by Al Riske
Taken
HE FEELS THE chill of the cement steps through the seat of his pants but doesn’t move. That’s just the way it is in the morning—pleasant, actually, because soon it will be more than warm enough. A shadow moves across the pages of the paperback in his hands. He looks up. A barefoot girl in a backless dress walks up the steps, not quickly, but with energy. His eyes follow her—the white fabric of the dress dancing just above her knees. She looks back.
Embarrassed, he resumes reading, or tries to. She probably thinks I was trying to peek up her dress. Then, just as he’s finding his place, another shadow crosses the page and stays there. Again he looks up.
“I thought it was you.”
The barefoot girl stands in front of him, tall and thin, her straight brown hair cut just above her bare shoulders. Her long skinny arms bring a pang of long-forgotten spring fever, but he doesn’t recognize her. Not yet.
“Can you have forgotten me so easily?” she asks.
He stands, and when they’re face to face, nearly eye to eye, he knows.
“Stephanie!”
She smiles and hugs him unexpectedly, her skin cool and soft where his hand touches her back.
“Were you just going to let me walk on by?” she asks.
Suddenly he’s lost again. What does she mean?
“You recognized me and you didn’t say anything.”
“No. No, I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t know it was you.”
She’s beaming at him now. Not listening. She takes his free hand and holds it, holds his gaze for a moment, then focuses on his lips until they stop moving.
“So,” she says, “how have you been, Jay?”
He can’t think. She’s standing so close, inches from his face, which brings back a flash of memory he has to push aside for the time being. More than a year has passed since he last saw her.
“No worries,” he says at last.
“Really? That’s great.” She lets go of his hand, touches his face. “You cut your hair. Too bad. I liked it long.”
Now he just wants to get away. A sudden urge, it has nothing to do with her opinion of his hair, which could hardly matter less.
“Where are you headed?” he asks.
“Home,” she says. “You?”
“Work.”
“Too bad.”
AFTER WORK, HE meets his fiancée, Alison, for dinner at Frankie, Johnny & Luigi Too, a favorite Italian place in Mountain View, where they live, in the heart of Silicon Valley.
“I had the oddest encounter this morning,” he tells her.
She squints, the sun in her eyes, and he asks if she’d like to trade places. She shakes her head, sips her iced tea.
“I ran into this woman. First she’s upset because I can’t remember her. Two minutes later, she’s all put out because she says she’s sure I recognized her and didn’t say anything when she walked by.”
Alison puts on her sunglasses, which is too bad because he really likes her eyes, but the effect is very chic, with her boy-short hair and dangling earrings.
“Better?”
“It’ll go down soon,” she says, meaning the sun.
“So what do you think?”
“You want to split a pizza?”
That wasn’t what he meant but he lets it go.
“I was thinking ravioli,” he says.
“Hmm … “ She studies the menu. “Sounds good.”
“So how was your day?”
“Not good. I have to go back to the office after dinner.”
THE NEXT TIME he sees Stephanie is on a Friday about two weeks later. It’s happy hour and he and some friends are standing on the sidewalk outside a crowded bar in Palo Alto. Barefoot again, she at least has shoes with her this time—a pair of strappy, high-heeled sandals that dangle from her left hand—and she wears the same backless dress as before.
“You again,” she says, almost as if she were accusing him of something.
“New dress?”
“You know it’s not,” she replies. “I was wearing it last time I saw you.”
“I know. It’s just that, you know, when you get something new and you really like it, you tend to wear it more.”
“I do?”
“Well, I do. So I just thought maybe you … ”
“Yes, I do. I like it very much. It’s my lucky dress.”
“Why’s that?”
“Every time I wear it, I see you.”
His friends are watching, murmuring to each other. Jay can feel himself turn red.
“As much as I’d love to stay and meet your friends,” she says, smiling at them and poking Jay in the ribs.
“I’m sorry. Stephanie Cox, this is—”
“Another time. I really have to run now. Adieu.”
JAY MET A LISON when he was a bartender—a temporary job he had been doing for over two years by then. She came on board as a cocktail waitress, putting herself through grad school at Stanford, and she flirted with him shamelessly—but then, she did that with everyone.
He liked her energy, easy smile, and throaty laugh. She also had a body that just wouldn’t quit—the product of continual aerobics, which she somehow found time to teach between school and serving drinks to mesmerized customers.
Alison never wrote down drink orders and frequently got them wrong, but almost always convinced her customers—men and women alike—that the drinks she brought were the ones they should have ordered.
It took Jay three weeks to ask her out.
“We are out, Cookie,” she said. “Why don’t you come by my place after this?”
AT A LOCAL art and wine festival, Jay studies a series of black-and-white photographs—mostly white, actually, which makes him think of snow and fog and bright light. Someone taps his shoulder, and when he turns, he finds Stephanie’s nose an inch from his own.
She smiles and tilts her head, and for an instant he thinks she is going to kiss him, but she doesn’t. She just waits until, finally, he says hello.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“I like them.”
“Are you going to buy one?”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” he says. “I seem to have lost track of Alison.”
As Jay squeezes past her and scans the crowd, Stephanie says, “If you like these, you should buy one.”
Just then, a young woman walks by in a black pencil skirt that hugs her well-rounded hips and turns Jay’s head.
Stephanie says, “I guess you’ve seen something you like better.”
“Hmm?”
“You like those tight skirts, don’t you?”
Flustered but determined not to show it, he says, “What’s not to like?”
“There’s no swing, no bounce.”
“True,” he concedes.
“I prefer something where I get to feel the fabric brush my thighs and there’s always a chance a gust of wind will give some lucky boy a glimpse of my underpants—maybe you.”
AS STEPHANIE WALKS away tossing her hair, swinging her hips, and flashing him a quick over-the-shoulder smile, Jay thinks back to the days when they used to work together—in a job Alison helped him land through a contact she made at the bar.
He was assistant art director then for a new online magazine based in San Francisco. Stephanie joined the staff shortly after he did—selling ads. She liked to pick fights with him. Politics, religion, sports—it didn’t matter what. Once it even escalated into a playful slap-boxing match. She was a feisty opponent, quick and not above sneaking in a swift kick in the pants. All of which got him hot and bothered in ways he hadn’t expected.
Later, a coworker, Nora Pierce, took him aside. “You’d better be careful,” she said. “You’re playing with fire.”
The next day, Stephanie was wearing a short black dress and high heels. She said, “I wore this for you, you know.”
Nora was right there. He could feel her eyes on him.
“I know. So you wouldn’t be tempted to pick another fight w
ith me.”
Nobody said anything.
Their stunned silence gave him the feeling that he had just said something unbelievably naive.
JAY HAS BEEN living with Alison for five years. He stayed with her the first night she invited him in and nearly every night since then. Moving in was less a decision than an inevitability. He doesn’t even remember talking about it.
She has her master’s degree now and is well paid as a financial analyst. That has enabled Jay to pursue his love of photography, assisting an established photographer in the city and picking up occasional assignments on his own.
He doesn’t fully understand the stories Alison tells about the firm, but it’s pretty clear that she’s doing very well, even though she’s the least experienced person on the team.
She thinks the work he does for magazines and cookbooks is okay, but she loves the stuff he does for himself. Unless, of course, she hates it. She’s always honest though, and you can’t get that just anywhere.
THE NEXT TIME Jay sees Stephanie, he’s driving down the Central Expressway late at night. For a moment, he has the illusion that his is the only car on the road, but then, up ahead, he sees an old Volvo stopped on the shoulder. Stephanie gets out wearing the white backless dress. His foot comes off the gas pedal.
Then he spots a burly, crewcut guy opening the trunk and removing the jack.
Jay steps on the gas. His assistance will not be needed. The funny thing, the thing that surprises him—he is jealous.
Then he remembers this:
“Stephanie, I’m taken.”
“Every night?”
“Yes.”
“I’m jealous,” she says. “How?”
“What?”
“How does she take you?”
HE TAKES A LISON to a gallery opening in the city. Watercolors by an old college friend he hasn’t seen in years. The pictures are moody night scenes, mostly summer, some fall, one winter. They all look great, but Jay can hardly keep his eyes off Alison. She is dressed to kill in her highest heels and shortest skirt, along with a fitted white blouse left carelessly unbuttoned to where soft curves are framed in delicate lace.
She chats easily with the artist as if she’s the one who knows him, not Jay. For his part, Jay can only say, “Outstanding, man. Really outstanding. I like them all.”
The first chance he gets, he pushes Alison into a little alcove next to a door marked Authorized Personnel. He kisses her hard, pressing his body against hers, pinning her to the wall. His cock is hard and he makes sure she knows it. Then he takes her hand and leads her back out into the crowd.
They immediately run into another of Jay’s old college friends. He introduces Alison and she smiles and nods but has little to say.
In the car, she sits close and has her hands in Jay’s pants before they get out of the parking garage.
He remembers Stephanie cornering him once at a Christmas party. He was just getting his coat; she was just starting to feel her liquor. She kissed him long and hard and said, “You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that as much as I did.”
HE SEEMS TO be running into Stephanie a lot lately. He keeps meaning to ask her what she’s doing now, where she’s living, but he never does. He’s afraid of appearing to be interested, which he’s not really, though he accepts her invitation for lunch at a waterfront dive with good, cheap seafood. She’s unusually laconic at first, so he starts talking about the first thing that comes to mind: Alison.
“So,” Stephanie interrupts, “what do you guys do together?”
“All sorts of things.”
“Really? Do tell.”
“We enjoy tennis, hiking, concerts.”
“No, silly, I meant what do you like to do in bed,” she says, “or wherever.”
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Curiosity.”
Jay shakes his head. It’s a cloudy-but-warm day and they’re seated outside at one of the many small round tables, some with red umbrellas, some with green, all circled by molded plastic chairs. He waits for the waitress to leave two baskets of fish and chips.
“Come on, you can tell me,” Stephanie prompts.
“What do you want? We do all the usual things.”
“Boring.”
“Hardly.”
“So tell me about it.” “What we do in the—”
“I’ll bet you turn her over your knee and spank her.” “Don’t be ridiculous.” “No?” she challenges.
“No.”
“I bet you’d like it, though.”
Jay sips his iced tea.
“I have no desire to spank Alison.”
“I meant you. I bet you’d like being spanked.”
THAT WEEKEND, JAY photographs a local band known as the Fire Department in a small club in San Jose. It’s for a magazine feature, and the band is excited about the publicity. Jay likes their music and wants to do a good job for them. He tries a wide-angle shot from behind the drummer. At first he focuses on the lead singer, then the crowd. That’s when he notices Stephanie in front of the stage, dancing, apparently alone.
He returns to his table where Alison smiles and asks if he got the shot he wanted. He shrugs. “Not sure.”
The song ends and then Stephanie is there beside them.
“You must be Alison,” she says. “Jay has told me so much about you.”
Alison looks at him, then back at Stephanie, who has a lanky, longhaired blond guy in tow.
“Oh, this is Carl,” she says. “My sex machine.”
Alison laughs.
“We used to work together,” Jay says.
“You and Carl? Doing what?”
“Me and Stephanie.”
To the new arrivals, Alison says, “Would you like to join us?”
Carl goes to fetch more beer for everyone.
“How long have you been dating?” Alison asks.
“I met Carl here last night. He made me come five times, so I decided to take him home.”
Even Jay, who is strangely nervous, has to laugh at that.
“The only thing longer than his tongue is his other tool,” Stephanie adds.
Alison says, “Lucky girl.”
“I’ll trade you.”
Alison is shocked and amused.
“For Jay?” she says. “You wouldn’t want him. He snores like a locomotive.”
“I like locomotives.”
“Me, too. We’re getting married in August.”
“Congratulations! Jay, why didn’t you say anything?”
He starts to protest—that is, his mouth opens as if to speak—but they’re already off on the where, when, and how of the wedding.
THE FOLLOWING WEEKEND finds Jay and Alison sitting at the end of a dock on the western shore of Lake Tahoe. Night is falling—and a few drops of rain as well. There are about fifty ski boats and a scattering of sailboats anchored here, all pointing straight across the lake, bows to the incoming tide.
“I like your friend,” Alison says.
The comment comes out of nowhere, it seems, and Jay says, “Who?”
“Who do you think?”
“You mean Blake—the painter?”
“No.”
“Who then?”
“Stephanie, of course.”
“Oh, her.”
“She makes me laugh. She says the most outrageous things.”
“She doesn’t say those things to be funny, Alison—she means them.”
“Honesty is the best comedy,” she replies. “Stephanie says the things you’re not supposed to say.”
“Yeah, by that measure, she’s a real kick in the pants.” “Well, she speaks very highly of you.”
“Does she?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Alison says. “I think she has a little crush on you, Cookie.”
“You think?”
“You’re not blushing, are you, Cookie? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had a crush on her, too.”
The moon is full,
though they can’t see it at this point. Behind them the sky is blue and purple, and to the north it’s black with clouds. Sheets of lightning flash every few minutes. On the portable radio, the Emergency Broadcast System breaks in to issue flash-flood warnings around the area.
“We’d better get back to the room,” Jay says.
The beach is private, but they have a key to the gate because they’re guests at a nearby inn—a circle of six cottages in a pine grove. They’ve stayed here before, twice, but this trip was a surprise, arranged by Alison for no apparent reason other than a need to get away, to be alone together, and that suits Jay just fine.
In their room, Jay stoops to retrieve his shaving kit from his suitcase, which lies open on the floor. Alison takes the opportunity to swat him—hard—on the butt.
“Ow,” he says. “What was that for?”
“You need to be punished,” she tells him, not letting him up.
“What for?”
“You know what for.”
He does, of course, but he has to wonder: does she?
THEY START PLAYING tennis together—doubles—and each time, Stephanie shows up with a different partner, a better player. It gets to the point, after two or three matches, where Stephanie’s partner is clearly better than Jay.
But Alison, self-taught and wildly unorthodox, always finds a way to win—well-timed lobs, lucky net chords, uncanny anticipation, improbable placements—without changing partners.
Stephanie is a good sport, but she clearly wants to win. She’s a serious player, after all, with impeccable strokes. It’s fun to watch her walk away perplexed for a change.
THEN ALISON STARTS talking about buying a house. Prices are going up and if they wait any longer, they won’t be able to afford one.
“Why don’t you give Stephanie a call?” she says.
“Stephanie?”
“You know a better agent?”
Jay shrugs. Until that moment, he didn’t know what line of work Stephanie was in.
JAY IS JUST getting comfortable with the whole mutual-friend idea, when Stephanie and Alison decide to go shopping together. They return, six hours later, with three bags each.
“Guess where we went,” Stephanie taunts.