P.J. turned on her side, looked at the young man's back, the taut, muscled, smooth back. He was sleeping soundly, sweat still matting the dark curls along his neck, resting from the early morning marathon. This is not going to work, she thought. He takes too much work, too much time.
Brian, the young man in question, had been in P.J.'s head and bed for two months now. They had spent almost every night together since they'd met, more and more of Brian's clothing and personal items making their way into P.J.'s home. Brian was intelligent and serious minded, but not always focused. Intelligence is good, she thought. But his sense of humor is not deep. No fun. Well, fun, she thought, but not funny. He was able to focus when directed, but was not always self-disciplined. That's where the work came in. The time. Trying to keep him focused on his studies. Squelching her own physical desires in order to prevent his academic downfall.
Of late, and she knew it was her fault, Brian had been studying her more than his subjects. His physical stamina was truly remarkable. Not how long he could last. That was normal, whatever normal was. It was the number of times in close succession that he could achieve a hard on. She had caught herself more than once teasing him into lovemaking just to see if indeed he could get it up again. This was not nice and she knew it. She just couldn't help it. Well, she could. But she didn't. Not enough anyway. Remarkable. She also knew that one of the reasons he had such stamina was because he was so serious about what he was doing. Again, no fun. Good, but not always fun. She required humor in lovemaking from time to time. Brian took sex very seriously.
P.J. abruptly stopped this line of thought.. She was mentally lying. She adored Brian. He had gotten into some places she had thought were closed. He held up a conversation as well as men twice his age. Literature, philosophy, history, economics, science, oh, could he talk science. Teach her about science. She needed to know, loved to learn. He taught her.
The mind. His mind. The ordered mind. Maybe that's what it was. Brian wasn't steeped in literature, but he was astute. One of P.J.'s favorite authors was Henry James, not palatable to most of the reading population of the universe. The nuances, the delicate explosions, the sinuous sentences, not to everyone's taste. Brian embraced James. Started at the beginning and worked his way to "The Golden Bowl." He'd done it in short order. She'd spent time with him on the more difficult pieces, but he needed little direction once he'd gotten the gist of James's work.
Along the way, in this abbreviated time frame, P.J. had done something she hadn't intended to do. She had gotten very attached to the young man. It wasn't just the strong, youthful body and the handsome face. It wasn't just the mind. In addition to these things, Brian was caring, nice, unselfish. His good nature had won her over more than she had cared to be won. He was not even as unfunny as she liked to believe. It simply made it easier to think about. To think about it being over. When his curly black hair and clear, calm blue eyes greeted her in the mornings, she wondered why she'd spent the last few years alone. So nice to have someone to wake up to.
But it could not, should not, be. As much as she liked the young man, P.J. knew that for his sake she had to turn him loose. His future, she felt, would be a successful one, and he didn't need a woman as old as she was to hold him back.
Brian was, P.J. smiled at the thought, a very perceptive pupil in bed. He had been eager to learn, eager to please. There were definitely some high points to the last weeks. But it was time to move on. He deserved an adoring, patient, giving, sensitive, loving partner. She knew she was not it. Would not be it. A way would become clear. She felt it in her bones.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
P.J.'s office hours on Thursday afternoon were generally undisturbed by students. They tended to come either immediately before or after classes. Her door was open as she scanned the computer monitor's screen, checking for e-mails that deserved her attention. She became aware of someone in the doorway and glanced up to see Savannah. This was the young woman she knew Brian had dated off and on. They had discussed her. In fact, during the last week, since P.J. had been thinking of how to extricate herself from this attachment, she had purposefully asked Brian about his dating habits. He was not as forthcoming as she'd hoped. She admitted to herself that she'd probably pushed it too much in an attempt to find a way out. A less hurtful way.
P.J. had not really been curious about Savannah, or the other one, what was her name, Julie, Julia? She had been fishing for some information to help her with what she knew was before her . . . the conversation about moving on. Her only thought was that she hoped neither of them was a twit. She hoped that they were not shallow. Hoped they had the sense to see this young man's potential. Hoped that they knew how time consuming he might be and did not mind. In the long run, Brian would require someone who was intelligent, determined, devoted, and selfless.
As she appraised the girl before her, P.J. wondered if the confident, beautiful exterior reflected the interior. If so, Savannah could be a contender. She had long, wavy strawberry blonde hair that fell just to the shoulders. It was thick and shiny. Touchable. A mere sprinkling of pale freckles dotted her untanned, unlined face. P.J. wondered where else such freckles might appear. She was medium height, around 5'5" or so, shapely, not stick thin and not overly round. She was attractively dressed, in style, but not overly exposed. A simple pale pink, v-necked t-shirt, revealing ample breasts, neatly tucked into a denim skirt. Strappy sandals barely covered her feet. Both finger and toe nails were splashed with a sparkling pink paint. The mouth, too. Pouty. Shiny. Just right.
What followed in the next seven or so minutes was one of the most remarkable conversations that P.J. had ever experienced. It was one of a mere handful of human communications experienced during a lifetime that takes place on a level so stripped of human foibles that actual words seemed superfluous. She believed that the conversation could have taken place via telepathy had she and Savannah known how to employ the technique.
P.J. had appraised the girl in seconds, the girl appraising the woman at the same time. She was not hesitant. She looked the professor in the eyes and introduced herself.
"Dr. Stewart. I'm Savannah McLaine. A friend of Brian Cane's. May I speak with you? Privately?"
P.J. had already risen.
"Please," she said as she swept her arm towards one of the empty chairs facing her desk. "Close the door and have a seat."
Savannah turned halfway around to shut the office door, turned back, and had a seat. She kept both feet on the ground, did not cross them. She folded her arms at the elbows, leaned forward slightly, and placed them on the edge of the desk. Her face, the expression, was neutral, the voice modulated.
There was no pretense, no jealousy, no vacillation.
"I would like to know if you are ready to relinquish Brian now." She looked the older woman squarely in the eyes.
The older woman's eyes must have reflected something that the younger one understood.
"Relinquish?" the older woman asked, not feigning surprise at the use of the word.
"If you'd rather, then let go, not relinquish. Is that more suitable?" Savannah asked.
"You make it sound as if I've chained him up," P.J. said, curious about the choice of words still.
"Well," the girl continued. "In a way, you have." Her look never wavered. She spoke again. "I know that you and Brian have been having sex for a while now. I know when it started. There was an immediate change in him. It took me about a week to find out it was you. I've given this plenty of time. So, what I want to know is whether or not you're ready to give him up."
P.J. did not hesitate but immediately answered, "Yes."
Now Savannah's face must have reflected something the older woman recognized. P.J. repeated clearly, "Yes," and leaned forward, not folding her arms as Savannah's, but with the forearms touching the top of the desk from the elbow down, finger tips pointing directly at Savannah's chest.
"I am relieved you're here," P.J. continued. "In fact, I've been racking my brain trying to figure a way out of this." There was no brutality or harshness in the statement. It was simple truth.
Savannah apparently appreciated the lack of complication.
"Good," she said, still no emotional tinge to the voice. She leaned back in the chair only to retake the previous position almost immediately.
P.J. began to explain her statement. "I, well, I didn't mean what I said to sound . . ."
A near imperial wave of her right hand and Savannah dismissed the explanation.
"No, no. I understand perfectly. I mean, I understand that you were not being vicious or anything." She paused, but only briefly. "Do you mind me asking if you care for him?"
