Jane Air

or to harm him, would likely go unnoticed.
But there it is. This small, fierce part of me that wants to make sure he isn’t bothered.
To help him find some space and quiet.
Ugh. I almost roll my eyes at myself. I should just hand the phone to Penelope, let her memorize his number, and then hack into his private accounts, finding everything from his social security number to his security code. She could do it, no doubt, in less than ten minutes.
Of course, his safety might be in jeopardy then. Not financial. But…let’s just say, she’d break into his house for reasons that have nothing to do with theft.
“Ooh,” Jessica’s eyes light up. “It’s vibrating.” She smiles and presses a hand to her chest, where my phone is, I presume, tucked inside her bra. “He might be writing back.”
“Oh please read it.” Penelope scrambles to her feet. Christine and Dory join Kate in their appreciation of the painting, seemingly immune to the digital drama playing out behind them.
“I like the texture of the brush strokes.” I hear Christine say behind us.
Penelope briefly glances towards the painting, her eyes darting between the discussion on art and the phone down Jessica’s shirt. I have never seen a woman so divided.
Jessica looks at me and I roll my eyes. “Sure. Read it. Then you can know that nothing exciting is happening.”
“Hmm…” Jessica fishes my phone out of her top and looks down. “That’s odd.”
“What?” Penelope asks, eyes bright and frantic, fully focused on the phone in her hand. “What’s odd?”
“Well, it’s from the same number,” Jessica looks, a confused look on her face even as her eyes dance, “but it just says, A little over 8 inches.”
“Wha-” Penelope swivels towards me and I think she might actually pass out.
“What is that in reference to?” Jessica asks with wide-eyed innocence.
“You are so full of shit,” I reach for my phone and glance down. “This is a message from the Dean.” I hold it up, showing the room, now that everyone is looking. “It’s time to sign up for autumn classes.”
Various mutters and murmurs ensue and we head back towards the kitchen. Chihuly safely against the wall. Enormous painting- art - securely hung. I look down at my phone and see another text. Hovering just before the entrance to Kate’s kitchen, I read it.
What does Catherine see in him?
I type back, glancing up to make sure no one is watching me.
Your assignment is to figure that out.
Three small dots appear beneath my message.
It’s tough to know what a woman wants.
I smile at that. The thought of the world’s most desired man, star of millions of women’s sexual fantasies, fretting over what women want. All he has to do is look in the mirror. But, then again, sometimes the most obvious things are the hardest to see.
You can do it.
And before it continues, before I pull up a chair and spend my evening texting with my crush like a teenager, I stuff the phone in my back pocket.
Later, after we’ve eaten and said goodbye and I’ve driven home and tucked myself into bed, I see his last message.
I think Catherine likes the bad boys.
I laugh at this, at his straight forward, but not incorrect, interpretation of the classic Bronte novel.
Some women do.
I can’t help but respond, smiling as I press send.
There they are again, those three little dots. I watch the phone in my hand, feeling a grin spread across my face. I wonder where he is right now, what he’s wearing. Is he barefoot again? Does he even have a mattress? Or does he just sleep on the floor, or maybe in his garden, spread out like a forest god, resting beneath cool moonlight and lilacs. It would be nice to keep him warm.
I stop.
I press the button on the side, and place it face-down on the bedside table. I turn off the light and lie, straight-legged and stiff beneath my covers, feeling like a recovered addict who has just turned down an invitation to smoke or drink or do something else they know they shouldn’t.
You know where this is going, a voice in my head says. You know how this will end up.
I grumble and roll over, willing my inner narrator to shut up. She’s right of course but can’t a girl enjoy a harmless fantasy?
But it isn’t harmless.
I drift off to sleep with my own warning echoing in my ears.

9
David
It’s warm enough that I suggest we sit outside. Partly to enjoy the sun, and partly because I have bought a pair of chairs and a small table for one corner of my back patio.
It’s a start I suppose.
She’s cute today. All buttoned up. Hair pulled back. Glasses firmly in place. I wonder if this is how she normally dresses, or how she dresses when she’s in teacher mode. Or maybe she just dresses this way around me. The armor of a buttoned-down shirt.
“You got coffee.” She sounds surprised, looking at the paper cups on the table.
I nod. “Didn’t know what you drank. So I picked a few.” I point to the small spread. “We have a latte, a tall black, a caramel something, and a soy chai latte.”
She smiles, a small movement of the mouth, only the ends curling up. I’m becoming an expert on her smiles.
“I’ll take the black.”
We sit and pull our respective copies of Wuthering Heights from our bags. I solemnly hand her the copy she lent me in the beginning of the week. She takes it and smiles again, broader this time. A hint of teeth. I wonder if she’s happy I haven’t bent the spine, or if she’s remembering our heated exchange a few days ago, when she handed me her copy.
“You have any trouble at the cafe?” She asks, removing the lid from the coffee and breathing lightly across its top. I stare, mesmerized by the movements of her mouth, the slight purse of her lips, and watch with amusement as the heat from the drink