Chats In The Stairwell

Another one based loosely on real life; the last few paragraphs happened almost exactly as written, the text exchange still sitting in my phone. There is definitely an attraction there, but we never have acted on it.

* * *

I got into my car all sweaty, like always; people think I'm weird when I tell them I enjoy coming back from my workouts while dripping from every pore, but I couldn't care less. I love being fit, I love the process of staying fit, and I love that my beat-up Nissan soaks up my sweat like a sponge. After all, the gym's only about seven minutes from my rented house, so it's not like I'm wallowing in my own filth for hours.

Still, people think I'm weird that way. Fuck 'em.

That was on a Tuesday in early March, just two days before the conference, when Scott's email landed in my phone. I was due to miss school that Thursday and Friday while I went off to some sterile, airless hotel in Godknowswhere, USA for a conference on how to be a better AP European History teacher. Not that I needed any help, but they'd changed the exam for that year, and I needed a refresher. After all, I hadn't been to one of these AP conferences in eight years.

My boyfriend Leon would have been upset at the idea of losing me for two days and two nights, but he was away on some goddamn oil rig or exploration ship and I was a bachelorette again. He'd been gone for three weeks and would stay gone for at least eight more, so that was that.

I'd worked out extra hard, having to make up for lost time: I'd had to stay late at school to get my sub plans ironed out. I hated being out because I hated leaving a sub in charge of my kids, but it was unavoidable this time. So I'd punished myself, doing 30 situps, 30 squats, and 50 flutter kicks, all within six minutes. Two sets. I'd had to go into the little bathroom to vomit after the second set, but no sooner had I wiped my mouth than it was time for cardio.

The soreness afterward, like the sweaty smell in my car, was just a part of what turned me on about fitness. At 34, I had to work hard: my metabolism wasn't the same as it had been at 25, and there was just no way to pretend it was. And I'm a girl who likes her food. So the answer was always to burn more calories, hopefully without injuring myself in the process. It worked well: I'd been maintaining myself at 115 pounds, plus or minus five pounds, since I'd turned 28. I was proud of that, but not so much because I looked good at 115: I liked being truly fit, in shape, able to do intense physical activity without worrying.

The email came to my school account, and as I fumbled for the seatbelt I jabbed at the cracked screen to find out what was up. The conference instructor had sent out a mass email a couple days prior, laying out what to bring and what to read, and the incoming email had come from one of the list recipients. I frowned, not recognizing the name at first through the cracks in the screen, and buckled my seatbelt. The engine came to life as I picked up the phone to look more closely, my contacts drying out. There was something familiar about the address:

sherrick@some.randomstr.ingof.letters.

Something about it rang a bell, no question. I frowned; teachers meet a great many people at conferences, on field trips, as textbook reps... it's difficult to keep them all straight, especially right then, with my head spinning hypoxically and my mouth still tasting of puke. But it seemed to be a fellow conference attendee, so it must be a teacher: Glen Avery? I thought that might be in the same state, unlike a lot of the attendees. So, my other hand adjusting the A/C, I clicked on the message to see what was up.

Hey, Boyle!

I doubt you remember me from the AP conference almost ten years ago at the state college in Monroe, but I saw your name on the email contact list for this week's conference and I thought I'd let you know I'm coming too. To remind you, I'm the goofy guy with the dark hair you sat next to and wrote notes to all week; we ate together and, well, had those chats in the stairwell.

Anyway, I'm looking forward to seeing you on Thursday at the conference hotel. I'll definitely save you a seat, as there's no way I can get through this thing without you there to mock the teacher with. I'll also bring a flask.

See you there!

Scott

Holy motherfucking, shit-eating Jesus. Chats in the stairwell... I blushed, alone in my car, for no reason at all. I peered straight down at my phone, wondering whether to write ecstatically back right then or make him wait and write ecstatically later, but as I stared at his name a big droplet of sweat landed right on the screen and I tossed the phone aside, putting the car in gear. I needed a shower.

No! A bath. I always thought well in the tub, and the email from Scott H required thought. Careful thought. Deep thought. There was no way his life was any less complicated than it had been eight years ago, and of course mine was a lot moreso: I had Leon now, and a good career, and students who adored me. In short, I wasn't the timid rookie teacher I'd been then, ambivalent about the profession and pretty sure I'd be doing something else within a couple years. I was respected now, an important part of my school, with a definite position in the community.

Preoccupied and deliciously exhausted, I missed a stop sign I'd passed a thousand times; thank God Seaborne was such a small fucking town that the only thing less likely than getting pulled over by a cop was getting t-boned by another car.

The rental waited patiently on its dead-end street near the old Back Bay, once a fine harbor where they'd built fishing boats and now a vast, muddy tidal puddle. Leon had mowed the lawn and cut back the swampgrass fringing the backyard the weekend before he left, but it would need some work from me soon. I pulled in and tucked the keys underneath the sunshade, leaving the door unlocked as I hauled out my bag and limped toward the door. The sun was staying up later these days, but the shadows were already reaching across the marshes as I kicked my front door open and plowed aside the pile of junk mail.

Straight to the kitchen to down a pickle spear and a sports drink; I started feeling less queasy almost immediately, my feet steadier as I headed upstairs and into the faded blue bathroom. The windows had been open all day, the whole floor airy and sea-scented, and I took a deeply restorative breath as I ran the bath. My soaked lycra came off like a snake molting; taking off soggy clothes was literally the only thing I hated about working out. The only thing.

The clothes fell into the laundry basket with a series of wet slaps: sports bra, tanktop, cycling pants and some expensive thong that, according to the catalog, was made out of Space Shuttle. I kicked my smelly shoes back down the stairs and peeled off my socks, then pondered myself in the mirror while I stood on the scale. I never missed a chance to evaluate my body before I bathed, but this time as I stared at myself I had a new thought.

Scott would be seeing me in two days. I couldn't pretend not to care about that, nor to wonder what would be going through his mind. Our very last time seeing each other, that Friday in Monroe, we'd been standing by his car, my suitcase at my feet, and we'd hugged.

Now, there are hugs and there are hugs. It would have been very normal, even expected, for two temporary friends at a conference to exchange a farewell embrace, maybe after a warm handshake, and possibly even a kiss on the cheek. It had been a pretty worthwhile conference, and we'd gotten along very well. Too well.

But Scott and I had gone far beyond the basic, rote waist-bent human grapple that usually punctuates these kinds of things: we'd gone full-body, our legs offset and slightly entwined, our arms not chastely around each others' shoulders but low, tight across our hips and backs, one of my hands even finding its way to the upper swell of his butt. And he'd leaned down, smiling tenderly, and kissed me on the lips: granted, not a full-scale makeout smooch of any kind (certainly not like the day before), but nevertheless something a lot more intimate than the norm for that kind of occasion. Of course I hadn't minded, but I hadn't expected it either. Not in public, and the college had kicked us out of the building far too quickly for anything private.

The others had been getting into their cars, exchanging email addresses and, I noticed, glancing over at us. We'd parted slowly, self-consciously, looking down; I'd found his left hand in my right, and I'd stared at the gold ring there. Hmm. Chats in the stairwell...

He'd been an attractive man from the moment I'd seen him sitting in the seminar room, one of just three people there early. He was tall and in good shape, maybe five years older than me, clean-shaven with glasses and very short hair, but looking youthful and energetic and calm as he'd sat there with a nonfiction book and a travel mug full of coffee. Moving all the way across the room to sit next to him had been a totally impulsive move on my part; I could tell he was surprised when I took the seat beside him.

Surprised and, I thought, pleased.

And why not? He'd been some dude at a summer conference, looking slack and bored in cargo shorts and a logo shirt. I'd been in capris and a thin shirt, the kind so stylish back then, with the abbreviated sleeves. As I stood on the scale and frowned into the mirror, I couldn't help but compare the modern me to the me of eight years back.

The tub was filling noisily as I scanned myself; in all honesty, the legs were exactly the same, short but nicely formed, with my family's excellent calves and small feet. The ass was probably even better than before: I was now wiry where before I'd simply been petite, but my butt was still a nice, tight bubble, perfectly symmetrical as I twisted my head to get a peek at it. My back looked great, now muscular as fuck, my lats rippling as I raised the messy waves of my hair to get a better look. Damn. My waist, I was proud to say, was the same size it had been in high school, sweeping in from my slender hips.

A side view, now, at a stomach no longer absolutely flat, but instead with that slight, gentle roundness that happens to most of us around age 30, and which I'd come to like: I had no desire for a six-pack. I could still see a nice set of obliques, as symmetrical as my ass, descending to my firm, tight mound; I was starting to get wispy down there again, my pubes coming back in a shade lighter than last time; I didn't shave when Leon was gone. Could do with a trim along the sides though, and not for Scott: I'd noticed itching lately along the seams of my underwear. I lacked a thigh gap, but since all the articles said they were unhealthy I was fine with that: instead, a broad open triangle ran past my upper thighs, bounded on top by my vag.

Up, then, past my belly button, to the B-cups I'd hated as a high schooler but fucking loved now that I was a runner. Small, dark nipples popped out of the front of my twin handfuls, now hardening a little with the evening breeze coming in through the window. My shoulders and triceps were powerful from all the pushups, my forearms not quite jacked but certainly hard. I pursed my lips, pale in my round face, candidly deciding that, when Scott saw me again on Thursday morning, he'd see an even better version of Shannon Boyle than he'd hugged so tightly eight years back.

I knew I had no time for a haircut before Thursday, alas, but that was fine. Ponytails cover a multitude of sins, and he wouldn't recognize it anyway; I'd been a blonde back then, my hair straightened. I'd need to tweeze my dark, expressive eyebrows; nothing at all could be done for my tiny, upturned nose, but if it hadn't bothered him in Monroe it certainly wouldn't bother him now. The hole was closed now, the nose stud of eight years ago being something I'd outgrown. I had fewer freckles now, certainly, and my skin was undoubtedly in worse shape; last year I'd noticed the first squint lines alongside my big brown eyes, but I didn't mind that.

I smiled at myself, the ironic and lopsided smile I'd had since I was very little. It always looked ironic, even when I didn't mean it that way. This time I was smiling at the odd thought that a woman with a boyfriend of three years should care what a married man thought of her looks after eight years. After all, he and I had really hit it off, but we could hardly be said to be "close" back then. Not emotionally, anyway.

Ah, but those chats in the stairwell, though...

I shrugged, sighed, and eased into the warm water to steep. That made me think of tea, and I wished I'd made some before I'd come up. Leon would have brought me some if he'd been here. I wondered if Scott would bring me a cup of tea in the tub.

I decided he definitely would. He'd liked me a lot.

* * *

While I ate my salad at the breakfast bar, I ran through a magazine that had shown up with the mail today. I had my tea now, Earl Grey with some honey, and it was warming my insides as the bath had warmed my outsides. The sun was definitely low now, the night beginning; my solar lights were coming on outside.

I'd been trying, since before I got in the tub, to picture Scott Herrick's face. I couldn't really; it had been eight years, and back then not every phone had been equipped with a camera. He'd looked vaguely like Joe Worth, that first boss I'd had at McCormick's; I remembered that had been my first reaction back then. Joe had been a good boss, so it had been a pleasant reaction. But still, it wasn't his face I remembered.

Scott had had excellent legs too, sheer runner's legs, a little stringy perhaps, but powerful and lithe and quick and, in a weird way, expressive. He'd been a toe-tapper, a guy who'd bounced his knee when sitting, always in motion; that I remembered. His constant leg motion had sometimes made my seat vibrate, back in Monroe, when I moved close to him. I remembered his ass, too, a compact wad of muscle normally hidden beneath shapeless cargo shorts. I'd wondered then, and I wondered now, what it would look like naked, for I was definitely an ass girl. I didn't remember anything too specific about his arms, his shoulders; I certainly remembered his hands, though, extremely well. Oh yes. And other things, too, just as clearly. From the stairwell chats.

I shivered and killed my tea; these were thoughts I didn't need to have. I still hadn't emailed him back, and I wondered whether he was anxious about what I'd say and how I'd say it. He must have known I'd write back, but I got the sudden uneasy feeling that he'd be reading too much into my delay in replying. Which wasn't fair. The last thing I wanted to do was to hurt him, but quickly I set that thought aside: he'd been happily married then and I assumed he still was, probably with a kid or two by now. But his email had been friendly, even flirtatious with that bit about the flask; we'd shared one in Monroe toward the end of the week.

And, of course, he'd mentioned the chats. No two ways about that one. There had, in the end, been nothing at all innocent about those chats in the stairwell. That he'd brought them up told me a great deal about his memories of me: the more I thought about it, the more certain I was that he must have been imagining me over the years more than I'd imagined him. Oh, but I was certainly imagining him now.

I sighed and looked across the kitchen; it was dark enough now to show my hazy reflection in the window above the sink. I deliberated for a few more minutes before deciding I'd wait until morning to email him back. He certainly knew I'd get back to him sooner or later; I figured I'd make my morning email warm and caring for him. He'd like that, and he wouldn't mind the delay then. Afterward, I'd know a lot from whether he wrote back, and how quickly.

* * *

The next morning was foggy and very cool, and I had a hoodie over my school clothes as I drove the funky Nissan in to school. Once I'd been very formal at school, even prim: when you're a petite 24-year-old, it's very easy to look like a sophomore girl. So my clothes had been my armor then, guarding against familiarity. But my thirty-second birthday present to myself had been an end to "teacher clothes," the buttoned blouses and the khaki trousers that needed such ironing. No more long skirts, and no more painful boots.

It was Wednesday before a conference, and that meant casual comfort: nice jeans, some Uggs, and one of Leon's flannel shirts. I headed in at my usual 7:30 and parked in my usual spot, headed in my usual side door and sat down at my desk to drink my usual coffee. I can't say the night before had given me any weird dreams of Scott, but I must have been thinking of him anyway because, oddly, I was fired up about emailing him.

We'd stayed in touch after Monroe for maybe a month or so, but things had just sort of petered out. So I hadn't sent him anything in almost a decade, and I was looking forward to giving him a subtle thrill. I am very clever with words, and when I want to I can write captivating emails. I fired up my work laptop, hit "reply," and indulged myself.

Hi Scott!

Of course I remember you. You were the odd duck that kept writing me notes in class, but only when the instructor wasn't looking. Interesting notes, as I recall. Notes about fun and unusual things...

So I guess I've now got a reason to be excited to go to this conference. There is absolutely no doubt that you and I will have a lot more fun than the other attendees, especially with a flask.

See you there, bright and early.

SB

There. It sounded innocuous on the surface, but there were tantalizing glimpses; our passed notes had become steadily less appropriate as the week in Monroe had gone on, speculating crudely about our fellow attendees and the instructor. And of course, after the stairwell chats had begun on the Thursday, the notes had gotten completely inappropriate, even scandalous.

And I'd thought a bit about the term

excited

. I'd originally considered

anticipating

or

looking forward

or, on the more suggestive side,

stimulated

.

Excited

struck the right balance. It would leave him guessing, and that's never a bad thing. I hit "send" with no edits, and got up to start my day.

* * *

My phone warbled again at nearly exactly the same time it had yesterday, as I was almost home from the gym. I'd been expecting Scott to get back to me at some point; I'd gotten an email not three minutes after I'd sent my reply, and had opened it hoping he'd been unable to restrain himself from getting back to me immediately. But it had only been Leon.

Now, though, it was Scott's reply. Once I saw his name in the inbox, I put the phone down on the passenger seat and savored my own anticipation with a slow smile. I went about my business, checking the mail and making some tea (

before

going upstairs to the shower, this time), and all the while my phone waited on the kitchen table. At last, the tea steeping, I sat down to see what he wanted. The message was one line, just two words:

Rum okay?

I frowned. That was it? I'd been waiting all day for that? It didn't occur to me to wait this time before I composed a reply.

Scott,

I'll assume we're adding it to coffee, rather than doing shots. So rum is fine, but so is Kahlua.

SB

I hit send and then drummed my fingers on the table, waiting until the tea was done. Even then I sat, clammy with sweat... and for what? Was I going to stay there and wait all evening for his email, like some junior higher? My eyes crept moodily to the cracked screen, and with a short shrug I got up and headed for the bathroom.