The Metro
The metro car lurches slightly, its momentum causing Carolyn to brush against me ever so slightly as we grip the poles to keep from toppling into each other. There is electricity to her skin, I can almost feel it radiating off of her.
"It isn't about the sex," she says softly, the last word nearly a whisper as we hold the handrails tightly. There's no sitting room.
"Well, what is it about then?" I ask, more loudly.
Carolyn blushes immediately beneath her glasses, tugging at her shoulder-length brown hair as she speaks. "It's about the trust she had in him, and how once again another politician ruins his career over a mistress."
"It's rather helped some of them," I counter.
"Fewer, and farther between." She's looking straight at me again now. A safer topic, one with which she's intimately familiar. Politics. "I don't have to start making a list, but generally it is pretty bad for a career...which as an aside provides me some small continued faith in humanity."
I, always the devil's advocate, have to counter. "But look at all those men that have come out stronger in the end...even in some cases the wife. Look, I'm certainly not advocating men cheat on their wives, especially politicians who are theoretically supposed to be representing us to the world. What I am saying is that your example of what's-his-face isn't the only scenario of how that situation can end for a politician."
As an afterthought, I pause and look carefully into Carolyn's expression, riding the momentum of the conversation. I won't miss this opportunity. "Besides," I say, "maybe the wife would have wanted to join in."
I feel the sting in my arm from her fist just as I finish my sentence. "Sonofabitch, that hurt," I curse under my breath, secretly smiling to myself. She's feisty when she wants to be.
And yet when I look back down at her, Carolyn is smiling at me with her slightly downward expression, her left hand wrapped around her right hiding the pain from the attack. "How many more stops?" she asks sweetly, as though nothing just happened.
"Two," I answer, feigning anger.
It's officially a date.
The Bar
"Who the hell ever heard of studying at a bar, anyway?" she asks. She's had two cocktails, and she's a lightweight.
"Well, you did agree to it. I'd have welcomed better ideas."
"I agreed to it because you know all too much about the history of the French National Assembly. And I can put up with your endlessly snarky attitude enough to use it. Have I mentioned that I'm one semester from my Master's?"
I can't help but smile, and though I know I'm walking on thin ice, the sentence just flows out of me. I've had two cocktails as well. "Seems you are the one with the attitude now. Vibrator broken?"
I'm ready for it this time, but nonetheless my arm stings. And yet, she responds.
"For your information," Carolyn answers slowly, her cheeks red from the alcohol, "it is in full working order. And unlike men, it doesn't quit on me halfway through."
I can't help but laugh, despite the drink in my mouth. Hearing Carolyn talk like this is something akin to seeing Billy Graham do a George Carlin routine. I tell her as much, waiting for another semi-lighthearted punch, but it doesn't come.
Carolyn turns serious for a moment, frowning. In the space of a second, I watch as disappointment flashes across her face, replaced by a smile that must be forced. A moment later, I understand why.
Their names are James, Paul, and Wendy, friends from PSI 250. I learn this in the space of minute as introductions are made post-recognition. I've had no classes with them (being a history major), so Carolyn is our only reason to know each other. Awkward and not what I had planned. Might even have to live up to my somewhat exaggerated (though still competitive) knowledge of the history of the French National Assembly. I turn back to the conversation.
"Would you like to sit down with us?" Carolyn is saying. She gives me a sideways glance, one I interpret as "I don't really want them here...but what am I supposed to do?"
"Oh, thank you!" says Wendy immediately, taking a seat at the booth next to me. My textbooks are brushed aside.
As the conversation begins, I realize that Wendy is very likely the complete opposite of Carolyn in every way. A confident, radiant blond, she wears contacts and appears to utilize a plethora of make-up. In other words, she's hot, and she knows it.
I can't stand her.
As I join the conversation as best I can (they are talking about which professors are best for the next series of classes), I note that James and Paul are a little better than their blond bombshell companion. James is tall and broad-shouldered, a would-be jock if not for his Clark Kent classes and his apparent affinity for discussing international politics.
He's asked me a question, I realize, and I manage to deflect without answering, as I didn't catch what he said. He nods, seemingly satisfied, and turns to Paul for more interesting conversation. If Wendy is Carolyn's opposite, so is Paul compared to James. His skinny, almost feminine features contradict with his apparent love for everything hockey. His accent says western Canada, if I haven't lost my touch. I note that his black hair contrasts sharply with pale skin, a natural Goth if he chose to embrace it.
I turn my attention back to the woman that brought me here. Carolyn is still engaged with Wendy in a deep conversation on whether one actually needs to buy the book for PSI 272.
"God," I mutter, "she really needs a good fucking."
"What was that?" I turn to my right to look at Wendy, whose conversation has stopped. She's expecting an answer
My heart stops for a moment. Did I say that out loud? It's loud in here, no one could have heard. Either way, I've got plausible deniability. At least, I hope I do.
I shake my head. "Nothing important, sorry. So, how far are you into the program?"
