Cold Hearted

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the second chapter of the arc begun in the story titled "Cold Hearted." (Archived elsewhere on this site.)

Cold Hearted II "Hard Lessons" by Anne Phorcy

I'm scared, Dave.

I don't know what's happening to me.

I can pin down, exactly, when it started - three weeks ago, in the Safeway. In the same aisle where you met Becky that day you offered her the date to Neil Diamond and our "relationship" really took off.

I was pushing my cart down the aisle. I was looking for odd-ball things that I liked, or at least could stomach, but that you probably couldn't. I was planning another of those dinners where - because we're still newly-weds (more or less) - you have to smile and pretend that the stuff that I've intentionally under-cooked or burned is just wonderful. Where you have to pretend that you just love tuna casserole because I'm sitting there faking a nervous/hopeful expression, watching you take every bite. And you just couldn't be so mean to me that you'd say it wasn't delicious after I slaved all day on it. Right? (Actually, it's just a bunch of stuff I threw together in a baking dish and tossed in the oven about an hour before you came home. But I'll never tell.)

Anyway, I was pushing my cart down the aisle when I noticed a young woman about my age coming toward me. She had this little four-year-old girl hanging onto her leg, bugging her about buying some kind of cereal. The woman looked haggard and harried and her hair was a mess. And she was very obviously pregnant. Six months, at least. She tried to reach for something on the shelf - a can of peaches, if I recall correctly. The little girl gave her a good hard tug and positively screeched that they had to get a box of Count Chocula, RIGHT NOW! Mommy was distracted enough by that piercing shriek that she bobbled the can she had just gotten her hand around. She dropped it. It took several others with it.

Canned peaches bouncing all over the place.

She stood there looking like she wanted to cry. Her daughter was now throwing a tantrum because just shrieking apparently wasn't sufficient motivation to make Mom get her a box of Count Chocula.

I'm still a gentleman, my fake feminine exterior not withstanding. Before I really thought about it I was kneeling on the floor retrieving the dropped cans because, God knows, it didn't look like Mommy could bend down and touch the floor to save her life. She held out her hands like she was expecting me to give her the cans so she could put them away. I shook my head, "No. It's okay. I've got it" and started putting the cans back on the shelf.

She sighed and offered me a tired little smile. "Thank you."

"No problem. Happy to help. I know how it can be sometimes."

"Oh? Do you have children?"

I paused. That's when it started. Again I shook my head. "No." A pause. "Not yet." A lie. ("Not ever. I can't. I'm not built that way.")

With that tired little smile still on her lips, she rested her free hand atop the swollen mound of her belly. She glanced down at the little hellion jerking her other hand in the general direction of what I assumed was the cold cereal aisle. "They'll steal your time, your youth and your sanity . . . but I wouldn't trade this one for all the gold in the world." She paused a moment, sharing the Mystery of Motherhood with me - her fellow female. Then she said, "Thanks again." She allowed her daughter to drag her away. "Okay honey, show me which one. But if we get it, this time you have to . . ."

I lost the rest as she turned the corner and disappeared. Leaving me to stand there. Frowning. Trying to figure out why, oh why in the world . . .

I was so jealous of her.

It gets stranger, Dave. A lot stranger.

Have you noticed those high school kids the apartment managers have got tending the yard this summer? Two guys and a girl. About 15 or 16, I guess. I don't know if they're around early enough for you to see them before you take off for the office in the morning. They mow the lawns and trim the shrubs. They're the ones who have been painting the carports. You know - typical "first summer job" stuff. They're also the ones I told you helped me move the last of the boxes down to the dumpster. The boxes I used when me moved my stuff in.

Anyway, I've been watching them when I'm out on the deck, reading my book. That's how I spend my mornings, you know. It's a cool gig, this housewife stuff. Not at all like punching a time clock. Oh, I suppose it would be kind of a grind if I took it seriously. You know - really got into the dusting and cooking and doing the laundry. But if you don't mind blowing off the chores (as I don't) then there really isn't much to it.

So that's how I spend my mornings. Reading my book and soaking up the rays.

I just realized; you've never asked how I fill my days. Hmm . . . And here I'm ever so attentive when you come home nights and regale me with how your day went. (Of course I'm attentive. I have to stay in touch with what's going on in the world of stock investment. In a year or two, if everything goes according to plan, I'm gonna have a lot of money to invest. A lot of what was once your money. So I've got to stay informed. Stay in the game.) But as I was saying, I'm ever so attentive to how your day's gone but you don't ask about mine. Note to self - topic for first argument when time is right: "How come you don't ask me how my day went? Aren't you the least bit interested? After all the work I do around here don't you even care enough to notice or ask? (Begin crying.) You pretend you love me, but you're just using me, aren't you?!" Oh yeah. That's nice.

Anyway . . . the kids in the yard.

There's this one, Ron is his name. Big kid for his age. Six foot one if he's an inch. Real square-jawed, young John Wayne type. And quiet. Very serious. The other two, Cody and Cher (short for Cheryl, I'm guessing . . . maybe Cherese) they're your typical young teenagers. They manage a few minutes work, then horse around for about an hour, then a few more minutes work, etc. But Ron - he just plugs away. He gets twice as much accomplished as the other two combined.

It was last week when it started.

I was out on the deck, reading my book. (Tom Clancy's latest. I've got it in a Jacqueline Suzanne dust jacket. I can't picture your frilly and feminine little wife having much interest in techno-thrillers. She's a big fan of romance novels, though. Or so it appears.) I don't know if you've noticed, but it's to the point where it's already pretty steamy by 10 o'clock in the morning. I'd made this big pitcher of iced tea and taken it out with me so I wouldn't have to keep running back inside for a refill.

So, I was sitting there reading when Ron came into sight, weeding the flowerbeds. He was down on his hands and knees, pulling weeds and tossing them into this cardboard box he was shoving along in front of him. He hadn't noticed me noticing him yet. He was about a dozen yards away when he paused for a second, straightened up, wiped the sweat off his brow and stretched out the kinks in his back.

Like I said, Dave - it gets pretty strange at this point.

I gazed at him, sweat-shiny in his cutoffs and tank top; a handsome young stud with nice muscles and curly-short blonde hair . . .

"Hey Ron. You look frazzled. Want a glass of iced tea? Just made a fresh pitcher."

His head swung up and those incongruously dark eyes met mine. "Oh. Morning, Mrs. Morgan." He seemed torn between his desire for something nice and cold to drink and his shyness. I decided to make the decision easier for him. I gave him my best smile and shook my glass, making the ice cubes tinkle. "I make a mean iced-tea. Old family recipe."

His lips quirked into a shy little grin at the thought of an old family recipe for iced tea. (I guess I haven't lost my charming smile, Dave. The one I used to use to disarm the pigeons we were lining up for the next scam. I guess it just isn't "boyish" anymore. I wonder what it is?) Ron finally reached a decision. He nodded and sauntered over to the steps to the deck but he didn't climb them. I guess he was still a bit too shy to actually come up.

I thought that was awfully cute - his shyness. "Just a sec. Let me get another glass." He nodded and stared at his toes.

I got him one of the good glasses and filled it with ice. I rummaged around for a second, looking for a slice of lemon. But I'd used the last one when I made the pitcher. I remember a little flash of anger at myself for being so careless with the shopping, now that it actually mattered. When I came back out, glass in hand, he was still standing right where I'd left him, still staring at his toes.

I poured him a glass and then took it over to him. His mumbled "Thanks. That looks really good" set me to smiling myself. He drained the whole thing in one long swallow, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

I laughed, (light, feminine . . . charming) as I took the empty glass back. "You were thirsty, weren't you? Want a refill?"

He shook his head, his smile just a little broader now. "No thanks. But that really hit the spot. Thanks." Then he glanced back at his box of weeds and at the large expanse of flowerbeds still awaiting his attention. "I probably should get back . . ."

"Okay. But when you get thirsty again, you know where to find me. Right?"

Again he nodded and then, without another glance, he went back to his weeding. After a moment, I went back to my book.

I kept waiting for him to come around for another glass of my iced tea, but he never did. I put it down to shyness and read two more chapters before lunch. When I went shopping that afternoon I made sure I got half a dozen lemons along with everything else.

You have to understand; at this point, I still didn't have any inkling, right? I mean, the pieces weren't yet adding up. That didn't come until later. Too late, in fact.

Clothes are kind of odd for me, Dave. Up till now, the only time I really thought about clothes was when I wanted to dress so as to create a certain mood in you. You know - wearing something just a little bit suggestive on those nights when I plan on having "a headache". Or wearing something virginal and demure for those times when I suspect you're feeling horny and I might get an opportunity to sigh and finally let you have your way with me. "Though I'm not really in the mood tonight, hon." Something to raise a little nagging shame later. Shame over taking such terrible advantage of the sweet little girl you married just so you could get your rocks off. That kind of thing.

But getting dressed the next morning, (the day after the iced tea) . . .

I've never had that much trouble picking out what I wanted to wear for a day that should have had no particular significance - a day when I wasn't up to any of my tricks with you. Usually it's just grab something and go. But that day . . .

First I considered a skirt and blouse. But why would I be wearing a skirt and blouse just to lie around on the deck? Then I went to the other extreme - cotton tee shirt and jeans. But I couldn't find a top I liked, one that matched the faded jeans I first picked out. All the tops that came close to being "right" were too funny or cute-sy. So I picked out a nice pair of black jeans that went really well with this not-too-fancy silk blouse I like. But then I was back to the too dressy quandary. Besides, you can't show off your legs in jeans. (It never occurred to me to wonder why in the world I wanted to show off my legs - who I was trying to impress.) Of course, thinking about showing off my legs got me to thinking about how long it had been since I shaved them. That created a half-hour delay. Once I was de-stubbled I started wondering about wearing a swimsuit. Pretend like I was working on my tan. (Again, I didn't stop to wonder who I was pretending for.) I started to put on my skimpy orange bikini. Remember that little number? The infamous day at the beach? I only got as far as the bottoms when suddenly I didn't want to wear them anymore.

You should have seen me, Dave. (Actually - I'm very thankful you didn't. I don't like you seeing me upset and confused unless it's when I'm playing those emotions for your benefit.) Before I was done, the bed was covered with my clothes as I considered then rejected outfit after outfit.

I finally decided that my indecision was just crazy (a flashback to the dizzy distraction and mood swings that the hormones produced when I first started taking them) and went with a plain cotton top and white shorts.

I spent about half an hour cutting up lemon wedges and making a big pitcher of iced tea and then trooped out to the deck with pitcher, two ice-filled glasses and book in hand.

Of course, by now you can see what was actually going on. Hindsight is much clearer than foresight. But I swear, Dave; at this point I truly didn't have a clue. Oh, it's not like I'm dense or something. I knew the object of the exercise was to have another chat with Ron. But that was all I was consciously thinking - another "chat." Nothing more significant than that.

You have to understand where I was coming from. Pretend you're me for a second. Would it have ever occurred to you to realize that all this confusion and anxiety was caused by the fact that you were trying to get the first male who ever caught your eye to notice you? That happens to teenage girls, Dave. Not to 32-year-old ex-Casanovas who've had more then their share of adventures under the sheets.

Okay, so - there I was. All ready for heaven only knew what. Reclining ever so nonchalant on the deck chair, a pair of ice-filled glasses beside me on the table. I casually glanced around. No sign of Ron. (Or any of the three kids, for that matter.) I turned to my book-marked place and started reading.

At every little noise I looked up, losing concentration on my reading. The day was as warm as any that had gone before. The ice in the glasses started to melt. Then the ice in the pitcher started to melt.

No sign of Ron.

I was at one of the tension points that Clancy loves to throw into his tales but I was so distracted I must have read every paragraph three times.

I couldn't figure out where Ron was. Surely, he should have shown by now. The ice in the glasses had completely melted. With a muttered oath, I clambered out of the deckchair, dumped the water in the glasses over the edge of the deck and went inside to get fresh ice.

Murphy's Law - I was only half way across the living room, glasses in hand, when I spotted Ron plodding past the window heading in the general direction of the shed where the kids keep their tools. I scurried for the door as fast as I could, but by the time I made it back out onto the deck Ron was nowhere in sight.

I thought about chasing him down for a second, but how the hell would I explain running around the apartment complex juggling a pitcher of iced tea in one hand and a pair of glasses in the other? "Oh, Ron. What a surprise. Fancy meeting into you here. Would you like some iced tea? By a strange coincidence I just happen to have a pitcher and two glasses here." With another muttered and very unladylike comment I plopped back down in the deck chair. Of course, with the way my day was going I managed to slop about half a gallon (okay, half a cup) of iced tea in the lap of my nice white shorts when I tried to turn to the left and set the pitcher down on the table.

This time the curse neither muttered nor ladylike.

"You okay, Mrs. Morgan?"

Ron. Standing about ten feet away, his arms loaded with tarps, paint brushes and a pair of five gallon cans of paint.

"Oh! Oh, Ron. Uh . . . yeah. Fine. I just . . . I was trying to set the pitcher down and it spilled."

He nodded, his face set in a distracted frown. "Oh. Okay." He started to trudge off to wherever it was he was heading with the tools.

I called after him. "Since I didn't manage to spill all of it on myself, would you like a glass?"

He only spared me a passing glance. "No thanks. Uh . . . but thanks anyway. I gotta . . ." He shifted the heavy load he was struggling with as he disappeared around the corner and I mentally kicked myself for such an ill-timed and graceless invitation.

What must he be thinking of me, sitting here with a goofy school-girl grin on my face and iced tea soaked shorts making it look like I just peed my pants? Oh boy. What a great impression I was making!

I dashed back inside and exchanged the shorts for a pair of cut-offs that sort of went with the blouse I was wearing. I then scurried back outside, recovered the pitcher and charged back into the kitchen to refill it for the third time today. And of course, as I was measuring out the instant mix, out of the corner of my eye I saw Ron pass by the window heading for the tool shed again. Third opportunity missed.

I stood there at the sink, wondering if it was worth it to keep trying the iced tea gambit. I finally decided that another offer at this point would be so obvious Ron would wonder if I was stalking him. "She's crazy, Officer! She keeps chasing me all over the place threatening me with a pitcher of iced tea! I can't get away from her!" When he passed by the window again, once more loaded down with painting tools and supplies, I just stood beside the sink and watched him go. I remember wanting to scream because he looked so hot and frazzled. I bet if I'd just been casually sitting in the deck chair (instead of running around like a chicken with her head chopped off) he would have fallen for the iced tea ploy, set down his load, and chatted with me for a while just to take a break.

Well, no use crying over spilt milk . . . or iced tea. I was at the point of giving up for the day and figuring out what I wanted for lunch . . . when I got a new inspiration.

Lunch! I bet I could make lunch for the kids! That would be perfectly casual and unsuspicious. Besides, I make a mean chicken salad sandwich. I really do, Dave. I used to love Mom's sandwiches so much that she finally got tired of me bugging her to make 'em and taught me how to make 'em for myself. That and outdoor-grilled steaks are about the only things I know how to do well. (As you've no doubt figured out for yourself by now.) Without a second thought I grabbed my purse and made a beeline for the grocery store to get the stuff I needed for "Mrs. Morgan's Famous Recipe Chicken Salad Sandwiches."

Before the day was over I'd impress Ron . . . or know the reason why!

It was a real juggling act, Dave. Heading across the apartment complex with a pitcher of iced tea, three glasses and a paper bag with four sandwiches. (I made four figuring one each for Cody and Cher - they were both skinny kids who didn't look like they ate much - and two for strapping Ron.) By the time I made it to the carports my arms were aching and I was losing my grip on two of the glasses. I had to pause and balance on one foot while I used my knee to support the pitcher as I got a better grip on the glasses. I swear; if I'd dropped anything at that point, I would have either screamed or burst into tears . . . or both.

But something finally went right and I made it to the vicinity of the carports without any major disasters.

The kids were definitely getting ready to do some painting. There were a bunch of tarps and ladders over at the north end of the garages. Hoping I didn't look too sweaty and "fly-away" after my perilous trip, I sauntered over in that direction.

You should have seen the look on my face when I came around the corner and there, between the first carport and the back fence, was Cher sitting in Cody's lap. He had his hands up the back of her tank top. By the look (and sound) of things, they were each busily trying to suck the other's lips off. Better yet, though there was practically no paint on the carport, both of them were liberally coated with stray blotches and speckles of antique white enamel. I had to clear my throat twice before I finally caught their attention.

The brazen little sex maniacs didn't even break their clench when they finally realized they were no longer alone. All I got was a smug little grin from both of them and a chipper, "Oh. 'lo Mrs. Morgan" from Cher.

Remembering that if this was going to appear innocuous - that is; if it was going to appear that I wasn't specifically hunting Ron I had to pretend that I was being friendly to all three kids - I forced a knowing grin for these two young make-out artists. "Hey, you two. Now what might you be up to?"

Both of them giggled and Cody simpered, "Oh, we're just catching our breath before we tackle this wall."

I kept smiling. "Um hmm . . . I can see how all that 'painting' could get you panting. You kids hungry? I made some sandwiches . . ."

That got them on their feet in a hurry. Cher bounded over, her perky little boobs bouncing beneath that skimpy scrap of cloth she called a tank top. "Way cool, Mrs. M! I'm, like, famished. You know?" Before I could even offer, they'd each helped themselves to three halves, leaving only two halves left for Ron. As I watched, they also made a significant dent in the iced tea. With his mouth crammed full, Cody managed to mumble, " 's really good, chicken san'wich, Mrs. M!" I tried not to growl my reply. "Thank you, Cody. Umm . . . why not save those last two halves for Ron? Where is he, anyway?"

Cher shoved what had to be half a sandwich into her mouth and nodded over her shoulder. "He's over there somewhere. By the dumpsters, I guess." I beat her to the punch by grabbing the pitcher and the last dregs of the iced tea.

"I'll just take this over to him. Okay?"

The two little twerps both nodded and continued to feed their faces. At the rate they were cramming food into their mouths, I had no doubt that in less than a minute or two the distraction of food would be gone and they could get back to working up a sweat with their "painting."

I found Ron two carports down. He was up on a ladder, busily scraping old paint off the eaves on the south side of the structure. He glanced down at me as I strolled up with the last sandwich and the dregs of the iced tea.

"Hi, Ron. You hungry? I made some sandwiches and there's still a bit of iced tea left."

"Oh. Cool. Thanks Mrs. Morgan."

I smiled up at him and wished I had a free hand to brush the stray strand of hair out of my eyes. "Why don't you call me Becky? 'Mrs. Morgan' was my mother." (Actually, Mrs. Generette was Becky's mother. And Mrs. Stansfield was mine. But I really didn't want to think about that kind of detail at a time like this.)

"Umm . . . sure." He stuck the putty knife he was using to chip the paint into the pocket of his cut-offs and descended the ladder with a nicely athletic, casual grace. His mumbled "Thanks" when I handed the last sandwich across was delivered with the cutest bashfulness. He took a big bite and then smiled at me. "This is really good!"

God help me, Dave. I felt a wonderful little thrill skate down my spine. What the hell was going on with me? "I'm glad you like it. Some of my 'old family recipe' iced tea to wash it down?"

His smile grew broader at the shared inside joke and he took the glass from my outstretched hand.

He stood there chewing for a minute and I tried not to dance from foot to foot as I searched for a conversational gambit to fill the awkward silence. "So. What's the division of effort here? You guys divide up the carports and each of you is doing one? If that's the case, why are Cody and Cher up there working together on the first one and you're down here alone?"

Ron shrugged and glanced away. "Oh. We didn't divvy up the work or anything. We're all doing it all together . . . I guess. It's just . . . They like to . . . you know - be together and I . . ." Another shrug and more chewing as he looked anywhere but at me.

"Well, that hardly seems fair. I mean; here you are two-thirds of the way done with this carport and they're hardly started on the one they're doing together. You know, Ron - I really think you're letting both of them ride your coat-tails a little more than . . ."

"Oh, hey. I don't mind. Really! I mean, it's not like anybody could expect Cher to . . . you know. I mean, Cody and me . . . we're both guys but Cher . . ."

I was really starting to get steamed at this situation. Here was decent, hard-working Ron sticking up for some little chippie and her sucky-face boyfriend while they both screwed around letting him do all the work. "Excuse me, Ron. But this is the eve of the Twenty-First Century you know. 'Women's Lib' and all that." Almost as an afterthought I realized that I could use my fake gender to drive the point home more forcefully still. "We girls don't expect to be put up on a pedestal anymore. At least not when we're drawing the same paycheck as you boys."

Ron's expression was suddenly both embarrassed and contrite, just the opposite of what I was trying to foster in him. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Morgan. I didn't mean . . ."

"Becky. And it's okay, Ron. I'm not mad at you. I just get a little upset when I see someone getting taken advantage of. That's all."

"It's okay. Really it is. I mean, Cher's a really nice girl. She wouldn't . . . She . . ."

You're not going to believe this, Dave. Maybe it's the hormones or . . . I don't know what. But I can only call my sudden insight the product of woman's intuition. "You like her, don't you Ron? You like Cher."

More shy staring at toes and another shrug. "Sure."

I leaned down and forward, trying to catch his eyes. "That's not what I mean, and you know it. I mean you like her. 'Special-like her.' Right?"

That didn't get me a reply, but the silence spoke louder than any words could.

"Oh. I see. Well, then how come you're down here and she's up there with Cody?"

He made a little 'tsk' sound that said, 'Why don't old folks ever understand?' "It's not like she and me . . . I mean . . . Cody . . . It's not like between us I could . . ."

I straightened up and folded my arms. Now it was my turn to stare at my toes. "Oh. Oh, I see."

Ron polished off the last of the sandwich and the last of the iced tea. "Anyway, thanks for the sandwich, Mrs. Morgan. It was really good. But I better . . ." He glanced up at the unfinished job of paint scraping waiting for him.

"Oh. Sure. Well, I'm glad you liked the sandwich." I was turning to go when I realized he was still calling me 'Mrs. Morgan.' I was about to correct him one more time, but the hunch of his shoulders and his sudden fixed attention on his work told me I'd probably embarrassed him enough for one day.

Anger. Frustration.

I could rationalize it as my concern for a nice boy like Ron being taken advantage of. I could rationalize a lot of what happened next that way.

But, of course, that wasn't the real reason, the real motivation.

I don't know if deep in my subconscious I wasn't aware of what I truly wanted: Ron's attentions for myself. I know when that realization actually surfaced. I know when my desires finally took concrete form and I could no longer rationalize them away.

As I said, it's scaring the hell out of me, Dave.

I wonder; what was I like that evening? (Seven days ago now.) Distracted and preoccupied, I'm sure. I can't remember what you were like that night. You told me some story about work but I wasn't paying attention. I don't think I even pretended to.

The sex that night was unmemorable. Mechanical. At least for me.

My mind was elsewhere . . . putting the finishing touches on "The Plan" for my campaign to snare Ron for myself.

"Here, Mrs. Morgan. Let me get the lid for you."

I paused, supporting the heavy bag of garbage clutched in my right arm on my up-raised knee. I'm sure I looked quite over-burdened and helpless and very much in need of assistance. (And I wasn't faking any of it either. Those bags were heavy! The price I paid for not taking out the trash often enough, I guess.)

"Thanks, Ron." He dropped his paintbrush and opened the lid of the dumpster. I managed to get the bag I was juggling in my right arm inside. I was struggling to toss the left-arm bag in when a pair of strong hands grabbed it out of my grasp and Ron casually tossed the heavy weight in himself. "There ya go."

I smiled and brushed a fly-away lock of hair behind my ear, relishing the feminine prerogative of rescue by a strong male. "So. How's the painting coming?"

He shrugged and glanced at the carport he was working on. (He'd finished two in one day and made a start on a third. Cody and Cher had barely managed to finish their joint project - and had done what I considered to be a half-assed job at that.) "We're getting there. Only nine more to go."

I frowned. "Hmm . . . Let's see, that makes six for you and three for Cody and Cher?"

Ron shrugged and frowned and stared at his toes.

I softened my tone. "I'm sorry. I forgot I'm not supposed to bad-mouth Cher."

A bit deeper frown.

"Oh, hey. Ron, really. I know I shouldn't be picking on her. I mean, just because I'm an old married lady, I haven't forgotten how distracting it can be when you're sixteen and there are a couple of handsome guys around while you're trying to get some work done."

He continued to stare at his toes as he mumbled, "A couple of guys . . . right."

I sighed. (Perhaps a bit too dramatically, though Ron didn't seem to notice.) "You know, I truly don't understand this at all. I don't understand why you're not doing something about your feelings. I mean . . . come on, Ron. It's pretty apparent that you're interested in Cher. Right?"

A non-committal shrug.

"Yeah. I thought so. And it's fairly apparent that she's thinking about you."

Ah! That got his attention! Suddenly those deep, dark eyes were boring into mine. "What do you mean?"

"You haven't noticed? The way she looks at you sometimes? Oh come on, Ron. I've only been around you two a couple of times and even I've seen it."

Ron glanced in the direction of the carport where Cher and Cody had managed to lay out a set of tarps before disappearing behind the building for more investigations into the nature of human sexuality. (It was no wonder Ron had never noticed Cher casting meaningful looks in his direction. She never did. Considering how hungry she was for Cody, it's a wonder she even realized Ron existed.)

"Mrs. Morgan . . .do you mean . . . Cher . . ."

"Becky, remember? And of course I mean 'Cher . . . dot, dot, dot.'"

He was stunned at the realization, the possibility. "But . . . how come she never . . .?"

I folded my arms and gave Ron a knowing, compassionate smile. "Oh boy. You truly didn't have a clue, did you? And as for Cher telling you . . . You really are new at this, aren't you?"

Just as I hoped, he blushed and frowned and went back to staring at his toes. That gave me the perfect opportunity to unfold my arms and to lay my left hand on his right shoulder. (Leaving my right arm hugged beneath my breasts in a wonderfully feminine pose. My hand pressed to my side. My forearm giving my bosoms just sufficient lift to subtly deepen the cleavage displayed by my cute-sy little teddy bear monogram tee shirt.)

Now my tone was contrite and very understanding. "Oh, Ron . . . Oh please, don't be embarrassed! I'm sorry. Really. That came across as a dig and that's not at all what I meant. I mean . . . I think it's sweet that you . . . umm . . . That you don't understand why Cher hasn't . . ."

I dropped my hand from his shoulder and folded my arms again, trying to match his genuine shyness with feigned embarrassment of my own. After the awkwardness had stretched for what I felt was long enough, I pretended to come to some decision and tried, once again, to catch Ron's eye.

"Okay. Well . . . I can see I'm not helping like this. I guess if I'm going to be poking my nose in, it's time I started making a positive contribution."

Ron glanced up, his own arms now tightly folded. "What do you mean?"

I reached out and took his forearm in my right hand and began to tug him toward my building. "Come on. It's time somebody gave you some pointers so you can get what you're entitled to."

I had to bite my lip to suppress my triumphant grin when, almost immediately, Ron allowed himself to be dragged along.

We wound up sitting at the table in the breakfast nook. I got Ron a glass of iced tea (complete with a nice, fresh lemon wedge) and then joined him. I left him the reassurance of the table as a barrier between us by sitting opposite him, instead of beside him. (I remember thinking; 'We don't want to rush this. This needs to start off as innocent and friendly.' I didn't carry that thought through to its obvious conclusion. If it started off as innocent . . . what was it leading up to?)

Ron sat there, fretfully playing with his glass. I'd been expecting nervousness on his part, and that was okay for a beginning. Anxiety made him vulnerable. But timidity wasn't my ultimate goal for Ron.

I tried to lower the tension by starting out soft and tentative myself. "Look . . . Ron. Let me begin by saying . . . umm . . ." He glanced up at me and tried to look attentive. That was what I wanted. By feigning shyness of my own I allowed him to be a bit more confident. Two shy people didn't need to be as shy with each other.

Again I brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, making it a nervous little mannerism this time. "I guess what I'm trying to say is; I'm kind of an old-fashioned girl, I guess. See . . . Hmm . . . I don't quite know how to tackle this."

"An 'old fashioned girl'?"

I smiled at the table and continued to play with my hair. (I'd been practicing in the mirror again, Dave. I just realized; it's been a while since I've done that. I have to get back into that habit. Practice makes perfect. You would have liked what you saw if you'd been invited to Ron's and my little tête-à-tête. Your darling wife looking very shy and tentative. Winsome and innocent. Just the kind of girl I've got you believing you married. Just the kind of girl I was hoping would catch Ron's attention . . . and his lust.)

I continued. "Yeah. I guess so. See . . . It's so different for girls than it is for guys. At least, that's what I believe. I mean; boys get to set the pace in things." I dropped my hand from my hair and covered a sudden, horrified giggle. "Uh . . . that came out wrong."

I was very pleased to see a little grin that was equal parts embarrassment and deviltry appear on Ron's face.

"What I meant to say is; boy's are the . . . well, 'aggressor' surely isn't the right word. 'Hunter' isn't quite right either." I sighed and pretended to search for the right word for a moment. "Boys get to decide how they'll approach a girl. We girls kind of have to just . . . you know . . . let you males make the first move. That's why Cher hasn't ever said anything to you."

Ron shook his head. "But . . . I mean, I thought girls nowadays don't have any trouble . . . All that old-fashioned stuff about girls not saying what they mean and . . ."

I interrupted with, "Oh lord. Take it from me; that's only true in women's magazines and Hollywood. Well, you tell me. Do any of the girls you know behave the way you see girls behave in the movies? Do any of the relationships you see in real life work as easily and smoothly as they do on TV? Even the 'bad' relationships?"

He shrugged and smiled. "No. At least you don't usually see anybody in the movies stupid and tongue-tied. Or, if you do, it's always cute and . . . well, they always get the girl in the end."

"Um hmm. But you and I both know that doesn't always happen in real life. Right?"

He crooked his mouth and "tsk-ed" his agreement.

This was going perfectly. Just the way I wanted. "And see, that's what's causing the problems."

He met my gaze, which showed he was getting more comfortable with me. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I'll bet you that Cher is expecting you to be like she sees in the movies. You know - calm and cool and not having any difficulty making your feelings known. I mean, how could she not be expecting that? It's what she's been told, over and over, is the way it's supposed to work. More than that, she's been told, and rightly so, good girls don't chase boys - no matter what it says in Teen Magazine. So, she's stuck."

"Well heck, Mrs. Morgan . . ." I let it slide. It was obvious that he wasn't going to ever call me anything besides that. I guess he'd been told that good boys didn't call married women by their first names. Oh well. He could call me anything he wanted, I supposed. Besides, I was 'teacher' now, so it felt somehow appropriate anyway. ". . . I mean, what am I supposed to do? You can tell that Cody didn't have any trouble . . ."

I cut him off again. "Don't you worry about Cody, all right? Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying he's a smooth operator or anything." (I'll just plant that doubt in your head.) "But what you have to remember is; it's easier if there's no pressure. I mean, how hard is it for you to talk to girls who are just pals with you? The ones where you both know it isn't going anywhere. It's easier than it is for you to talk to Cher, isn't it?"

You could see the light dawn in his eyes. I nodded. "Um hmm. Maybe it's easy for Cody and Cher because there's nothing really significant there. You know, just fooling around. Just play."

He was trying to get there, you could tell. But he wasn't quite willing to surrender to the hope yet. "I don't know, Mrs. M . . ." (Well, that was progress.) ". . . It doesn't look like play, at least not what I've seen."

"Trust me, Ron. Kids will be kids. I've watched Cody and Cher and I'm telling you; that's just . . . fooling around." Actually, it was as obvious a case of raging hormonal lust as I've ever seen. But Ron didn't want to hear that so my reassurance was perfectly acceptable.

He shrugged and went back to staring at the table. "Well . . . so what? It wouldn't be fooling around for me. So I'm back to tongue-tied stupid."

Time to move this along. I gently laid one of my hands atop Ron's and gave him a sympathetic little murmur. "Oh, poor Ron. Why does it always have to be this way? Why is it never easy?" Then I squared my shoulders and nodded once, with assurance. "Well, don't you worry. I may be over the hill myself . . ." Ron smiled and began to shake his head as a prelude to launching into a disagreement. It took a bit of willpower to forge ahead and forego his reassurances. " . . . But I still remember what a woman wants to hear. How she wants to be wooed. So, you stick with me, kiddo! We'll make sure this all works out right in the end."

I should have seen it here, Dave. I should have read the signs. I can't get that realization out of my head. The true significance of the failure of my old instincts.

Ron again raised those dark eyes to mine, searching . . . probing. "Why would you want to do that for me, Mrs. Morgan?"

I just waived it off. I was so smugly confident I had him fooled. "Because you're my friend, Ron. I like you. And I like Cher." ("Fer shur! Like, gag me with fork! Totally!") "I want to see you two wind up together because I think you're both so right for each other." Then I dropped my eyes and slipped back behind the "disarmingly shy buddy" mask. "Besides, I'm a sucker for a good romance."

I was so sure he was buying it.

"Look. The first thing you've got to remember is; women like to be won. But it takes finesse."

We'd agreed that every morning - after you've left for work but before the kids had to start their daily chores - Ron would swing by the apartment and I'd give him a battle plan for that day. I was figuring that it would take me about seven days to completely ruin it for him with Cher . . . while at the same time wooing him over to my side.

I realized it would be a very delicate task, but I was confident that my old skill as a con artist was more than a match for one wet-behind-the-ears teenager.

I figured we'd start out kind of slow. I didn't want Ron blown out of the water right off the bat.

He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "What kind of finesse?"

"Well. Despite what I said the other day, women actually do like to be put on a pedestal. They like to be pursued and wooed. Romanced from afar. It's just that nowadays 'modern' women can't show that we like that kind of thing. Not 'P.C.', you know?" (Oh yeah. Cher would be a real sucker for chaste, chivalric romance. "Like, are you gay or what? If you wanna fool around, just say so! Duh!")

"Oh gee, Mrs. M . . . I don't know about that . . ."

Once again I allowed myself to lay my hand on that muscular arm. "Trust me, Ron. You can do it. And it doesn't hurt a bit that you're as handsome as you are. Pretty words are even prettier . . . well, you know."

My hand on his arm. The hard muscles beneath his flesh. The sudden realization that I meant what I just said . . . that Ron was handsome. That if he had said the right words to me . . . Christ, if he said any words to me . . .

His question snapped me back to the moment. "Okay . . . so . . . what kind of words?"

"What? . . . Oh, well . . . it doesn't have to be poetry. It's not so much what you say as how you say it."

He stared at me expectantly.

"Look . . . Okay, here. Let's practice. Pretend I'm Cher. Say hello to me. Invite me out to dinner."

He shrugged and bit his lip and thought about it. Then, still staring at the table he mumbled, " 'lo Cher. Umm . . . are you . . . you know, doing anything . . . tonight?"

There was a long, pregnant pause. I searched for some encouragement, but couldn't think of a thing. "You've got to be kidding me, right?"

He frowned and shrugged and in a disgusted voice he snarled, "It's like I say, Mrs. M; I'm just really, really no good at this kind of thing. I mean, just thinking about talking to Cher gets me all stupid and . . ."

"You're talking to me, aren't you? What? It's just girls you have trouble with? You're okay with old, married ladies?"

He sighed in frustration. "Come on, Mrs. M . . . you know I don't think you're . . ."

"Becky. My name is Becky. Go ahead. Try it. I bet your tongue won't turn to fire or anything."

He hunched his shoulders and wrestled with the concept for a moment. "Becky . . ." He looked terribly uncomfortable but he plowed ahead. "You know I don't think you're an 'old married lady'. You're . . ." A shrug.

"I'm what? Come on, Ron. If you can tell me, then maybe you can tell Cher."

"You're . . . you're . . . pretty. And you're not that old. I mean . . ."

I favored him with a coy, happy little grin. "There, see? That didn't kill you, did it? And it just might interest you to know that I'm not at all outraged you think I'm pretty. If you can say 'pretty' to a girl, and mean it . . . well . . ."

Pretty . . . Ron truly thought I was pretty. Not just an empty compliment. He meant it. You don't know what that's like, Dave. You don't understand. It's all a matter of perspective. Men . . . we like it when we're recognized as stronger or smarter. Richer. More dangerous. We need to be the big dog on the porch. That's what pushes our buttons.

But live as a woman long enough and it's no longer about power.

Or . . . maybe it is.

That thought just occurred to me.

For men, power is being the strongest or the wealthiest. That's the measure of their worth. That's how they find their place in the world.

For females . . . is power gained by being the most desirable, the most eagerly sought after? Is that a woman's coin?

Is that why it was so important for Ron to want me? To need me? So I'd have some true measure of my standing in the world?

Ron twisted his fingers. "Yeah, but see . . . you and me . . . we're friends. It's just . . . I don't know."

I chose to be pleased that we were already "friends" (and didn't for a moment think that that was all Ron was capable of thinking of me as.) "It's all a matter of self-confidence. You aren't incapable of it, Ron. You're just not practiced at it. So, that's what we'll do. We'll practice. I bet, in a day or two . . ." (In a day or two you'll have made such a romantic ass out of yourself that Cher won't be able to look at you without bursting out laughing and you'll have realized what a shallow, foolish little girl she is. And what a good thing you've got waiting for you back at "Mrs. M's" apartment - a beautiful woman waiting with open arms. An experienced, sensual female worth ten Chers.)

Ron quirked the corner of his mouth. "So, what do I say? I mean . . ."

I remember thinking, 'That's right, Ron. Put yourself in Becky's hands. You can trust your 'friend' to help you through this.'

"Well . . . for starters; you can never go wrong by complimenting a woman on her appearance. 'Gee, Cher. Is that a new top? It sure looks good on you.' "

With serious, studious concentration, Ron began to absorb what I was sure was the absolute worst method in the world for wooing a teenaged girl.

It was that night that I had the dream.

I don't remember ever having a nightmare as vivid as this one. It sure as hell is the only one I remember that ever woke me out of a sound sleep.

I was walking through a forest meadow. I had on this long, flowing robe. Lots of floaty layers of sheer silk. Lots of bows and ribbons and a flattering neckline. You know - just enough revelation so that it's elegant and romantic, not sexy. I don't know why, but I had waist-length hair too, again with lots of ribbons and bows. I was thrilled because I was the beautiful storybook maiden. The chaste little virgin that armies would war over and that handsome princes would rescue, woo and wed.

I noticed I was walking past aisles of groceries. It seemed perfectly natural - to be walking through a forest shopping for groceries. Ron came toward me, carrying a ladder under one arm. It was then I realized I was very pregnant. That thrilled me because it gave me an opportunity to lay my hands atop my rounded belly and smile lovingly at Ron. Now he had to be with me. "See Ron? You do know how. You know how to do everything." He smiled at me and I guess the ladder disappeared because he had me in his arms and was nuzzling my neck, running his fingers through my hair, tenderly cupping my (suddenly) bare breasts in big strong hands . . .

There was a patch of wild flowers and long, sweet grass and he gently laid me down. I guess I wasn't pregnant anymore because our bodies seemed to fit just perfectly. I was smiling and drowsy and just beginning to fall into the slow, gentle rhythm of what I knew was going to be wonderful sex when I realized it wasn't Ron atop me . . .

It was me! The old male me.

I tried to scream but suddenly my voice wouldn't work. The perspective was getting all confused. I didn't know which "me" was "me" anymore.

"I" looked down at "me", grinned and snarled, "Here's where you get yours you little cock-teasing bitch!"

That's when I woke up panting and sweating with my heart pounding so hard and fast I thought my chest would explode. You mumbled in your sleep and rolled over. In a few seconds you were snoring again.

I just laid there for the rest of the night, staring out of the window. My knees hugged to my chest. Too afraid to go back to sleep.

Because I might be waiting for me in my dreams.

It took a lot of skill to be so happy and chipper the next morning. Somehow I just didn't feel like discussing my nightmare. I mean I didn't feel like even mentioning that I'd had a nightmare. (Yeah, like I'd tell you, "Oh, honey! I had the worst dream last night! I dreamt my old male self was raping my new female self! What do you think it all means?")

So you got your routine little hug and peck on the cheek and a perky "I luv ya, buh-bye!"

Then I spent a few minutes straightening up the place. Nervous energy, I guess. At least that was one benefit you got out of all this; I was becoming a better housekeeper. (At least temporarily.)

Right on schedule, there was a gentle tap at the front door. Ron, right on time for this morning's session. I felt a sudden little knot of coldness in the pit of my gut when I opened the door and saw that same smile that I'd see last night waiting for me. But I managed to feign more of "Chipper Becky, the Girl Friend" bon homme. "Hi Ron. Come on in."

We trooped to our usual place at the kitchen table. "Okay, so . . . report. How did yesterday go?"

He stared at the tabletop for a minute then sighed. "Umm . . . well, it didn't start out so good."

I pretended concern. "Uh oh. What went wrong?"

"Well . . . I . . . see, I decided that you were right - about me working alone - so I hung closer to Cody and Cher."

I nodded. "Good." (Yeah, that probably put a crimp in their petting sessions and pissed both of them off no end.) "What happened next?"

A shrug. "Cher and Cody . . . they were kinda quiet, you know? And Cody, he kept asking if I'd finished the carport I'd been working on. You know? Like, hinting that maybe I should head back down that way."

"Never mind Cody. What about Cher?"

To my surprise, Ron got a smug little grin on his face. "Well . . . she had on this tee shirt, see? It was a Denver Bronco's shirt that was, like, six sizes too big for her. So I go, 'You got good taste in teams. The Broncos rule!' And she was like, "Oh, Totally!" And then, like you told me to, I told her she looked really cute in the shirt. And she got all . . . smile-y, you know? And she wasn't watching what she was doing and dripped paint all over her shoes. And we both stared laughing.

I gritted my teeth and smiled. "Great! What happened next?"

He shrugged and smiled and just went back to staring at the table. "That's about all."

For Christ's sake! What the hell had I been thinking? How could Cher, goofy as she was, not fall for that big, shy grin and a mumbled, 'You look really cute in that shirt'?

Dave . . . I panicked.

I hadn't intended to run this particular ploy until late in the week. You know, when it was all turning to shit between Ron and Cher and he was getting desperate to try anything. So desperate that he might be receptive to other "possibilities" . . . besides Cher.

"Well, that sounds like a really hopeful beginning. See? Didn't I tell you?"

He nodded and grinned.

I pressed ahead. "Okay. We're off to a good start. Now it's time to turn up the charm a bit. And for that, I think you need a new look."

Ron raised an eyebrow. "'New look'? What . . .?"

I stood and put my hands on my hips. "Isn't short hair for boys the latest thing? You've got really lovely hair, Ron. But isn't it just a bit shaggy?"

He raised a hand to the back of his neck and looked doubtful. "It is? I just had it cut last month."

I pretended shock. "Last month! Oh, see here, bucko! If you want to win the ladies, you've got to constantly work on your looks. 'kay? But you're in luck. It just so happens; I ply a mean pair of barber's sheers. I even took some styling classes once." (That wasn't a lie - my "finishing school" sessions surely counted as "styling classes", didn't they? Besides. So what if I fucked up Ron's hair? If he wound up looking dorky, well . . . that was the whole idea, wasn't it?)

He started to protest. "Oh . . . gee, Mrs. M. I don't know . . ." He tried to stand up but I pushed him back down.

"Relax. This'll just take a second. I'm only going to trim up your collar and over your ears. You want to look 'stylin' for Cher, right?"

Before he had time to voice further objections, I was heading for the bedroom and the sheet, scissors and brand new comb I'd laid out after you left that morning.

Thankfully he was still sitting in the chair when I got back. I made a big production out of shaking out the sheet then draping it over him. I knotted it around his neck. "There. Not too tight?"

He dug one finger between his throat and the material. "No. Uh uh. 's fine."

"Great. Okay. Let's see now. What do I want to do here?"

Standing in front of him, I took his chin in my left hand and turned his head from side to side. Then I tried to transfer the scissors from my right to my left hand so I could use my right to turn his head the other way. In the process, I "carelessly" dropped the comb. "Oops." It took a perfect bounce. I had to lean sideways to pick it up, getting a perfect opportunity to wave my firm little denim-clad ass right in Ron's face.

Comb retrieved, I stepped behind him and began nibbling away with the scissors at the fairly short hair above his collar. "Here, hon. Lean forward a bit." I gave him a little push on the back of his head then leaned forward myself.

I can still remember my thoughts. 'Whoopsie daisy! Gosh. Rubbed my little booby against your shoulder, there, Ron. Hope you don't mind. Now, we'll just step around beside you here . . . trim a little over that ear. And just coincidently press our thigh against your hand, there on the arm of the chair. Careful, big fellah. Don't let those fingers go wandering just cuz your hand's practically on my crotch . . .'

I realize now, it wasn't Ron who was getting turned on during all this. It was me! In fact, the thought of Ron's hand, pressing against me there . . . fondling me . . . his fingers probing . . . teasing . . .

I was so distracted I took a lovely little hunk right out of the top of his ear with the scissors.

He yelped and bounded out of the chair.

"Oh God! Oh, Ron . . . Oh, I'm so sorry! Here, let me see . . ."

He was pressing both his hands against his damaged ear and I was trying to pry them away. There was blood everywhere. (Ever cut your ear, Dave? They bleed like a son-of-a-bitch!)

I don't know. It doesn't make any sense. The heat of the moment. The memory of the dream last night and my excitement (including the incipient sexual arousal from my own fantasy.) Before I even knew I was doing it, instead of holding Ron's ear I was holding his face between my hands and I was kissing him. "Crushing" my lips to his just like you did once, not ten feet away from the kitchen table where Ron and I now stood. Your hands fumbling with the snaps of my bikini bra and me secretly laughing at how desperate and clumsy and helpless you were because I had you right where I wanted you - in the palm of my hand. But now it was me who was clumsy and out of control. Because, God help me, I wanted Ron. Desperately. Helplessly. He had to take me now, just like you'd taken me. But this time my passion would be oh so very real.

I had time for that one kiss and an eager little whimper of desire . . .

Before Ron was shoving me away . . . hard.

"What are you . . .!? For Christ sake!" He was glaring at me, blood running down the side of his neck.

I knew. Rationally, I knew I had to come up with something to cover this. Some clever explanation for my sudden pounce. 'See? That's how you do it, Ron. You just sweep a girl off her feet and . . .'

But nothing came. My mind was spinning and all I could think about was what it had felt like . . . to kiss him . . . to feel him pressing against me.

My voice, when I finally managed to speak, was a husky croak. "No . . . Ron, it's . . . it's okay. Please, I . . . Please!"

I took a step forward and he bounded back. "Are you . . . Jeeze, Mrs. M! Are you coming on to me?! God! You're old enough to be my Mom!"

Then he was out the door and down the steps and I was just standing there, my arms at my sides.

Aching and empty.

I've watched Ron from a distance these last few days.

He never notices me. Even if he does see me, he doesn't notice. You know?

I don't think he's ever said anything to anybody. At least, I'm not getting a lot of suspicious stares from any of the neighbors. Ron's a gentleman. I like to think he's even a bit flattered. You know; mature, beautiful woman falling head over heels for him. What teenage kid wouldn't be happy with that kind of a compliment?

That's what I tell myself. Anyway, as I say - he hasn't caused any problems.

Maybe he's too busy with Cher. I guess my advice wasn't so bad after all. The last few days, it's been Cody down at the other end of the carports working alone and Ron and Cher who are out of sight for long periods

Fine. The little slut can have him. If he's not smart enough to know a good thing when he sees it . . . well, that's his loss. I don't need him.

I've still got you, Dave.

Don't I?

Copyright 1999 by Anne Phorcy (AnnePhorcy@aol.com)

With deepest appreciation to Jan Dreams for her wonderful insight and suggestions. You're the greatest, girl! ;)