Melanie fumed. It was a nice day, the top was down on her '51 Muntz letting the sun stream in, and she should have been enjoying a leisurely drive home. However, the conversation she had surreptitiously overhead at the Social Club picnic was repeating in her head. With each iteration her white gloved hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.
"I'll never understand what possessed John to marry that pale, flat chested, freckled little red head." Milly King had announced to a gaggle of her friends around the punch bowl. At that moment Melanie happened to be standing on the other side of the particularly thick trunk of the elm tree which they had all gathered beneath, taking advantage of the dappled shade it provided.
"You know she won't be able to keep him happy at home. I give it a month before he realises what a wet rag she is and he goes looking to have his needs met elsewhere, if you know what I mean." Constance Clarke was a chesty, bottle blond who was homecoming queen with a mind to running for Miss USA, "The other day when I was at the pool I saw him looking at me as I walked from the change rooms to the pool."
"What did you do?"
"You wouldn't believe it, I just happened to drop my towel in front of him and I had to bend over right there to pick it up. I could feel his eyes on me the whole time which got me all hot and bothered. I don't mind telling you."
"With that chiselled jaw and dark, thick hair, he can stare at me any time he wants." Laura Buckman's voice, "I wouldn't even tell mister Buckman if he did more than look either."
"So other than Constance and Laura, who else is my competition? Do any of you married ladies feel like trading in their current model and being the next Mrs Baker?" Asked Milly, and a moment passed, "I guess it's unanimous then. I almost feel sorry for the little bookworm."
Bookworm, it was the name she had been teased with in high school, and now being the only lady in the social club who had attended university, it was back again. It was during her time studying that she had met John. While her roommate's father had paid her tuition with the understanding that she had three semesters to secure a husband, Melanie had completed her study with honours. A fact which had endeared her to John, rather than decrease her attractive qualities as she had been warned on many occasions.
Driving aimlessly through town, Melanie thought back to her wedding night, and the few subsequent nights in her marital bed with John. She hadn't had a great understanding of what to expect. John had taken his time and been gentle enough while she lay in the dark, the two of them under the covers, until he finished a short time later.
In comparison the two of them would spend hours most evenings debating the news of the day, their dinner plates forgotten, still loaded with food that had long gone cold. Their voices would rise to a crescendo as each of them keenly drove home some esoteric point or other until they were left horse and ragged.
Stopped at a traffic light, not looking at anything in particular, her gaze fell upon the answer to the collective assault upon her marriage from the social club ladies. It was a small red door next to a blacked out shop front window. Looking around she noted that she had never been in this part of town. Many of the stores looked industrial or low rent, and there were no shoppers or other signs of community along the sidewalk. A small shingle above the red door read 'Bookshop'.
Melanie started to see pieces of a plan coalesce and the first step lay within this bookshop. While not a prude per se and having no objection to the lascivious parts of society, she had only a passing familiarity of what lay beyond the red door from overhead conversations held in whispers at some very conservative college parties.
When the light changed to green, Melanie pulled the car around in a wide circle to park parallel with an industrial dry cleaners on the opposite side of the street from the bookshop. There was no one around, and even if there were, she doubted they would know each other let alone move in the same social circles. In spite of her anonymity, Melanie felt a small uneasiness in her stomach accompanied by a quick skip of her heart and when she tried to swallow she found her mouth was dry. It was a feeling not dissimilar to when she was fourteen and had crept down stairs to pilfer from her daddy's liquor cabinet. What she had learnt from that experience was to steal her resolve and move decisively once set upon a course of action, as dallying and hesitation ensured a wrathful discovery.
Before exiting the car she examined herself in the rear view mirror. Her silk headscarf, light peach in colour, had fulfilled its role in keeping her shoulder length hair protected from the ravages of the whipping wind as she drove. She decided to keep it in place for the task ahead. Once she had checked her teeth were clear of lipstick, she exited the car and made her way across the street.
The shopfront's blacked out window was turned into a mirror in the bright sunlight, giving Melanie an opportunity to examine herself as she walked briskly to the red door. Her tea dress was dark green with white polka dots and set off her wavy ginger curls nicely. As she noted this contrast Milly King's comments came to the front of her mind once again. She set her jaw tight, pressed her lips, and strode purposefully through the red door.
There was no silvery tinkling of a bell overhead struck by the door, nor a shop assistant standing idly by some merchandise to greet her warmly with a smile that was all teeth and no eyes. The shop's interior was rather dim, with the sun excluded by the back outs. The interior was lit by a series of lamps positioned to shine on shelves lining the walls.
There was a woman seated behind a desk which contained a small battered cash box, another lamp, and a fine china cup and saucer with a floral pattern and gold rim. The woman herself was of African descent, heavyset and of indeterminate middle age. There were some crows feet at her eyes and slight sagging of her cheeks, however, she looked too young for her short silver hair in tight curls, and thick glasses attached to a delicate chain around her neck.
Melanie stepped in from the doorway and paused to scan the shop while her eyes adjusted. The shop woman lost interest in the abrupt visitor and raised her hand, in which she held a dog eared magazine, pages folded back upon themselves, from behind the desk and continued to read.
Taking stock of the inventory on display, Melanie saw various glossy magazines, quite a few from Europe, with bold colourful titles and women staring back at her. The magazine women wore a range of clothes and expressions; while some were innocent and others sultry, Melanie was surprised by the faces that were demanding or dismissive. There were young women but also women her mothers age, and all shapes and sizes. Melanie was reminded for a brief moment of church and the story of the Tower of Babel in the Old Testament where people of all races and colours worked together speaking one language before God broke them all up. The shelves of this bookshop seemed to have brought together the greatest diversity of people seen since the time of that Biblical story.
On a table in the middle of the room sat a wide shallow box partitioned into sections as if for a library card catalogue. However, contained within each compartment of this box were different packages of prophylactics. A stiff piece of white card stuck out of each compartment with a short description and price in neat handwritten script. Melanie's pupils dilated slightly as she noted the range of colours, designs, and sizes they came in.
Unable to see anything approaching what she was looking for, Melanie stepped up to the desk when something caught her eye, distracting her for a moment.
"Hello, is that the Journal of Politics?" Not waiting for an answer she rushed ahead enthusiastically, "I didn't mean to pry, I just noticed the University of Chicago Press watermark and I was excited to see someone else in town who reads it. Did you attend U of C?"
The shop woman remained stationary but her eyes flashed up to stare at Melanie over the top rim of her glasses. She breathed out heavily through her nose as her mouth pulled tight into a slight grimace. When Melanie's eager looks remained unchanged she broke the silence between them by tossing down the journal.
"Do I look like the kind of person who attended the University of Chicago, hmm? I scrubbed toilets there for twenty years. Now are you lost lady, or are you actually looking for something to stick in your cooch?"
Melanie's excitement of finding a potential kindred spirit, another woman she could talk about politics, history and sociology with, dissolved. She was silent for a moment, and felt the warm flush of a crimson tide move up from her collar bone to her hairline. She was caught between wanting to apologise profusely and hastily retreating from the store, and the red hot vitriol waiting to be spewed forth in response to such a rude and uncouth comment.
While only a moment had passed Melanie felt as if it had been an age. She pushed her right palm flat against the hard bone at the centre of her chest, the pressure was calming, and she took a slow breath before speaking.
"I am sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I am looking for some information, a book if you have it? I'd like to learn about sex. I don't know much, you see."
"What would you like to know?" The shop lady's expression softened, her curiosity piqued.
"Everything!"
