kristinhardy
Guard
I think this is a fantasy. Probably it never happened.
I am at a faculty cocktail party. Attendance is mandatory or I wouldn't be here. Boring does not being to describe it. But alumni need to be entertained, to be made to feel special and, of course, to be coaxed into writing large checks.
Inevitably some of the donors believe one of their entitlements is the right to hit on female members of the faculty. Actually that understates it. Some of them think their checks entitle them to bed female faculty members of their choosing. Fortunately I've learned the art of warding them off without giving so much offence that they stop writing checks.
I'm trying to disentangle myself from a particularly persistent "suitor". He's a man who made his money the old fashioned way. He inherited it. A tall woman approaches us. I'm tall for a woman at around 5'9" but I think she tops me by at least two inches. She is slender, has black hair, brown eyes and a not-quite olive skin. She is wearing a black lace strapless cocktail dress. I guess it costs as much as my wardrobe but hey, assistant professors of mathematics don't get paid well. I do my best with what I've got.
"Excuse us," she says to the man. Her voice is soft and cool. "Kristin and I need to discuss something urgent."
The man scowls but he backs off.
I notice our interlocutor smells vaguely of cinnamon and wonder whether it is a perfume or her natural odour. She is carrying an expensive-looking purse; nothing so crude as Armani or Versace. It looks handmade. She reaches into it and pulls out an envelope.
"This is for you. Read it when you're alone." She stares straight into my eyes, fixing my gaze on hers. "Be sure to follow the instructions exactly."
Then she leaves.
I put the envelope in my purse. I cannot explain why I do not discard it as the work of a crank.
There is something about the woman. I feel as if I am orbiting a black hole just above the event horizon. Will I escape while I can? Or will I dive in and be trapped? What am I thinking?
By the time I've extracted myself from the party, driven the two miles to my apartment, showered and settled down in bed it is 11:30 pm. I extract the envelope from my purse. Like the woman's purse it looks custom made from a heavy bond paper the colour of fine wine. This is no mass-produced product. Like everything about the mysterious woman it looks expensive.
It is not sealed. The top fold is folded into the throat. I open it carefully. Somehow I do not want to break or damage what is in effect a work of art in envelope form. As I remove the top fold I catch a faint whiff of that cinnamon odour.
Inside I find a cream coloured card with very precise handwritten instructions. They are addressed to "Dear Kristin" and signed "Persephone". The handwriting is precise, legible and obviously female. The ink is a deep blue. It is written with a fountain pen.
Ice runs up my spine. I've just moved closer to the black hole. I feel as if I'm being sucked into something from which I shall not be able to escape.
No, worse. I can still escape. I'm not yet inside the event horizon. But I don't want to escape. That's the terrible truth. Is it my destiny calling?
I am at a faculty cocktail party. Attendance is mandatory or I wouldn't be here. Boring does not being to describe it. But alumni need to be entertained, to be made to feel special and, of course, to be coaxed into writing large checks.
Inevitably some of the donors believe one of their entitlements is the right to hit on female members of the faculty. Actually that understates it. Some of them think their checks entitle them to bed female faculty members of their choosing. Fortunately I've learned the art of warding them off without giving so much offence that they stop writing checks.
I'm trying to disentangle myself from a particularly persistent "suitor". He's a man who made his money the old fashioned way. He inherited it. A tall woman approaches us. I'm tall for a woman at around 5'9" but I think she tops me by at least two inches. She is slender, has black hair, brown eyes and a not-quite olive skin. She is wearing a black lace strapless cocktail dress. I guess it costs as much as my wardrobe but hey, assistant professors of mathematics don't get paid well. I do my best with what I've got.
"Excuse us," she says to the man. Her voice is soft and cool. "Kristin and I need to discuss something urgent."
The man scowls but he backs off.
I notice our interlocutor smells vaguely of cinnamon and wonder whether it is a perfume or her natural odour. She is carrying an expensive-looking purse; nothing so crude as Armani or Versace. It looks handmade. She reaches into it and pulls out an envelope.
"This is for you. Read it when you're alone." She stares straight into my eyes, fixing my gaze on hers. "Be sure to follow the instructions exactly."
Then she leaves.
I put the envelope in my purse. I cannot explain why I do not discard it as the work of a crank.
There is something about the woman. I feel as if I am orbiting a black hole just above the event horizon. Will I escape while I can? Or will I dive in and be trapped? What am I thinking?
By the time I've extracted myself from the party, driven the two miles to my apartment, showered and settled down in bed it is 11:30 pm. I extract the envelope from my purse. Like the woman's purse it looks custom made from a heavy bond paper the colour of fine wine. This is no mass-produced product. Like everything about the mysterious woman it looks expensive.
It is not sealed. The top fold is folded into the throat. I open it carefully. Somehow I do not want to break or damage what is in effect a work of art in envelope form. As I remove the top fold I catch a faint whiff of that cinnamon odour.
Inside I find a cream coloured card with very precise handwritten instructions. They are addressed to "Dear Kristin" and signed "Persephone". The handwriting is precise, legible and obviously female. The ink is a deep blue. It is written with a fountain pen.
Ice runs up my spine. I've just moved closer to the black hole. I feel as if I'm being sucked into something from which I shall not be able to escape.
No, worse. I can still escape. I'm not yet inside the event horizon. But I don't want to escape. That's the terrible truth. Is it my destiny calling?