Carole Buck - Annie Says I Do

“The, uh, great shaving debate,” she repeated after several tremulous seconds. “It revolves around the question of whether women who shave their legs and underarms are victims of the oppressive standards of beauty imposed by a male chauvinist society.”

“I take it you don’t spend much time anguishing over the matter.”

“Let’s just say I think women have a lot more important things to be concerned about than the socio-political implications of using depilatories—or of having doors opened for them.”

“Yeah.” Matt nodded his agreement, shoving his hands into the pockets of the lightweight leather jacket he’d worn with his jeans. “Me, too.”

The walk from his car to her condominium was made in silence. Once they arrived at their destination, they turned to face each other. The light that hung next to her front door cast a pale spill of illumination over both of them.

The silence stretched on.

“Well,” Matt finally said, taking his hands out of his pockets, “I guess it’s time for me to make my big move.”

Annie’s heart performed a sudden hop-skip-jump. “Your big move?”

“This is our third date.”

“So?” Her voice was only marginally steadier than her pulse.

“So, I skimmed through a couple of paperback romances during the last few weeks and I noticed that the hero tends to make his big move on the heroine at the end of their third date. Unless, of course, he was overwhelmed by passion and pounced on her the first time they met.”

“You’ve been reading romance novels?”

Matt shrugged nonchalantly, apparently undisturbed by the tone of her question. “I remembered how Lisa used to talk about them and I figured I might pick up a few pointers. I mean, romances are basically written by women, for women, right? They offer a guy insights into the feminine psyche he’d probably have trouble getting otherwise.”

“I...see.” His explanation actually made a great deal of sense.

“Have you ever read any?”

“Romance novels?”

“Yeah.”

“A, uh, few.”

“And?”

“Some of the language is a little flowery for my taste. But I enjoy the relationships. And the happy endings.”

He grinned. “No less than I’d expect from a woman who has a nine-year-old wedding bouquet bagged up in plastic.”

Annie sighed. “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”

“Nope.” Matt paused, cocking his head. “What do you think about that famous cover model? You know—the big blond guy with the incredible hairless chest who can’t seem to keep his shirt on?”

“Oh, puh-leeze.”

“Not your type?”

“Hardly.”

“I’ll bet your heart still belongs to Fred.”

“Fred? As in...Astaire?”

“Who else? Unless you’ve developed a thing for Fred as in Flintstone.”

“I wouldn’t call my, uh, admiration for Fred Astaire a thing, ” Annie quibbled. The image of a tuxedo-clad man and an elegantly gowned woman glided through her mind. She wasn’t certain about the genesis of her fascination with this sort of male-female partnership. She only knew that her Fred-and-Ginger fantasy was an enduring one.

“Hey, do you remember the ballroom dancing lessons you conned me into taking back in sixth grade?” Matt asked suddenly. “The ones in the basement of our church?”

“ Conned you?” Annie echoed, stiffening with indignation. “You made me shell out ten dollars of my hard-earned baby-sitting money before you’d agree to be my partner!”

“Well...”

“You hated it, didn’t you.”

Matt seemed genuinely taken aback by this accusation.

“No,” he denied, shaking his head. “Of course not. I’ll admit I had some misgivings about going. I mean, waltzing and all that stuff seemed kind of wimpy to me. But once we got there...” He paused, an odd expression stealing into his eyes. “You wore a cream-colored dress to the first class. And flat shoes with little bows in front. Sort of like ballet slippers.”

Annie moistened her lips, conscious of an abrupt acceleration in her pulse. It had been years since she and Matt had talked about this particular chapter in their friendship. She’d had no idea his recollection of it was so vivid.

“My palms started sweating as soon as I took hold of you,” he continued reflectively. “I was afraid I was going to leave wet handprints everywhere I touched. And there seemed to be a total disconnect between my brain and my feet. I felt like such a klutz.”

“At least you didn’t keep mixing up your right and left the way I did.”

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