Josh realized that Sister Monica wouldn't have an answer for him by class on Wednesday. Still, he hoped for a sign—a certain hidden message in her movements, her smile, the way she looked at him when their eyes met. But there was nothing. She simply went through her regular in-class routines—engaging the students in discussion, expostulating on the meanings and nuances of Shakespeare's words, trying to bring the material to life for 21st-century students. And he had to give her credit—she was a fantastic teacher. It was clear that she knew her stuff and loved to teach.
She turned to write something on the blackboard, the outlines of her butt barely visible, encased, as it was, by a pair of loose-fitting brown slacks. The same ass he had spanked, again and again, on Monday, causing her to moan with pleasure. How was he supposed to come to grips with the fact that he might never touch that beautiful, smooth butt again? God, he felt so lonely these past two days—always longing to be near her. Longing to know what she was thinking. She had to be leaning one way or the other—either to remain a nun and ditch him, or renounce her vows and begin to see him regularly.
"So, given that, what do you think the play is saying about human nature here?" she asked, turning around to face the class. He barely heard the question. He just stared (not too obvious, he hoped) at her face—the full, kissable lips, the slightly too long nose, the hint of an overbite (that he found extremely sexy), the high, fashion-model cheekbones. The lustrous red hair, constrained by two of her annoying hairpins. She was still beautiful, even with her hair pinned up—she couldn't be anything but beautiful, really, no matter what she did with her hair. And she looked no older than thirty—it still amazed him that she was thirty-seven years old. But when she had her hair loose, when it flowed over her shoulders like winter fire, she looked no older than a graduate student—she could readily pass for twenty-five.
It was scary how much he wanted her, how much he needed her. He desperately wanted to rid himself of these feelings. They made him far too vulnerable.
His eyes lowered, and he looked at her chest. He adored her breasts. They were absolutely perfect—full and soft and high, without being too big. Just right. He felt them again in his mind, the supple flesh, kneading under the gentle force of his fingers, the perky, sensitive nipples that liked to be pinched. What he would give to kiss those breasts, massage them, fondle them after class.
He shook his head. This was no good. He had to snap out of it. If he didn't, he'd lose his mind, fail his courses. He just hoped Sister Monica didn't wait too long to reach her decision. He couldn't take many more days waiting like this.
When the class ended, he didn't wait around. He just left along with everyone else. He glanced back at her once, just before he walked through the door. She was looking off into space, as if not really seeing at anything at all.
♣
On Friday, it was more of the same. No word from Sister Monica. She just taught class, same as always. When the period ended, he lingered for a moment, hoping to catch her eye. He did, too. But she just looked away.
He couldn't take it. He needed to talk to her—if even to say hello! Things shouldn't be so distant, the two of them acting like strangers.
Once the other students were gone, he took a deep breath and approached her desk. She was standing, fiddling with the Shakespeare textbook, clearly uncomfortable by his nearness.
"I had to at least talk to you for a second," he said. "It's been so hard not even saying a word to you since Monday."
She swallowed, continued to look down at her desk. "I know," she said. "I miss you, Josh."
He grabbed her, gently, by the shoulders, turning her around so they faced each other. "Can't we talk about it . . . about us . . . now? Even if you haven't made up your mind . . ."
She shook her head. "What good would it do? I want to know what I'm going to decide before we talk about things."
He glanced out the door. The hallway was rapidly emptying. He longed to kiss her. But he restrained himself. This wasn't the time.
"Can you at least tell me if you're leaning a certain way?" he wanted to know. He was so desperate for her answer! Couldn't she see that?
She bit her lower lip—a little tick she had that always drove him wild. In his mind's eye, she was naked, underneath him, panting, sweating, her body rushing toward a thundering climax.
"I don't want to say anything until I'm absolutely sure," she said. "Please be patient with me, Josh. I know it's hard. I promise, I'll tell you next week. I'm going to think about this, probably nonstop, all weekend. I should know for sure by Monday."
The torture would persist, then. She hadn't tipped her hand, one way or the other.
Suddenly, he felt her arms around him—but only briefly. Just a hug, a chaste hug you would give anyone. "Please try not to worry so much, Josh," she said.
He offered a smile, or tried to. It was a pretty feeble attempt.
♣
That evening, he went to the Borders bookstore up the road. He needed to get off campus, to go somewhere and just hang out, people-watch for a while, decompress.
He ordered a stale bagel with cream cheese from the café, sat down at a table by the window, overlooking the parking lot and beyond that, the main road. There was a lot of traffic—a constant drone of mufflers, an ongoing parade of headlights piercing through the darkness.
He bit into the bagel. It tasted like cardboard, coated with a helping of sawdust for added texture and flavor. The only thing that made it edible was the cream cheese.
"Hey!" a female voice suddenly called out. "Josh. Is that you?"
He jerked his head up, and there was Lori Belkamp. She was an English major like him; they had shared several classes. He liked Lori—she was smart, perky, and witty. She wasn't taking Sister Monica's Shakespeare course this semester—but that was because she already had—last fall. "It's a tough course," she'd warned Josh late last year, knowing that he was signed up for it the following semester. "But Sister Monica rocks." At the time, little did he know how true that was. . . .
"Mind if I join you?" she asked, but she sat down before he answered. She had also ordered a bagel—blueberry, by the looks of it—and a bottled water. "Wow. It's good to see you. It sucks that we don't share any classes this term."
"I know," he said. He wasn't really in the mood to talk, but he didn't mind the intrusion. Something to take his mind off Sister Monica for a while.
"So, how do you like Sister Monica?" she asked, as if on cue. "She's awesome, isn't she? I hope I get her next year for Milton and Donne and the religious poets."
"She's . . . great," he said, and took another bite out of his sawdust special. "She really makes it interesting." You could say that again.
"I always found it hard to believe she's a nun," Lori said, as she bit into her bagel, then made a face at it. "She's so cool. I mean, not that nuns can't be cool . . . but, well, you know. I guess she goes against the stereotype."
He nodded. You could say that again.
"So . . . you doing anything tonight?" Lori wanted to know.
Through the window, there was a screeching of brakes, then a horn beeped. But he didn't hear any impact. A close call, apparently.
"Not really," he said. "Just hanging out, I guess."
She smiled coyly at him. "Wellll . . . I don't have anything going on, either. . . "
There it was. The opening. The invitation. He had never done anything with Lori—they were just friends. But she was unattached and obviously feeling horny tonight. The old Josh would have jumped at the chance. Lori wasn't a knockout, but with her straight, long brown hair and tall, slender figure, she was far from ugly. But this Josh, this strange, new Josh who had intense longings for only one woman—this Josh who Josh wanted to throttle and beat over the head—he didn't want to.
"I . . . ummm. . ."
"Hey, it's okay," she said. "I didn't mean to put you on the spot like that." She looked out the window, embarrassed. "But . . . I do miss you, Josh. Like I said, it sucks we don't see each other this semester. We can just talk if that's all you want to do. I guess I'm feeling a little bummed tonight. I don't know why. And then I saw you, and was, like, great, there's Josh!"
He smiled. "Yeah. We can talk," he said. "That would be nice."
And they did. For over an hour. Sister Monica's name didn't come up again. But he thought about her the entire time. . . .
♣
The weekend dragged by. Josh spent it studying, watching TV, surfing the Web. Trying to pass the time, trying to make the hours melt, one into the next. By the time Monday morning finally arrived, he was ready to climb the walls. Sister Monica better not avoid him today after class. If she hadn't made her mind up by now, he literally thought he'd go berserk.
Then again, what if she had made her mind up, and wanted to remain a nun? What then? But he didn't think about that. He didn't allow himself to. She had feelings for him. Intense feelings. He wasn't sure if she loved him, the way he knew he loved her. But she wanted him, badly. He knew that much. How could she turn her back on feelings that strong?
The class period sauntered along like an arthritic turtle. He tuned out everything Sister Monica said, focusing instead on her body language, her eye contact—searching, probing for clues. She would have made a good poker player, because, study her as he did, he simply couldn't tell what she was going to say to him once the period ended.
She looked so sexy, wearing a short-sleeve blouse—loose-fitting, of course—and a knee-length skirt—as revealing a skirt as she owned, he guessed. The weather had finally turned over the weekend, and today the mercury was flirting with fifty. There would still be ample snow and cold to come, but this was the first shy hint that spring was just around the corner.
When the class ended, Josh just sat there, wondering if any of the other students sometimes thought it strange how he so often lingered while they all left. But then, why should they? What was there to question, after all? Sister Monica was a nun. What were the chances that she, of all teachers, would get romantically involved with a student?
That thought made him chuckle. If they only knew. If they only knew what kind of passionate sex kitten lay hidden beneath Sister Monica's prim, ladylike exterior. . . .
When the room was empty, save for the two of them, he got up, went to the door, and closed it. Then he approached her. He would be direct, to the point. This was no time to beat around the bush.
"Just tell me," he said. "Don't wait another second. What do you want to do, Sister Monica?"
He braced himself for a variety of answers. But the answer he received still stunned him. She didn't say a thing. Rather, she looked into his eyes, put her arms around him, and kissed him. She kissed him with all the passion, all the hunger that was in her.
When she broke the kiss, she said, "Forgive me, Josh. I didn't mean to lose myself like that." He lightly stroked her cheek, causing her to blush and smile. "I tried all weekend to convince myself that I have a calling," she said. "That I can't get involved with you like this. That this is wrong, that it throws a wrench into everything I've ever planned for, everything I've ever done. That I'm too old, and you're too young . . . But it was no use. I just can't fight this anymore. I can't deny it any longer. . . ."
