Stephen Dixon - Frog

He looks away. She says something but he doesn’t catch it. Something like “I’m no different than anyone else.” He actually feels his heart pounding, mouth’s parched, fingers feel funny. Looks at her. She’s looking at him so seriously, fist holding up her chin, trying to make him out? Thinks he’s being too obvious? “I’m sorry, you said something just now?” he says. “Oh, nothing. Silly. Commonplace. I also tend to mumble.” “But what?” “That I can be turned too, that’s all.” Smiles, big beautiful bright teeth, cute nose. Button pinned to her jacket, children in flames, caption in Chinese or Japanese. Or Korean or Vietnamese. What does he know? And turned how? That an oblique invitation? He once read a novel where the literature teacher took his student on the office floor. She willingly participated. In fact, she might have come to his office to make love. It was their first time. The teacher was married. He always thought that scene exaggerated — the author usually exaggerated or got sloppy when he wrote about sex — but the feeling the narrator had is the same he has now. Her brains, looks, body, little knapsack. He’d love right now to hold her, kiss her, undress her right here — hell with his friend. Hell with the rest of the students. They’d do it quickly. She’d understand. Even if it was their first time. He doubts it’d take him two minutes. Another minute for them both to undress. He bets she likes that kind of spontaneity. “I have got to make love to you,” he could whisper. “Let’s do it right now.” He’d lock the door if it has a lock from the inside — he looks. Hasn’t and he doesn’t have the key. Now this would be something: opening the door to push the lock-button with all those students in the hall waiting for him. Instead he could put a chair up against the doorknob. They’d be quiet; to save time, just take their pants and shoes off and make love on the floor. Carpet seems clean. He could put his coat down. He wonders what such a young strong body like that looks and feels like. He looks at her, tries to imagine her naked. She says “Thanks for reading my paper and everything, but now I must be wasting your time. It’s a rigorous day for you: all those conferences and papers to read and your lecture later on.” “You’re not wasting it.” She opens the door. “Oh, maybe you won’t go for this, but another student and I — my housemate — would like to invite you to a student reading after dinner.” “Listen, maybe I can even take you both to dinner before the reading.” “You’re eating at the club with Dr. Wiggens, aren’t you?” “Right; that’s a must. Sure, tell me where to be and when. I haven’t been to a good student reading in years.” “This might not be good.” “Even more fun. I like to see what goes on at different campuses. And after it, you’ll be my guests for food and beer.” “If he wants to and we’re up to it, fine.”

She sits at the back of his room during the lecture, laughs at all the right lines, claps hard but doesn’t come up after.

“So how’d everything go today?” Wiggens asks at dinner. “Great bunch of kids,” Howard says. “Incredibly keen and bright. Wish I had some like them in my own classes.” “None of the girls made a pass at you?” his wife says. “Nah, I let them know I don’t come easy.” Wiggens says “That’s the best approach. Why get all messy in a day and possibly go home a father-to-be with a social disease?” “What nonsense,” she says. “One-night stands with students is the safest sport in town.” They drop him off at his hotel, he goes inside the lobby, waits till their car leaves the driveway and runs to the building of the reading. He’s already pretty tight. He sleeps through most of the stories and poems and the three of them go to a pizza place later. The housemate downs a beer, puts on his coat and says to Flora “Maybe I’ll see you home.” “Why’d he think you might not be home?” Howard says. “He meant for himself. He has a lover who occassionally kicks him out before midnight.” They finish off the pitcher, have two brandies each, he says “This is not what I’m supposed to be doing here according to Wiggens, so don’t let on to him, but may I invite you back to my room?” She says “I’m really too high to drive myself home and you’re too high to drive me, so I guess I’ll stay the night if you don’t mind. You have twin beds?” “Sure, for twins — No, OK,” when she shakes her head that his humor’s bad, “anything you want.” When she takes off her clothes in his room he says “My goodness, your breasts. I had no idea they were so large. Why’d I think that?” “It’s the way I dress. I’m extremely self-conscious about them. They’ve been a nuisance in every possible way.” “I love large breasts.” “Please, no more about them or I’m going to bed in my clothes.” They shut off the lights. He’s almost too drunk to do anything. In the morning he doesn’t know if they even did anything. He says he wants to stay another night. “At my expense, in this same or a different hotel if you can’t or don’t want to put me up in your house. Take you to lunch and dinner and even a movie and where we’ll start all over and do the whole thing right. The heck with Wiggens and his proscriptions.” She says “My vagina hurts from last night. You were too rough. I couldn’t do it again for a day.” “So we did something? I was afraid I just passed out.” “To be honest,” she says, “it was horrendous. Never again when I and the guy I’m with are that stoned.” “It’ll be better. I can actually stay for two more nights, get some work done in your school library simply to keep busy and out of your hair all day, and we’ll both stay relatively sober throughout.” “No, it isn’t a good idea. Where’s it going to land us?” “Why, that you’re way out here and I’m in New York? I’ll fly out once a month for a few days.” “Once a month.” “Twice a month then. Every other week. And the entire spring break. Or you can fly to New York. I’ll pay your fare each time. And in the summer, a long vacation together. Rent a house on some coast. A trip to Europe if that’s what you want. I don’t make that much, but I can come up with it.” “Let’s talk about it again after you get to New York, but you go this afternoon as scheduled.”

He calls from New York and she says “No, everything’s too split apart. Not only where we live but the age and cultural differences. You’re as nice as they come — sweet, smart and silly — but what you want for us is unattainable.” “Think about it some more.” He calls again and she says he got her at a bad moment. He writes twice and she doesn’t answer. He calls again and her housemate, after checking with her, says she doesn’t want to come to the phone. Howard says “So that’s it then. Tell her.”

He’s invited to a picnic in Riverside Park for about twelve people. He doesn’t want to go but the friend who’s arranged it says “Come on, get out of the house already, you’re becoming a hopeless old recluse.” He meets a woman at the picnic. They both brought potato salad. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he says. “I was told to bring the cole slaw. But I didn’t want to make the trip to the store just to buy cabbage, had a whole bag of potatoes around, so I made this salad. Anyway, yours is much better. You can see by what people have done to our respective bowls.” “They’re virtually identical,” Denise says. “Eggs, celery, sweet pickles, fresh dill, store-bought mayonnaise, maybe mustard in both of them, and our potatoes cooked to the same softness, but I used salt.” She gives him her phone number and says she hopes he’ll call. He says “I wouldn’t have asked for it if I didn’t intend to. Truly.”