake, and Veronica stops at a bench and tries them on. They fit. She can't contain her pleasure, and flashes a smile at Rafael that is unlike any that he has seen from her before. It's only a few steps from the beach to the ice, and then she pushes off with one leg and experiences that familiar sensation of flying.

The surface of the frozen Lake Mendota is dotted with hundreds of skaters, all along the arc of the isthmus where downtown Madison is located. They all stop in their tracks and watch as Veronica begins to whirl across the ice, spinning and jumping.

Rafael is an accomplished skater. He's not going to attempt to mimic Veronica's jumps, but he is able to keep pace with her as she sails along the ice. They dance beneath the gigantic Wisconsin sky, so brightly overcast that it mirrors the ice below.

Afterward, Veronica pours out her heart to her new-found friend. It no longer matters that he's too tall, too old, too gray. She speaks to Rafael of everything that is vital to her, because with him she has experienced joy for the first time in some years.

The two of them continue to talk with great animation after they have deposited their skates in the trunk of Rafael's car, and are making their way toward a little Asian restaurant off Gorham Street. The restaurant is warm and the lighting is subdued. They find a booth in the back and order dinner, as well as two Rum Separators. Victoria finds the rum drink to be sweet and relaxing after the exertion of skating, and the conversation continues to flow. The food arrives, along with another pair of separators. And then long after the meal, the lively conversation continues apace; the waitress is summoned, and there are two separators more.

The magical quality of what they have shared is now amplified by the alcohol they have consumed. They order one more round, and Rafael has joined Veronica on her side of the booth, and then suddenly they are kissing. There wasn't much warning, it has simply happened, and it is glorious. Veronica has not been kissed in such a long time; perhaps she has never been kissed like this. Her reservations were already waning before the rum hit her system, and now she puts all her hidden-away passions into that kiss. The slow, wet dance of their tongues awakens Veronica's entire body. She feels it, but she doesn't question it. When she feels Rafael's hand come creeping under skirt and begin to explore the elastic waist of her tights, she welcomes it, and as it travels down into her panties and across her fluffy patch of hair, she throws herself into that kiss all the more.

She feels Rafael's fingers glide along her opening, testing for resistance, and finding instead the juices welling up to welcome them. One, and then two fingers probe inside her, as she opens her mouth wider and moves her face slowly from side to side, moaning her approval. And then the two fingers make a lazy journey upwards, carrying a wave of wetness to her clit, where they commence a tantalizing caress, to and fro, around and around. Veronica's hips are in motion and her toes are curling in her boots. Suddenly she can no longer kiss properly; her open mouth tenses as a spasm of pleasure transports her.

Afterward, the restaurant is quiet and mostly empty. The waitress is smirking and Rafael is apologetic. Veronica will hear none of it. She feels only contentment, and the prescience of a bright future ahead.