Ashleigh's Dilemma (6 page)

After the golf
, he had been unusually witty - even for him. Finally, though, in the midst of the meal, when he should have been commending her talents as a chef, he set his knife and fork aside, cleared his throat, and stared at her directly. “Ashleigh…” “Jim…” He had said her name in a particularly breathy way, which she’d never heard come out of him before. She had waited and he had stared back. It was as if he was expecting her to conjure what was going through his mind - what a joke. “I’m looking for a woman,” he’d said finally, quickly adding as she dropped her fork and quickly brought her napkin up to suppress her laughter, that he needed a woman. He needed a woman to keep him company. He required a companion, not a wife, he was careful to explain. Someone to go the movies with, a date for dinner; and, if it should somehow be possible, if their relationship should somehow allow it, a sex partner, because, after all, they each had their needs - and who better but good friends to alleviate the need?

Her laughter
had immediately evaporated when he had added, “to alleviate the need” so calmly, so matter of fact, as if he were discussing a bodily function instead of a matter of the heart. On reflection, however, she did eventually agree that the issue of sexual need is, of course, exactly a bodily function. Once again, you can’t ignore the automatic responses of the body. Sex, she knew, is not like breathing, or the beating of the heart; it is not even like hunger. It’s more like an itch, an annoying sensation that sometimes takes all of one’s willpower not to address. More to the point on that particular occasion, as far as she was concerned there was no
alleviation
that needed to be done, particularly in her case, and she told him so in no uncertain terms.

He had tried to kiss her as she cleared the table and ten minutes
later, he was out the door. It was a bit awkward at work for a week or two but he eventually got over it.

Patrick would not think like that, she was sure. He would never suggest their relationship – such as it was – should alleviate any kind of need like that. For one thing, he didn't like golf, or even football for the matter; but he did have a penchant for hockey which was due, in part, so he said, to his Canadian heritage - not that he didn’t have any
need
to satisfy: he did, obviously.  But she was not at all sure what his philosophy on sex was, exactly. She knew her own – but that was only for her to know. She was not about to tell Patrick, that was for certain; he would have to find out for himself. Just before they started dating – right after she'd felt it necessary to fix things between them – she let it be known that, if he wanted to have any kind of relationship with her, he would have to go slowly – glacially slow; slower than what may seem to be humanly impossible, at least to him. She
had
gone on about it. She blushed as she recalled the circumstances: calling him out of the blue like that had been a bold move, one that she did only because, well, if she hadn't, he would have remained out of her life forever and that would have been no good. It was true that he might walk out eventually but until that time, she felt she had to give him a chance. He deserved at least that.

She couldn’t get the memory out of her mind. The whole thing bothered her more than she would admit, but t
he last thing Patrick had said to her, which would have been the last time she would have set eyes on him if she hadn't called him back, was, sounding angry, not like him at all, “You should see me as an opportunity, Ashleigh; just like I see you.” “An opportunity for what!” she had thrown back; but she knew what he'd meant, and knew it might even be true. So, after that somewhat stressful – very stressful, in fact - conversation, and then watching him walk away, she knew it would be up to her to call because, after that, he never would. It was not an easy thing to do. She had no idea what had come over her. It was somewhat miraculous that she had done so. She was not used to being so forward - or as Patrick suggested later so brave.

Patrick had once admitted he was falling in love with her – not lately, though, but before, before the blow up. “I've never been in love,” she had responded once they were again back together, carrying on the same conversation as if it hadn't ended, as if she was now trying to direct it in the direction she had intended in the first place. She had stared him down waiting for him to challenge her, to see both the truth and lie of it, wishing even now she had not because, for all she knew, she was already in love with him. “I don’t believe that,” he’d said and, atypically, had looked away, his lips pressed close together, shaking his head. That was something she would do, realized as she saw herself in him.

The possible proof
that she might already have some feelings toward him was in the fact she had actually let him kiss her. It had been a week ago, in her car. They had gone out to a movie together. She had driven and had taken him back to his truck. There was no sense in taking two vehicles and since she drove a Prius, and he a gas guzzling behemoth of a truck, she volunteered. People like you are killing this planet!” she had told him and he'd replied that it was because of his work. 

She was waiting for him to get out when he had called her
name; “Ashleigh…” She thought later that it was perhaps an interesting parallel between Patrick and the other man; they had each, after all, approached her in the same monosyllabic way; except that Patrick’s intonation was quite different and he didn't attempt to kiss her when she turned; instead he’d said, “Both hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead, are we Ashleigh? Are you ever going to let me kiss you goodnight?” while she had stupidly replied, instantly regretting it, “I was just looking to see how much gas I had! This may be a hybrid but it does take gas occasionally!” 

Instead of
laughing, he leaned in close to glance at the gauge. “...You're right…,” and had at that moment taken the opportunity to kiss her on the cheek. He pecked her again, this time brushing past her lips when she instinctively jumped and turned towards him. What surprised her most was that she hadn't pushed him away, as perhaps she should have. “That wasn't so bad, was it?” he'd asked but by that time she’d recovered. “Goodnight, Patrick!” she’d said leaning as far back as she could within the confining limits of her small car.

He
had hesitated, watching her. She hated that. She hated it when he looked at her like that. Even though she was staring straight ahead, hands still on the wheel, and repeating for the third or even fourth time, “Goodnight!” she could tell he was studying her.

He had touched her arm gently, just a grazing touch that lingered briefly
. He often did that, and it bothered her, and at that time it had added to her sense of annoyance. She didn't like people, men particularly, touching her; not without permission. But he did it anyway, even though he knew it bothered her. It was not a mystery that he understood her aversion; she had repeatedly told him so.   Even so, his touch was light as air. It was a touch reserved to awaken another from a light sleep– the light touch and the eyes fly open. She couldn't decide why, exactly, Patrick touched her arm like that, or sometimes placed his hand on the small of her back in way of greeting or saying goodbye. After that and after a smile that reached up into his eyes – he had nice eyes; alive and exceptionally clear - he had climbed out of her car and carefully latched the door shut behind him. She waited as he crossed the headlight beam from her car and unlocked the door to his truck. Only then did she drive off. He would have done the same for her. It was the least she could have done for him.

But would he try kissing her again tonight? She decided he would, probably. Once on entering: she'd greet him at the door, offering him her cheek as he handed over the Chinese food – and then again on leaving. Standing at the door about ready to leave, he'd hesitate, and, turning back to her, she'd again let him kiss her on the cheek; and then, again, maybe, on her lips - but just once. Her heart involuntarily twisted at the thought. God, what would he do? She wanted him to kiss her, she realized, blushing as she thought this so that the heat rushed up into her face and down her neck; but would he try for more? She wasn't ready for that; someday, perhaps, but not tonight.

She really didn't think Patrick would try anything
other than a brief kiss, though. He knew her too well, but you never know... he might… men will be men. She threw any further thought of that possibility completely out of her mind, it was so impossible. Of course, if he did, she would have to remind him just how impossible it really was. God, she really hoped not!

Ashleigh recalled the first time she'd allowed a man to kiss her. It had been late at night on the steps leading up to the Engineering Building when she had been up at Hopkins. They had been studying together – mainly because he was good at math and she needed his help. He stopped her half way down the stairs, making her turn back – and then he had kissed her. No warning; not so much as a hint he might try such a thing. He had immediately stepped back, looking down at her from the step above, waiting for her reaction. She said and did nothing; she just turned and continued back down the steps as if nothing had happened. He followed and when it came to the path that led one way to her residence and the other to his, he took the fork that led to his own saying a quiet, “Later...,” as he disappeared into the night.

Not a word was said between them about it
afterward; not then, not ever, and it never happened again. It was as if it had never happened, even though she found herself thinking about it all the time – another involuntary reflex, she realized. No matter what she tried, from staying up late, to redoing homework for a third time, to eating an entire box of chocolates at one sitting, she couldn't help herself from having the memory his kiss. The warmth, the wetness, his eyes closed, hers open intruded into every thought for days and days, repeating over and over, her heart each time swooping and dropping like it had that night. It lasted until she saw him try the same thing on another female student, and then she felt nothing other than a brief sense of relief due to the fact that, with another woman involved, the likelihood of him ever approaching her again was very remote indeed. After that realization, neither he nor his kiss entered her mind again. Not until now, that is.

She had not thought or felt the same about Patrick’s kiss; just sometimes at night in the warm comfort of her bed
as she was falling asleep did she feel that way again, like an echo from the past.

Ashleigh gathered the plates and spoons, knives, and forks and set them on the counter, ready. She glanced at the clock – any minute now. She was wearing black slacks and a high neck tan sweater that showed her figure. She wore a silver pendant about her neck that Patrick had given her for her birthday – although, technically, it wasn't really her birthday. He had been a day short.

“Happy birthday, Ashleigh!” he had said, seemingly proud of himself that he had deducted the correct day out of three hundred and
sixty five possibilities – except for leap years when there’s three hundred and sixty six.

“It's not my birthday!”

“Well, if you're not going to tell me your birthday, how am I ever supposed to know?”

“I suppose you could look it up; it’s easy enough to do so, I'm sure. Ask my secretary; she'd probably volunteer it.”

“I'm not going to do that – I'll only know if you tell me.”

“Then you will never know.”

“I will just have to guess – and I've guessed that today is your birthday.”

She could feel her color rising. He was impossible
, she thought, but said, “I hate to disappoint you!”

“I'm not disappointed – here's your gift.”

It was a pendant, a Mayan figure engraved in silver. It was beautiful. It wasn't what she had expected at all. “Thank you. Thank you, Patrick!” was all she could say.  She almost kissed him to thank him, but then changed her mind, not wanting to give him any ideas.

“Happy Birthday, Ashleigh.”

She had felt like a fool but at the same time oddly pleased. Later, she thought she should have kissed him, just quickly on the cheek. It wasn't as if she didn't kiss people; she had kissed possibly hundreds of people when you added them all up to include family members, Christmas parties, New Years, colleagues one has known for many years leaving the office and moving on. It was expected. She should have kissed him, she knew.

The doorbell rang. He was on time. He was always on time. She wondered how he timed his arrivals so well. Perhaps he stood on her porch marking the minutes until it was time to ring the bell? How else could he be so exact, often right down to the second? He might have waited on her porch, examining his watch, watching the seconds tick by heading up to the hour. The neighbors would think him trespassing, perhaps a door to door sales person, or a religious zealot trying to sell their version of God They probably think about calling the police - except for the bags, of course: the Chinese food would give him a free pass to stand there for as long as he liked.  Or had he sat in his truck and waited? It would less conspicuous - except, of course, for that mammoth gas-guzzling truck of his sitting in her driveway; there would be nothing inconspicuous about that. Mostly likely, he would have driven around the block. How many times, though? She could see his truck slowly creeping past - once... and again... - speeding up and then coasting around the block so as to arrive at exactly the right moment. Yes, that’s how he did it; yes, yes…