Stephen Dixon - Frog

He meets a woman at an opening at an art gallery. They both were invited by the artist. She says she’s heard about him from the artist. “Nothing much. Just that you’re not a madman, drunk, drug addict or letch like most of the men he knows.” He says “Gary, for some odd reason I don’t know why, never mentioned you. Maybe because he’s seeing you. Is he?” “What are you talking about? He’s gay.” “Oh. He’s only my colleague at school, so I don’t know him that well. I know he’s divorced and has three kids, but that’s about it. May I be stupidly frank or just stupid and say I hope you’re not that way too? Wouldn’t mean I’d want to stop talking to you.” “I can appreciate why you’re asking that now. No, as mates, men are what I like exclusively. I didn’t come here to meet one, but I’ve been in a receptive frame of mind for the last few months if something happens along.” They separate at the drink table, eye each other a lot the next fifteen minutes, she waves for him to come over. “I have to go,” she says. “The friend I came with has had her fill of this, and she’s staying with me tonight. If you want to talk some more, I can call you tomorrow. You in the book?” “Hell, here’s my number and best times to reach me,” and he writes all this out and gives it to her.

She calls, they meet for a walk, have dinner the next night, she takes his hand as they leave the restaurant, kisses him outside, initiates a much deeper kiss along the street, he says “Look-it, why don’t we go to my apartment — it’s only a few blocks from here?” She says “Let’s give it more time. I’ve had a lot of rushing from men lately. I’m not boasting, and I started some of it myself. It’s simply that I know going too fast, from either of us, is no good, so what do you say?” They see each other about three times a week for two weeks. At the end of that time he says he wants to stay at her place that night or have her to his, “but you know, for bed.” She says “I still think it’d be rushing. Let’s give the main number some more time?” Two weeks later he says “Listen, I’ve got to sleep with you. All this heavy petting is killing me. I’ve got to see you completely naked, be inside you — the works. We’ve given it plenty of time. We like each other very much. But I need to sleep with you to really be in love with you. That’s how I am.” She says “I don’t know what’s wrong. I like you in every way. I’m almost as frustrated as you are over it. But something in me says that having sex with you now still wouldn’t be sensible. That we’re not ready for it yet. That what we have, in the long run, would be much better — could even end up in whatever we want from it. Living together. More, if that’s what we ultimately want — if we hold out on this a while longer. It’s partly an experiment on my part, coming after all my past involvement failures, but also partly what I most deeply feel will work, and so feel you have to respect that. So let’s give it a little more time then, please?” He says “No. Call me if you not only want to see me again but want us to have sex together. From now on it has to be both. Not all the time, of course. But at least the next time if there’s nothing — you know — physically, like a bad cold, wrong with one of us. I hate making conditions — it can’t help the relationship — but feel I have to. If I saw you in one of our apartments alone again I think I’d tear your clothes off and jump on you no matter how hard and convincingly you said no. It’s awful, but there it is.” She says “Let me think about it. Either way, I’ll call.”

She calls the next week and says “I think we better stop seeing each other. Even if I don’t believe you would, what you said about tearing off my clothes scared me.” “That’s not it,” he says. “I don’t know what it is, but that’s not it. OK. Goodbye.”

He misses her, wants to call her, resume things on her terms, dials her number two nights in a row but both times hangs up after the first ring.

He’s invited to give a lecture at a university out of town. His other duty that day is to read the manuscripts of ten students and see them in an office for fifteen minutes each to discuss their work. The man who invited him is a friend from years ago. He says “What’d you think of the papers I sent you? All pretty good, but one exceptional. Flora’s, right? She thinks and writes like someone who picked up a couple of postdoctorates in three years and then went on to five years of serious jounalism. Easy style, terrific insights, nothing left unturned, everything right and tight, sees things her teachers don’t and registers these ideas better than most of them. She intimidates half the department, I’m telling you. They’d rather not have her in their classes, except to look at her. That’s because she’s brilliant. I can actually say that about two of my students in fourteen years and the other’s now dean of a classy law school. But hear me, Howard. Keep your mitts off her. That doesn’t mean mine are on her or want to be. Oh, she’s a honey, all right, and I’ve fantasized about her for sure. But I don’t want anyone I’m inviting for good money messing with her and possibly messing up her head and the teaching career I’ve planned for her. Let some pimpleface do the messing; she’ll get over it sooner. I want her to get out of here with top grades and great GREs and without being screwed over and made crestfallen for the rest of the semester by some visiting horn. Any of the other girls you’ll be conferencing you can have and all at once if they so desire.” “Listen, they all have to be way too young for me and aren’t what I’ve been interested in for a long time, so stop fretting.”

He sees two students. Flora’s next on the list. He opens the office door and says to some students sitting on the floor against the corridor wall “One of you Ms. Selenika?” She raises her hand, stands, was writing in a pad furiously, has glasses, gold ear studs, medium-length blond hair, quite frizzy, little backpack, clear frames, tall, rustically dressed, pens in both breast pockets, what seem like dancer’s legs, posture, neck. “Come in.” They shake hands, sit, he says “I guess we should get right to your paper. Of course, what else is there? I mean, I’m always interested in where students come from. Their native areas, countries, previous education, what they plan to do after graduation. You know, backgrounds and stuff; even what their parents do. That can be very interesting. One student’s father was police commissioner of New York. Probably the best one we had there in years. Another’s mother was Mildred Kraigman. A comedian, now she’s a character actress. Won an Academy Award? Well, she was once well known and you still see her name around, often for good causes. But those are my students where I teach. When I’ve time to digress, which I haven’t with every student here. You all probably don’t mind the fifteen minutes with me, but that’s all we’ve got. So, your paper. I don’t know why I went into all of that, do you?” She shakes her head, holds back a giggle. “Funny, right? But you can see how it’s possible for me to run on with my students. As for your paper, I’ve nothing but admiration for it. I’m not usually that reserved or so totally complimentary, but here, well — no corrections. Not even grammatical or punctuational ones. Even the dashes are typed right and everything’s before or after the quote marks where it belongs. Honestly, nothing to nitpick, even. I just wish I had had your astuteness — facility — you know, to create such clear succinct premises and then to get right into it and with such writing and literary know-how and ease; had had your skills, intelligence and instincts when I was your age, I mean. Would have saved a lot of catching up later on. Sure, we could go on for an hour about what you proposed in this and how you supported what you claimed, and so on. Let me just say that when I come across a student like you I just say ‘Hands off; you’re doing great without me so continue doing what you are on your own. If I see mistakes or anything I can add or direct you to, to possibly improve your work, I’ll let you know.’ And with someone like you I also say, which isn’t so typical for me, ‘If you see something you want to suggest about my work, or correct: be my guest.’ In other words, I can only give you encouragement and treat you as my thinking equal and say ‘More, more.’ But your paper’s perfect for what it is, which is a lot, and enlightened me on the subject enormously. But a subject which, if I didn’t know anything about it before, I’d be very grateful to you after I read it for opening me up to it. You made it interesting and intriguing. What better way, right? Enough, I’ve said too much, not that I think compliments would turn you.”