I didn't understand it, and it troubled me no end.
Melinda Hunter was the Purchasing Department joke. The other men could hardly resist snickering and lewd comments as she passed by. She'd earned them with her behavior at after-hours watering holes and departmental parties.
On the surface, Mel was a major winner: fresh-faced, bosomy yet slender, extroverted, and well supplied with intelligence and drive. She was always beautifully dressed: tailored blouses, knee-length skirts, hose and high heels.
Never
trousers or jeans. Always just the right number of accessories, and in the best of taste. She knew how to play the corporate game, too; at twenty-eight she already had upper management eating out of her hand. The smart money was on her becoming the director of the department when Josh Parnell finally found the grace to retire. All the other women hated her.
You had to know about her slutteries to appreciate the contradiction.
Major winner, yeah. Young, single, attractive, competent, energetic -- and cheap. Cheap by choice.
Mel's trademark sex act had gained her a weird moniker: "Tornado." Apparently "Hoover" was considered too cliched, or perhaps deemed inappropriate because she preferred to stand up. I couldn't help but wonder if she knew about it...or cared.
I stayed well clear of her. As attractive as she was, I had no intention of becoming part of her stable. Cheap and easy have never done a thing for me.
After she'd been a bare two years in the department, I learned that I was the only man there who hadn't sampled her favors. That made me one of the office jokes, as well. I didn't let it bother me.
But it bothered Melinda.
***
A typical office has a few spots in which, given time and determination, you can corner anyone: the coffee service, the water cooler, the copier, the fax machine, and the departmental secretary's station. If you're aware that you're being stalked, those are places to avoid. Use them after hours if you can. If you can't wait that long, "case the joint" before approaching, do your work, and get back to your desk. Never linger.
Of course, a determined stalker will notice. A determined stalker will watch your movements, note patterns, and devise a counter-tactic. You must be ready for the inevitable.
My Achilles heel was the fax. Quite a number of our suppliers are averse to doing business over the Internet. They have their reasons, and I'm required to respect them. Anyway, fax is reliable and secure. But damned few offices have more than one, and I wasn't about to pay for fax service out of my own pocket just to avoid using ours.
I tried to schedule my faxing toward the end of the day, when everyone else's mind is on getting out and home. Occasionally it wasn't possible to wait that long. On one such occasion, I'd just gotten my order form into the hopper when I felt a slim hand land softly on my shoulder.
I turned. It was Mel, of course. Elegantly dressed as always, and with her characteristic naughty smile. There was no document in her hands.
"How are you, Ryan?"
I smiled formally. "Fine, thanks." I started to turn back toward the machine, but she halted me.
"A few of us have plans to gather at the Black Grape after work. I hear Todd and Jeanne Iverson will be there, too. Have you ever met them?"
I swallowed. Her right hand was still on my shoulder. "Once, when I joined the company."
Her smile widened. "It would be an opportunity to deepen your acquaintance with them." Her left hand rose to land on my other shoulder. "With me, too."
I winced. Her smile gave way to a look of concern.
"Something wrong?"
I glanced pointedly over her head, shouted, "Josh, I need to speak with you," and pushed past her, leaving my order form in the machine and unfaxed.
***
I don't drink much, and seldom when I'm out. These days the cops are harder on drunk drivers than they are on serial killers. But that night I needed a couple, and it felt wrong to go home to do it.
I went to Team Spirits, a bar on the opposite side of town, to minimize the chance of running into anyone else I knew. There were plenty of available booths; I picked up a beer from the bar and slid into one. The bartendress frowned at me, as I was alone and there was no one else at the bar. I'm not solitary most of the time, but that night what I had on my mind wouldn't support a conversation. I wasn't looking to drown my sorrows; I just wanted to take them out for a quick wade in the shallows.
But Murphy's Law was on the lookout for me. Apparently I'd dodged the Flying Purple Shaft too often recently, and it had marked me for special attention. I wasn't a third of the way through that beer when the bartendress slid into the seat across from me and leaned toward me.
"Feeling a little low?"
I shook my head. "Just dampening a few scattered thoughts. You know how it is."
She chuckled. "Don't I just." She looked me over swiftly and held out a hand. "I'm Nancy."
I shook it quickly. "Ryan."
"Pleased to meet you, Ryan. From the look on your face I figured you could use a little company." A pause. "I know I could."
I said nothing. That might have been the worst thing I could have done. Her face darkened at once.
"What's wrong with that, Bubba?" She looked down at herself. "Not good enough to sit with you?"
I shook my head. "Come on, you should know better. You're young and pretty and friendly. I'm flattered that you came back here. I'm just not fit company tonight. If I were in a better mood..." I let the thought trail off.
A look of understanding lit in her eyes. "Girl troubles, hon?"
"You could say that."
"I'm a girl," she said. "Nothing's better for girl troubles than another girl. That's what my other customers tell me, anyway. And I own this joint. Want me to lock the door?" She glanced back at her bar. "Doesn't look like there'll be much trade for a while, anyway."
I've never claimed to understand the female mind, but these past few years the Plutonians I'd gotten used to seem to have been replaced by demons from another dimension. Her offer, which obviously implied quite a bit more than conversation, left me too flabbergasted to compose a coherent reply.
The door opened, and high heels clicked smartly down the aisle.
"Excuse me," a soft alto voice said, "I believe this seat is taken."
Nancy looked up in irritation. "Bet your ass, bitch. Find another."
A hand shot out, took Nancy by the ear and tugged sharply. She screamed and raised her hands to attack, but Mel caught Nancy's wrists, whirled her around, and twisted her arms into a neat cross-Nelson.
"Back off, babe." Mel's smile was feral, the rictus of the predator in the instant before the pounce. "He's mine."
***
"Well, that was something new."
"What?" Mel twisted around in the passenger seat to face me. "You've never seen two women fight over a man before? Believe me, it happens all the time."
"Around you, maybe."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"Means what it says. I've never seen it before. So what brings you all the way out here?"
"You do."
"Hm?"
"I followed you, Ryan. Isn't that just a wee bit obvious?"
"But why?"
"Because I have to know."
"Why I avoid you, you mean?"
"Well, why? What's wrong with me?"
I laughed. "That's twice in fifteen minutes a beautiful woman has asked me that. What is it with you, anyway? Why does something have to be 'wrong with you' for me not to want to become part of your harem, Tornado?"
Mel paled and her mouth dropped open. "What did you call me?"
"What every other man in the office calls you. Didn't you
know?
"
She began to tremble. Not little tremors, like ordinary nerves or someone who's having a hard time holding still, but real, violent quakes that looked powerful enough to shake her apart.
I reflexively put a hand to her shoulder. As I touched her, willingly for the first time, two things happened.
She burst into tears.
My heart broke.
***
"Forgive me?"
Mel nodded. "I'd heard the word used in the office. I just didn't know it referred to me." She raised a tear-streaked face. "Because of what I --"
"I assume so," I said quickly. "No need to discuss it in the parking lot of a sleazy bar."
She nodded and leaned into me, heedless of the gearshift digging into her thigh. I laid an arm tentatively around her shoulders. She was still quivering slightly.
I struggled with my own contradictions. I'm no prude. I enjoy sex as much as the next man. But I have an aversion to "going-nowhere" sex. Quickies. One-night stands with nothing exchanged but semen, saliva, and sweat. I want things to last. I want to build things that will last.
"Mel," I murmured, "have you had dinner?"
She shook her head.
"Would you like some?"
She looked up. "Sure. Where to?" She reached into her purse to grope for her keys. I laid a hand on hers, and she stopped.
"I'll drive."
***
Mel gave me a speculative look as we pulled into my driveway, but she held her tongue and followed me inside. I gave silent thanks that my cleaning lady had been there earlier that day.
I gestured her toward my living-room sofa. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be back in a moment." She nodded and seated herself, smoothing her skirt carefully beneath her.
The liquor cabinet held a single unopened bottle of Gewurtztraminer. It would have to do. I uncorked it, poured two glasses, and brought them out to her. She accepted one with a nod and a murmur of thanks. We clinked and sipped.
"Are you averse to cheddar omelets and English muffins for dinner?" I said. "It's all I have the fixings for."
She smiled wanly. "The bachelor life. I know it well. No, that will be fine. I'd rather we stayed here anyway, even with no food at all."
I saluted her with my glass, rose, and went to the kitchen to fix dinner. As I worked, I heard movement in the dining room behind me, drawers opening, cloth flapping, and glassware clinking. Twenty minutes later I and my electric frying pan discovered that Mel had set the table, and more.
She had explored my sideboard thoroughly. She'd covered my old rock-maple table with my Irish linen tablecloth. She'd deployed my best china, beautifully delicate pieces over seventy years old, and the silverware I'd inherited from my paternal grandmother. She'd fitted slender white tapers into the candleholders and lit them, bathing the room in the inimitable glow that bespeaks an important intimate encounter. Every item on the table was a family heirloom I'd never before found an occasion to use.
