A light snow was falling. He could see it out the windows. It was early in the season and it wasn't going to stick.
He was laying around his cheap apartment in the late afternoon, taking a break from a homework thing that bored him half to death. He thought about going for a walk, in the snow. Get some exercise. Then he got a call from Wholesome Carrie. He had to try to get used to the sense of excitement he got when she was around, or even on the phone. He kept trying to fight it; it wasn't working at all. Not at all. Not since the day in the field.
She said she was in the neighborhood and asked to stop by for a visit. He said yes and then frantically straightened up, stuffing clothes in the dresser whether they were dirty or not, and quickly wiping off the bathroom. The kitchen was largely untouched and he left it. He had just finished up when the doorbell rang. He walked down to the entry.
She smiled at him, stepped into the hallway and headed up the stairs. She had on a long, slim, black coat that extended nearly to her ankles, and her hair was done up in a kind of 'do. She was also wearing a pair of shiny black high heels, the first pair of those he'd ever seen her wear. He felt well under dressed in his drawstring pants and sweatshirt, but then, he wasn't doing much but sitting around the house, so... he also hadn't shaved in a couple of days.
In the apartment Carrie unbuttoned the coat and he helped her slip it off, and when he did he had to gawk more than a bit. She had on a tight black pencil skirt that didn't quite make it below her knees, and a tailored white dress shirt with shortened sleeves. The outfit was far more form fitting than anything he'd ever seen her in before, and it was surprising and, he had to admit, kind of shocking. Not because it really was, but because Carrie was wearing it. He noticed the shape of her legs, encased in dark tights. The whole thing, combined with the high heels, made her look like a fashion ad.
She turned around and smiled at him.
He moved closer, like a magnet to another, and could smell her. She smelled like she always did, organic and earthy, but fresh and delightful.
He had to ask: "What's the occasion? You're dressed up."
Carrie turned her mouth sideways. "I have Messiah performances at the Catholic church. I guess they have a shortage of alto-sopranos." She stayed silent for a bit, then said, "They asked us to wear black lower and white top. I had to borrow clothes from a choir member, and this is how she dresses."
He had to wonder why Carrie didn't just go shopping for an outfit, but had the thought that he'd never heard Carrie discuss shopping, clothing, food, or any consumer habits at all. She seemed, he had to think, unusually cheap, or frugal, or something. All her clothes were comfortable, understated things, built for work and tasks, or for the weather, and that was it. He decided to consider himself lucky to get to see her dressed up at all. He was thinking about her appearance, when she said something that was typically weird.
"I'm not comfortable. I'm very uncomfortable. This skirt-" she looked down- "is kind of, well, it's indecent."
He had to stop and stare at her. Indecent? Huh? He didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. The outfit wouldn't have raised an eyebrow, from anyone, anywhere, in any office, or even church, in the United States. To him it was shocking because he knew she never, ever dressed like this. It was, he knew, the contrast between how she usually looked and how she looked today that was making her so intoxicatingly sexy.
Carrie wandered around the room, shifting her weight from one high-heeled shoe to the other, in the first indication of a womanly sway he'd ever seen her perform. She always walked like she was gliding. In the black skirt and plain white blouse she looked elegant. She was elegant. She swayed and undulated, gently thrusting one hip, then the other, from side to side. He honestly wasn't ready for it; she was always so understated in her movements. In this case the effect was sensual and arousing, seductive and insinuating.
She turned her back to him and shifted her balance point, making her hips sway. He had to watch her ass move in the skirt, and he noticed the skirt had an understated, but profoundly sexy, little bow on the back waistband.
He thought, "Unhgh." He tried to be cool; at least on the outside. Inside, no way. .
Carrie surprised him again. "Do you have anything to drink? Alcohol?"
He started. He was pretty sure Carrie didn't drink at all; at least, she'd never indicated a desire for any alcohol on any of their 'dates', and the last time he'd offered she'd turned him down. For some reason today was different.
"Uh..." He thought for a minute. "Actually, all I've got is Scotch." He shrugged a little, honestly apologetic. It was unlikely Wholesome Carrie was going to slug hard whisky. She surprised him, again.
"Scotch? Perfect."
He stood still for an incredulous, long minute. "Really?"
She smiled and said, "Sure. Listen, I worked with commonwealth expats; I know how to drink." She swiveled and showed him the indecent skirt and its delightful bow. "I just don't generally. Oh." She turned back to face him and said, "No ice."
He turned to make her drink, which he knew would involve pouring some whisky into a tumbler and... that was it.
Carrie asked, "Is that strange?"
He had the glass, then thought, and got another. "What's strange?"
"That I'm weird about ice. There's a reason for it, though. You know," she turned again, swaying, and he overpoured the first glass, hypnotized by Carrie. She went on: "It's just that, you know, you get done with a job or a project and you want a nice gin and tonic on the rocks or something, and the next thing you know you're medevaced. People think about water, but they don't think about ice cubes." She looked at him earnestly. "For real. People do it all the time."
He reflected before he poured the next glass. "I never really thought of that. You're right, I don't think about where the ice cubes come from."
He poured her drink and handed it to her; it was a simple two fingers of decent Scotch in a glass. He never would have expected that from Wholesome Carrie. Never. He almost asked her if she'd like a cigar to go with it, but didn't; it seemed too crude.
She swished the glass a little, smelled the whisky, and took a small sip, tasting. She lowered the glass and smiled at him, again. The effect hit him pretty hard; he had not at all expected this out of his day. He went into the living room area and sat down.
He had to do it: he asked her a personal question. "Where were you? In your NGO?"
He saw it: her back stiffened and she tensed up. He instantly regretted asking the question, thought rapidly, and followed it up as fast as he could. "Sorry. It doesn't matter. Forget I asked." He raised his glass in a small toast, and drank himself. When he lowered his own glass he said, "Cheers, Miss Drinks Scotch with expat people."
Carrie tossed her head back and laughed out loud. It was nice, very nice; she sounded awesome and pleasant, sexy and... well, just sexy. Carrie had a deep laugh, an honest and mature sound; she sounded like a real woman. She sauntered to his battered, duct-taped little boombox on the kitchen counter, a thing he kept out of sentimentality for regional radio and hard-copy music. Then he realized he had a cassette tape in it, one of his own from before. It was a dub copy; the original was stashed in the storage unit, wrapped up and safe. She ejected the tape and looked at it; he knew all it had on it was a name and a date.
Wholesome Carrie turned it over, inspecting, and asked, "Is this a mix tape? For real? An actual mix tape?"
He answered, "Well, yeah. It is." He got nervous, and took a sip of the Scotch. He had the tape because he'd been somewhere where that was people had. He decided to try for a lighthearted approach. "Eh, I'm a retro fan."
She put on a thoughtful look. "Can I play it? Or is it personal?"
"Go ahead and play it." If she didn't like it, that was okay. He didn't feel like lying to her. She put the tape back in, rewound, and pressed play. She took a sip of her drink.
It was scratchy, but it came through easily. She listened to the first few pieces, the death and thrash metal and dissonant noise of aggression, macho, angry shit they'd played on the charlie box. Then it segued into copies of some of the local tapes he'd picked up, foreign and utterly different. When it sank in to Carrie what was on the tape she turned and looked at him intently, a totally inscrutable expression on her face.
