Cupid's Bow

by Karen F. Williams

  I was learning so much today. I typed in labium superioris and came up with a bunch of cosmetic sites describing types of lip enhancement. Rose was right about the lips, but then I saw exactly what I was looking for.

  “I found it! Listen to this: the colored outline of the upper lip is the vermillion border, also known as Cupid’s bow.”

  I mentally pictured this concept. “Yeah, I get it. If you imagine turning that vermillion line from its horizontal to a vertical position, its contour is the shape of an archer’s bow.” I looked up in amazement. “How about that—Cupid’s bow!”

  Michelle crinkled her face. “And you need to know this…why?”

  I laid my phone on the table and reached for the cream and sugar. “Because Ann has the most beautiful one I’ve ever seen.”

  “Call her,” Rose said.

  I stirred and drank my coffee. “I didn’t get her number.”

  “She lives here in Boston,” Michelle said. “Try looking her up.”

  I frowned. “I don’t even know her last name, but…” I thought for a moment. “Actually, she’s at the hotel right now.” I told them about lesbian speed dating, to which Rose replied with surprise. “No shit. Here at the Sheraton?”

  Michelle looked at me like I was nuts. “So why are you still sitting here? Go find her.”

  I looked at the crème brûlée I’d ordered, too restless now to eat it. “Are you sure? You don’t mind if I desert you guys?”

  Rose smiled. “Desert us now so we can eat your dessert.”

  “You know,” Michelle chimed in with that all-knowing look, “if this were a novel you were writing—one worth reading—Ann and her Cupid’s bow would be dessert.”

  “Yep. Everything turns out just great in my stories.” I made a face and got up. “Dinner’s on me.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. Dinner’s on us. Go get the girl before she gets away.”

  When I opened my mouth to protest, she stretched out her arm and pointed to the door. “Go. Now!”

  “Thanks, you two.” I jumped up, dropped thirty dollars on the table for a tip, and kissed them both. “I’ll let you know what happens.”

  A heavy snow was starting to fall as I raced two blocks back to the hotel. When I got there, I rushed straight to the desk and asked in which conference room speed dating was being held. The young gentleman directed me downstairs, and I nearly flew down the flight of steps. But when I got there the room was empty. Everyone was gone. The lights had been turned off. Damn it!

  There was no sense in going back to the restaurant now. I lumbered up the stairs with none of the enthusiasm with which I’d gone down. Suddenly, though, it occurred to me to check the bar, just in case Ann was back there waiting, hoping I’d come looking for her.

  I peeked in and scanned the crowd. No such luck. With a heavy sigh of resignation, I moped to the elevator, stopping by the desk on my way to complain about the safe in my room not working.

  “What room?” asked the same young man who’d been there a few minutes ago.

  “One twenty-three.”

  He looked down at something. “Oh! Ms. Westscott? I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was you a minute ago. There’s a message here from…” He stopped and regarded me with a stupid smirk. “Your wife.”

  “My who?” I took the folded note and opened it.

  You were right, she wrote. Three minutes is ridiculous. I want three hours. With you. There was no name. Just a phone number.

  My heart pounded. How could a complete stranger send me back and forth between desire and despair—crush my spirits one minute and send them soaring the next? How crazy, how significant was that?

  The bounce in my step had me nearly skipping to the elevator. I texted Michelle and Rose the good news while I waited, and when I got to my room I flopped onto the bed with Ann’s note and dialed her number.

  “So,” I said without even saying hello when she answered. “I take it you didn’t meet the woman of your dreams tonight?”

  “Not speed dating, I didn’t.”

  “That’s good to hear because…well, I know you didn’t like me at first, and then you had me thinking you didn’t like me at all and—”

  “I liked you right away.”

  Stretched out on my back with a big smile, I held her note in the air, staring up at the words, her handwriting, as we talked. A dog barked in the background, reminding me of my own dog who was staying with my mother. “Where are you?”

  “Home. Ready to curl up with one of the Kay Westscott romances I just downloaded to my Kindle.”

  My smile broadened, if that were possible. “Speaking of last names, tell me yours…in case I ever have to track you down again.”

  “Ward,” she said.

  “Ward. Dr. Ann Ward?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Ward and Westscott…a catchy name for a business, don’t you think?”

  “I’m thinking more along the lines of unfinished business.”

  “Mmm…three hours’ worth according to your note. Is that a mathematician’s way of asking a girl out on a date?”

  She laughed. “I think it is.”

  “Hmm…what do you have in mind?”

  “I haven’t decided yet, but I thought you might want a private tour guide, someone to show you around Boston tomorrow.” Her voice sounded different than it had in the bar, sexy and dreamy. And every now and then it cracked with a hint of nervous tension that made it even more irresistible. “We could start with brunch…and if you tell me what interests you, I’ll plan a nice day for us.”

  “I intended to visit the Museum of Fine Arts, but I’m up for anything.”

  “Good choice. Boston has one of the most comprehensive collections in the world. As a matter of fact, I was thinking of the museum. It’s close by, and there’s an exhibit there I think we’ll both want to see, but I’ll let it be a surprise.”

  “Will this date be at all romantic?”

  “Of course. The whole point of asking you out is to prove you wrong about mathematicians not being romantic.”

  “Ah…well, in that case I will say yes, only because I enjoy being proved wrong. But I do have one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, as you know, I seem to have developed something of a fixation on your vermilion border or, if you prefer, your Cupid’s bow—to such a degree, at least, that I had to research and put a name to that precise part of your anatomy that quite fascinates me.”

  “Cupid’s bow?”

  “The contour of your upper lip.” She was silent, and I started to worry that I was fast developing a knack for putting my foot in my mouth. I held my breath, waiting for a response, another reprimand to come.

  “Is that really what it’s called?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I don’t know what to say…except that I’m flattered you would take the time to research and put a name to it.”

  Whew! “But here’s the thing,” I chanced to say. “If I see you again I’m afraid I’ll find myself overwhelmingly compelled to run my finger along, if not put my lips to that part of yours. So, if I may beg your indulgence in either beginning or concluding our three-hour time together with a three-minute kiss, you’ve got yourself a date.”

  Ann was quiet again, but I could feel her smiling. “Three minutes is a really long time for a first kiss,” she said.

  “I know. What do you say?”

  After an even longer pause, “Okay,” she said in a low voice I could barely make out.

  “You’re mumbling. Was that a yes?”

  “I’m sorry. I mumble when I’m feeling shy. But yes.” She spoke up. “That was a yes.”

  She made my heart so happy, this woman who’d come out of nowhere. Everything about her felt right. It was as if the three Fates, unbeknownst to us, had prearranged our fortuitous introduction this evening.

  As though hearing my thoughts, she said, “I feel as though we were supposed to meet, but I’m almost afraid
to ask where you live…not too far away, I hope.”

  “I’m here in Beantown all the way from the Big Apple.”

  “New York…” In her silence I heard her disappointment. “When do you fly back?”

  “I don’t. I drove. It was only four hours by car. Not so bad. I didn’t want to book a flight and then decide I wanted to spend more time at the museum.”

  “Were you headed there to see something in particular?”

  “Not really. I do have a thing for three-dimensional art, though: pottery, sculpture, furniture.”

  “How apropos of the rule of three. It’s interesting that we also live in a three-dimensional world. I didn’t think of that before. And it just so happens that I, too, adore the decorative arts.”

  “That’s surprising. I thought mathematicians only adored numbers.” I let her note fall out of my hand, watched it flutter to the bed, then dropped my arm and closed my eyes, absorbing the arousing sound of her voice.

  “You have a lot to learn about math. And about me, Ms. Westscott. When I’m done with you, you’ll have discovered that pottery, poetry, music, biology, chemistry, physics—everything in the world—can be reduced to mathematics.”

  “Well, I certainly hope you’ll never be done with me. I hope you end up liking me as much as you do decimals, and that your sudden and inexplicable feelings for me prove to be as wonderfully irrational and divine as the Golden Ratio, as infinite as the golden spiral.”

  “Wow. Did you actually just put together a mathematically romantic sentence?”

  I’d surprised myself and laughed. “I did, didn’t I? A few hours ago, I wouldn’t have been able to define those terms, let alone string them together in a reasonably coherent sentence.”

  “I’m very impressed…and charmed. You’re a good math student after all.”

  “I might have been, with you as my teacher. Of course, I’d probably have sat in class fantasizing about you and only half paying attention to the lesson—like in the bar this evening.”

  “I didn’t notice. I was having my own fantasy.”

  She had me grinning. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, seriously. And speaking of students and lessons, tomorrow’s Monday. I don’t teach on Mondays, but I thought you said you work in a high school?”

  “This is winter break for the public schools. I’m leaving Tuesday though. I have to get back to my dog, who’s staying with my mother.”

  I could almost hear her thinking. “Well, if your mother will dog-sit another day, when you check out of there you could check in to my place for an extra day of sightseeing. I have a sofa bed. At least you’d leave here with a better feel for Boston…and for me.”

  Had she just invited me to spend the night, this woman who’d found me antagonistic and rather irritating only a few hours ago? “We’re jumping ahead of ourselves, Dr. Ward. Let’s see how much we enjoy that kiss before we make extended plans. You might decide I’m a lousy kisser and change your mind completely.”

  “You know, you’re absolutely right. If you write romances better than you have them, as you say, then you probably write kisses better than you give them.”

  “Then I advise you to hold off reading too much of my book tonight, lest you end up with expectations I can’t possibly meet in real life.”

  “So noted. How about we meet in the lobby tomorrow morning, say nine o’clock?”

  “Okay. Or if you get here early, come get me. Room one twenty-three.”

  “One-two-three? The rule of three?”

  “Ha! That never occurred to me. You’re very observant, Dr. Ward. I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

  I called Michelle and Rose before I went to bed and fell asleep that night wishing Ann were beside me, under me, on top of me. I desired her intensely—any which way.

  The next morning, I was showered and dressed by eight thirty and waited until almost nine, certain she’d come up for me. But she didn’t. Never before had I second-guessed a woman as I did this one. I waited until nine, and when her knock never came, I threw on a gray peacoat over my white turtleneck and black pants and hurried down to the lobby.

  Ann was sitting there in faded jeans, a plaid scarf, and a camel-colored overcoat that fell just below her knees when she stood.

  Dr. Ward was a long drink of water, tall enough that I had to look slightly up at her, and in the morning light, I could see that those eyes that had been diligently accessing me in the bar last night were actually hazel. “Good morning,” she said.

  “Good morning.” I looked at my watch and tapped the face. “How about that. I’m exactly 1.618 minutes late. Your favorite number.”

  “Perfect timing.”

  “Perfect timing would have been you knocking on my door at nine o’clock sharp.”

  “I said I’d meet you in the lobby.”

  “But I gave you the option of coming for me. You never stated your preference for beginning or concluding our three-hour date with that three-minute kiss to which you agreed. I was hoping to begin the day with at least a third of it.”

  “Well, this will just have to hold you over,” she said, and gave me a quick peck on the lips. “And in case you haven’t done the math, this date is going to take more than three hours.”

  “Then I expect that kiss I have in the bank to earn interest.”

  “Hmm…how does an interest rate of 1.618 percent sound?”

  I laughed. “I’ll take it.”

  Ann stared at me, a sudden seriousness washing away the humor in her eyes, and I knew then that she was anticipating that kiss as much as I was. She blushed and looked away, fumbling with the buttons on her coat and tossing one end of her scarf over her shoulder as she led me out of the hotel. I smiled as I followed her, studying her stride, watching her hair bounce as I had guessed it might, and imagined what it would feel like spilling all over my naked body.

  It’s a good thing we weren’t naked, though, because the temperature was probably in the high thirties. The sidewalks were shoveled, and trucks had driven through some time during the night to plow the few inches of snow that had fallen. Trees were still covered in a melting blanket of white, but the morning sun and heavy traffic had turned what was left in the streets to slush. I smiled to myself as we sidestepped the icy slosh on our short walk.

  “I’m surprised you came out in the snow last night for speed dating. You must have been…” I shut my mouth before I finished the sentence with an ill-chosen word.

  “I must have been what? Desperate?”

  “I did not say desperate. You said it.”

  I waited for a defensive attitude, but she just shook her head and laughed.

  We lingered over brunch and several cups of coffee in a quaint, historic restaurant that was, I must confess, a quite romantic choice for the math professor. The walls were made of brick, the plank floors worn with age, and a gas fire burned in a nearby fireplace. It was nice to occupy a building, a space, that had hosted centuries of scholars, writers, American visionaries, possibly even the Founding Fathers.

  “Oh. I almost forgot…” Ann reached into her shirt pocket. “After looking up your books and further investigating the rule of three on the internet, I came across something that will amuse you.”

  “I’m glad to know I made a lasting impression and occupied your thoughts last night.”

  “That you did.” She pulled out a pink Post-it Note and handed it to me with a smirk. “I don’t know much about Wicca, but according to the Wiccan Rede, the rule of three is stated in the Law of Returns.”

  I took it from her and read aloud. “Ever mind the rule of three, what ye send forth comes back to thee.” We both chuckled. “Oh, my God…this is so great.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “I’ll definitely use this in my creative-writing class. Now I can end my rule-of-three lesson with a karmic anecdote. It’ll make the kids laugh.”

  By the time we left the restaurant we had talked about our personal and professional lives, my writ
ing, and our dogs. She asked about my childhood in New York and described what it had been like growing up and living in New Hampshire until accepting a teaching position here at Northeastern six years ago. The conversation never lulled and, truthfully, I would have been content to forfeit my tour and while away the day talking, learning more about her. But it was already noon, and Ann had other plans waiting just around the corner.

  “I’m taking you to the Prudential Center, better known as the Pru,” she announced as we entered the building on Boylston Street and ascended to the Skywalk Observatory on the fiftieth floor of its tower.

  “This is Beantown’s equivalent of the Empire State Building,” she said with a sweep of her arm as we entered the glass-enclosed dome. “I thought a panoramic view of Greater Boston would give you a spatial orientation, a visual layout of the city and beyond—even if it is from seven hundred feet in the air. Seeing it all is much better than me just describing where things are in relation to one another.”

  And it was. This bird’s-eye view extended for miles. It was a clear and cloudless day, and from the observatory we could see all the way to New Hampshire and far out to sea. Ann pointed out Fenway Park, home field of the Red Sox; the Boston Common, America’s oldest city park; and the Charles River. “I would have arranged for a boat ride if it were spring or summer.” She gave a coy shrug. “Maybe we’ll get to do that in warmer weather… if you ever make it back to Beantown.”

  “Oh, my instincts tell me I’ll definitely be back. Sooner than later.”

  Ann took a deep breath and smiled, seemingly relieved by the promise of my return, and she took me by the hand then, slowly leading me in a vast circle as she identified countless other landmarks. “See? That’s Harvard University…and over here is MIT…and look. Down there is the Boston Symphony. Its concert hall has the second-highest-ranked acoustics in the world.” She glanced at me as though gauging my reaction to it all. “You can’t experience Boston in one day, but I figured the Skywalk would allow you to at least glimpse it all.”

  “Thank you so much. This is spectacular.” And it was. So was the feel and physical intimacy of her hand in mine. It felt so right. Ann felt so right. And it struck me, an inexplicable revelation, that I’d finally met the one. Now if I could just figure out a way to coax her into my suitcase and take her back to New York.