When morning came, it was Iris who was momentarily confused as to where she was—or, rather, why there was another occupant in her bed.
She let out a little cry when she saw the long, muscular form of a young man next to her, lightly snoring, his face buried in the pillow. She quickly clapped a hand over her mouth to prevent further noise and risk his waking up. Then she slid out of bed, groaning as various parts of her body protested the unusual exercise they had just received. Stumbling to the bathroom, she started the shower and got into it. The nearly scalding water washed away a lot of the fluids that had filled her orifices, and she emerged cleansed and a little more confident of herself.
She cursed herself for not taking a set of clothes with her to the bathroom, and so she was compelled to return to the bedroom, wrapped in a towel, and let it fall while she hastily slipped into a bra and panties. Predictably, Damon had woken up and peered fascinatedly at her. As she slipped a mid-length blue dress over her head, she looked at him severely and said:
"You'd better get up. I have a ten o'clock class."
"Yeah," he said sleepily. "So do I."
"I'll make you some breakfast."
"You don't have to—"
"Of course I do," she snapped, heading out the door. "I can't let you get out of here on an empty stomach. Anyway,
I
need something. Come down soon."
And with that, she left the room and tripped down the stairs.
Damon hadn't, of course, brought a change of clothing along—how could he possibly have predicted that he'd spend the night here?—and so he was disinclined to shower. He merely put his clothes back on and padded downstairs toward the kitchen.
He saw Iris energetically making bacon and eggs. The coffeemaker was at work also. It was far more than he had expected, and he was touched. But he knew that's the way she was: kind, caring, considerate, even at someone who had so boldly invaded her house and her body.
"Make some toast," she ordered briskly, gesturing in the direction of the bread box and the toaster.
Their breakfast had to be quick, since it was already past 9:30. They said almost nothing over the meal, since this was clearly not the time for any heavy discussion. But Damon did venture one question.
"Can I see you again?"
He awaited her answer with trepidation. It wouldn't have surprised him in the least if Iris had demanded that he never darken her door again and pretend that last night had never happened. And she seemed on the verge of saying just that; but then she let out a little sigh and said, "Yes, of course."
Elated, he shot back: "Tonight?"
"No!" Her response was both forceful and agitated. "No. Not tonight. I—I need a little time to . . . recover."
He smiled inwardly at that.
I bet you do.
"How about tomorrow?" That was Friday—the end of the school week!
"All right," she said, resigned.
"Great!" he enthused, getting up from the table and giving Iris a quick hug and a kiss on the top of her head. "You're the best, Iris!"
"You'd better leave first," she said nervously. "We can't be seen going to campus together."
"I understand," he said. And he trotted out the front door without a backward glance.
Iris made it a little more slowly out of the house, and in minutes she was shuffling through the door that led to the offices of the history professors. Carrie Branscom's desk was positioned in a landing in front of the corridors that led to those offices, and she looked up and gave Iris a shaky greeting. "Hello, professor."
Carrie didn't dare ask Iris whether a young man named Damon had visited her at home, for she couldn't risk letting her know that she was the one who had leaked her address. It did strike her that Iris didn't look quite the same as usual, but she wasn't about to ask why.
As Iris dumped some books and other paraphernalia on her desk, she saw that it was ten minutes to ten. Yikes! Just barely in time for class.
A colleague, Betty Harper, who taught European history, was rushing out to her own class, but stopped short when she saw Iris sitting wearily at the desk in her office, staring into space.
"Gee, Iris, you okay?" Betty said, adding with a smirk: "Rough night?"
Betty was fully aware that Iris seemed a pretty lonely soul, and she figured that Iris was just one of those people who either didn't want a relationship or was so choosy that she hadn't found the right man. Betty and her husband had had Iris over for dinner any number of times over the past four years, but Iris had always come alone. In fact, she had chided some students whom she had once overheard referring to Iris as "the ice queen."
Iris looked up in a daze at Betty. "I—I didn't sleep so well." In fact, Iris had slept like the dead and had woken up groggy, as if drugged.
"Well, hope you wake up—your class is in a few minutes."
Iris nodded distractedly, then wriggled on her seat, a wince of pain on her face.
That made Betty stop short.
No, there's no way—
She put the thought out of her mind.
That's just too absurd. She must have worked out a bit too hard at the gym. Someone so slender as Iris must work out.
Betty gave Iris a tentative wave and bolted out of the office.
In the few minutes Iris had before she had to trudge to class, she tried to think coherently on what had happened last night. The whole thing had already come to seem like a dream—a pleasant dream (although with a few painful bits), but a dream nonetheless. How could she have let herself go like that? What was it about that young man—scarcely more than a boy, for all his height, strength, and sexual experience—that had enticed her to yield to him so readily? It was shocking, appalling, outrageous . . . but she couldn't help smiling over certain parts of it, playing them over and over in her mind.
When she left the office, Carrie noticed a soft smile and a light in Iris's eyes. The transformation from Iris's usually gloomy expression was so startling that Carrie's jaw dropped.
*
It was late afternoon on Friday when Damon casually ambled into Iris's office.
Iris was furiously grading papers, trying to finish her work so that the evening would be uncluttered. She didn't even notice Damon in the room until he impudently sat on the corner of her desk and said, "Hey, babe, what's up?"
She gave him that wide-eyed look that had already wrung his heart several times before. "God, Damon!" she whispered. "You scared the bejesus out of me! What—what are you doing here?"
"Just checking in to see if we're still on for tonight."
Her eyes widened even more. "Go close the door," she hissed, even though that was something that was forbidden by school policy. Professors' office doors had to remain open, precisely to avoid compromising situations like this one.
Damon slid off the desk and did as Iris instructed, then sat heavily on a chair facing the desk. He gave her a meaningful look.
"You really shouldn't have come here," she said, still in a whisper, even though with the door closed there was little chance anyone could overhear them.
"Why not?" Damon said. "I could say I've just come to talk about schoolwork. I
am
a history major now, you know."
"Yes, fine, but—"
"So are we on?"
She looked away at him and colored. "Of course we're on."
"Great! I wanted to be sure I was wanted."
She swallowed painfully. "Um, maybe you could—you could come by for dinner."
He was touched by the gesture. "Gee, Iris, you don't have to do that."
Iris was a little peeved that he now seemed comfortable using her first name. She had rather liked it when he called her "ma'am": there was something delightfully old-fashioned about it. But she figured, resignedly, that after what they'd been through she couldn't possibly forbid him to call her by her name.
"I—I don't mind," she said. "It's no fun cooking for one. I think I'm a pretty good cook."
"I'm sure you are," Damon said genially.
"You like pork chops?"
"Love 'em!"
"Okay. Come by around six or six-thirty. You'd better go now." She tried to look severe, but probably failed.
"Sure thing, dear," he said, impulsively bending over the desk, taking her face in both hands, and pasting a wet kiss on her mouth. Before she could protest, he had flitted out the door.
I don't mind him calling me "dear," but I'm going to tell him he'd better not call me "babe" again.
It was to be expected that Damon showed up at Iris's house even a little before six. She rushed from the kitchen to the door, where she let him in without ceremony, escaped his attempt to embrace her, and dashed back to the kitchen. She was wearing a fetching apron that covered nearly her entire front, coming up just short of her knee-length floral print dress. There were a few streaks of flour on her face, as she was making a homemade breading for the pork chops while also making homemade mashed potatoes. She drew the line at the vegetable side dish: she'd just pop some frozen asparagus into the microwave. There was even an apple pie for dessert (store-bought).
Damon consumed the meal with immense appreciation, and Iris watched him with quiet pride, delight, and a little awe. Well, what do you expect for an athlete—even though it was the off-season for the baseball team? She even pressed upon him to eat some of her own pork chop, which she felt was a little too large for her. He protested, but at her insistence he gave way. It didn't last long on the plate.
After pie and coffee, they sauntered over to the living room.
Iris was determined not to go right up to the bedroom: that would be just too degrading. And Damon sensed that, too, placing himself delicately on the sofa and patting the seat next to him. She sat there demurely and allowed him to put his arm around her shoulders.
She had to admit that there was a great deal of comfort in a man's embrace.
"What would you like to do?" she said, resisting the temptation to rest her head on his chest. "Watch a movie?"
"Mmm, I don't think so," he said. "Don't think I have the energy for that." The unspoken subtext was obvious:
I have a lot of energy for other things, but not for that.
"How about some music?" she suggested.
"That would be great!" he cried.
