by Penny Reid
“Wait, wait…don’t tell me. That’s where we’re going.” He said.
“What are you talking about?”
He pressed his lips together to keep a smile from eating his face and pointed upward as we entered the building. My gaze followed, and I read a sign that was just now visible:
Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me, the NPR News Quiz
Chase Auditorium
Brought to you by WEBZ, Chicago
My mouth fell open with surprise, and this time he did put his hand on my back to usher me forward, likely so my standing dumbly in the center of the lobby wouldn’t interrupt the other ticketholders’ progress to the auditorium.
I allowed him to guide me for a few steps while I absorbed my shock. This was not at all what I was expecting. I listened to this radio show on National Public Radio many, many times. It was, in a word, hilarious. I even knew it was taped in front of a studio audience of about five hundred people at the Chase Auditorium in downtown Chicago.
That Alex listened to it, appreciated it, and had tickets to attend it seemed so beyond my understanding of reality that I was having difficulty putting two thoughts together.
This is what was happing in my brain: How… how… how… how… what?
Therefore, Alex navigated us to our seats, turned me toward him, unzipped my coat, and removed it from my shoulders—like I was a child—all while I attempted to make sense of the situation.
His subtle intake of breath when he saw my shirt for the first time roused me somewhat from my brain stutter. I blinked up at him. I felt like I was seeing him for the first time, like clouds had parted and revealed this person I didn’t actually know anything about.
But he wasn’t looking at my face.
Oh, no.
He was looking at my boobs.
Oh, yes.
I glanced down at myself, the tight fitting shirt, the chain and teasing heart locket nestled just above and between my shameless display of cleavage and back up at him.
Alex’s eyes met mine, his hands fisted in my coat, and it was my turn to hold my breath.
The only word I could think of to describe his glare was savage. He wasn’t trying to hide it either. The sentiment was focused, as though he were endeavoring to impart something of importance with just his eyes. The raw expression spoke volumes, and I was forced to take an unsteady swallow to clear my throat.
I wasn’t dense. I understood that he wanted me. From the looks of it, he wanted me right now, in this auditorium, on this chair, in front of this crowd. But I didn’t know what else—if anything—was going on behind that indigo stare.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t yet decipher his thoughts, not entirely.
So I did the only thing I could think of: I tried to diffuse the moment with humor.
“Wait, wait—don’t tell me,” I gave him a self-deprecating smile. “You’re embarrassed to be seen with me.”
He shook his head, but didn’t speak.
“Ah! Then—wait, wait…don’t tell me.” I lifted my index finger and pressed it thoughtfully to my chin. “You want to amend your earlier statement.”
He gave me a studied look then tossed my coat over the back of my seat, shrugged out of his windbreaker, sat down, and placed it on his lap. Staring straight ahead, he asked, “What statement is that?”
I sat down and then leaned toward him. “The one where you said I was only witty.”
“I never said that. If you remember, I said you weren’t only witty.”
“Wait, wait…don’t tell me, you also said I had a great personality.”
He laughed lightly, which sounded strained, but he kept his gaze studiously forward. “You’re going to make wait-wait-don’t-tell-me jokes all night, aren’t you?”
I leaned over the armrest, my shoulder brushing his, and rebutted, “Wait, wait…don’t tell me; you don’t think they’re funny?”
He straightened in his chair and stiffened; his hands gripped the armrests, and the muscle in his jaw ticked. He wasn’t smiling. “No. I think they’re funny.”
I lowered my voice to a seductive whisper, “Wait, wait—don’t tell me; you’re thinking about….”
Alex grabbed my hand and pulled it to his lap, under his coat. He pressed my palm between his legs and against what could have been a long, steel pipe. Either he carried one in his pocket or he was very happy to see me.
I sucked in a breath and stifled a squeak. He leveraged my position—I was basically leaning in front of him and over his lap—to whisper in my ear.
“Please be quiet. I need a minute here.”
On instinct, my fingers tensed. This caused him to hiss.
“Sorry.” I said, also on instinct.
“Sandra….” he said. Actually, he moaned-growled-panted it.
ZING.
We sat like that, in silence, for maybe a full minute while National Public Radio listeners found their seats and chatted around us. The thought of removing my hand didn’t occur to me once during this time. It wasn’t until Karl Casell’s voice came over the speaker that I gathered a steadying breath and whispered, “Alex…let go of my hand.”
He did—immediately—and we locked eyes as I drew away. I could still see the savage behind his carefully guarded expression, but I detected something else, and it definitely was not contrition or remorse.
The something else was akin to apprehension.
After a moment, he said, “Sorry.”
I studied him, waiting a moment to steady my breathing before attempting to speak. “No you’re not.”
“I’m sorry if I upset you.” He said the words as though they were meant to clarify his earlier apology.
I thought about that statement and understood the nuance behind his words. “I think you’re sorry if you upset me, but you’re not sorry you did it.”
A phantom smile claimed his features as the lights dimmed. Applause erupted around us. The host, Peter Sagal, took the stage.
I took advantage of the dark to sort through my feelings about what had just occurred. I decided that normal, well-adjusted Sandra—who was looking for a life partner—would likely have been very concerned if, on a first date, the man had forcefully brought her hand to his crotch. Possibly, this was because the kind of men well-adjusted Sandra dated weren’t the kind to display animalistic tendencies.
They were very, very safe.
However, Alex was not life-partner material. He was not safe. And instead of feeling outraged, I was delightfully, yet surprisingly, aroused. I’d purposefully worn the plunging red V-neck to get a reaction, and he’d given me one. I asked; he answered. And when I requested that he desist, he did. Immediately.
He wanted me. I wanted him. This was a frightening and thrilling prospect, because when I pushed him, he pushed back.
I was stirred from my musings by Alex’s light touch. The back of his hand caressed the back of mine, an intentional touch. My attention flickered from our hands to his face. As he held my gaze, his fingers entwined mine. He employed careful deliberateness and gave me every opportunity to remove my hand or reject his touch.
I didn’t.
And when our hands had mated—our fingers joined, our palms pressed together—he leaned toward me and placed a soft, lingering kiss on my cheek, like he couldn’t help himself.
Alex’s lips drifted to my ear, and his hot breath against my neck elicited goose bumps. “Remember that I’ve been watching you for over two years. You are the most exquisitely beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. And I’ll never say that you’re pretty, because that word is pathetically inadequate.”
He leaned back into his seat again, and our eyes locked. I felt the intensity of his words and his gaze burn straight through my clothes and skin to the marrow of my bones.
In the context of this being the very first time we’d ever gone out and paired with such a high degree of sincerity, it was an outrageous thing for him to say—especially if he believed it.
It was madness, and I absolutely lov
ed it.
In that moment, I was completely certain of one thing: Alex did not disdain social norms. Rather, it was simply that, on some fundamental level, he did not know how to behave.
He was raw, reactionary—like a live wire—and perhaps to me, just as dangerous.
***
I DIDN’T QUITE recover from BonerGate until about a quarter of the way through the show when Paula Poundstone—one of the panel members and a comedian—said something so ridiculous that my laughter helped me relax.
Halfway through I noted that Alex and I were still holding hands; not only that, but at some point in the evening, without my noticing, he’d moved our hands back to his lap and mine lay in both of his. They rested prosaically on his thigh—unfortunately, nowhere near his penis—and he was playing with my fingers absentmindedly. His attention was focused solely on the show, but he was cradling my hand in one of his and tracing my knuckles with the fingertips of the other.
Every so often, his thumb drew circles on the inside of my wrist. When this happened, I had to beat down my ever increasing, and now engorged, desire with a mental club.
The other item of note was his familiarity with global current events. He apparently knew about US-Chinese trade policy and the Mexican candidates for president, because when topic-specific jokes were made, he laughed when appropriate. In fact, twice I had to whisper-ask him to explain the joke, and he did.
My lust for Alex was quickly turning into a crush.
I took advantage of his absorption in the performance and watched his profile. He usually looked so guarded at the restaurant, but here he wore a permasmile, and his laugh gave me flutterings every time.
When the performance was over and it was time for us to applaud, his fingers tightened momentarily around mine; I thought he wasn’t going to release me.
But he did.
His gaze flickered to mine then to our tangled fingers. After a beat, he opened his grip and set me free. We both stood to join the rest of the audience in their ovation of the performers.
While I was clapping, he leaned over and said, “I’m going to put this in your pocket.”
I glanced down and found he held a slip of white paper.
“Okay.” I shrugged, still clapping; “What is it?”
“It’s directions to a coffee shop. Can you meet me there in twenty minutes?”
I couldn’t help the amused disbelief that caused my nose to wrinkle. “What? Where are you going?”
He stuffed the paper in the back pocket of my jeans with measured, surreptitious movements, though he never took his eyes from mine. “Sometimes it’s really crowded. I’m going to leave now and get a good table.”
“I’ll come with you….”
“No. Stay here. They have a meet and greet after the show. Go shake Karl Cassel’s hand.”
And with that, Alex shook my hand, said, “I’m glad you came. I’ll see you soon,” then turned abruptly and left the auditorium.
***
WHEN I STEPPED into the nearly empty coffee shop, Alex stood from his secluded corner table and crossed to me. Then, he kissed me. That’s right, full on, hungry, urgent, impatient, tongue in my mouth kissed me. I was just catching up to the kiss when he pulled away and took my purse with him.
He rifled through it, pulled out my phone, and removed the battery. He then slipped the battery in his pocket and placed the phone back in my purse.
He did all this so quickly and efficiently that I still hadn’t quite recovered from the kiss when he placed the purse back in my hands. I blinked at him, his pocket, my purse, and opened my mouth to quack like a duck—because that felt like the only thing to do when faced with someone who was so obviously insane.
Before I could utter a word, he said, “I ordered you a soy latte—that’s what you drink, right?”
I nodded, though I gave him my very best are-you-smoking-crack face.
He knotted his hand with mine and pulled me back to the corner table he’d claimed.
He pulled out my chair, gestured for me to sit, then sat across from me.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
He smiled.
“So-o-o….” I said.
“Yes?”
I pulled the gloves from my hands, removed my hood, then did jazz fingers in the air above my shoulders. “So-o-o many questions.”
He lifted his black eyebrows, a small smile playing around his mouth, and I noted that he looked more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. “Please. Ask me anything.”
“Ditching me after the show. Why’d you do that?”
“If I was being followed by the NSA or any other federal agency, I wanted to lose them before we met for coffee.”
I chuckled. “That’s cute. NSA as in the National Security Agency? And I guess that also explains the phone? Afraid they’ll use it to listen in on our nefarious plans?”
“Of course. But also, I don’t want us to be interrupted by any phone calls.”
I frowned. “I wouldn’t answer my cell unless it was important.”
“But you’d check, if someone texted you or called. I want your undivided attention.”
“I see.” I sipped my latte. It had two shots of espresso. Sleep was now out of the question. “How old are you, Alex?”
He appeared completely at ease, but he watched me for a moment then stalled further by sipping his coffee. I wondered if it were caffeinated.
Finally, he asked, “Does it matter?”
“Maybe. Depends on how old you are.”
“I’m legal.”
His response made me laugh, and I felt his eyes on me—watchful, heated, penetrating—as he waited for me to respond. Though he returned my smile, his was brittle. I unzipped my coat—not all the way, just to my abdomen—and sighed.
“You’re eighteen then?”
“No. I’m older than that.”
“Nineteen?”
Alex drew in an audible breath; his chest expanded and he glanced to the left.
“Because I’m twenty-eight, Alex.”
“So?”
“So if you’re nineteen, then I’m nine years older than you.”
“I’m not nineteen.”
“But I am older than you.”
“And?”
“And shouldn’t you be chasing girls your age and not going to NPR radio tapings about global current events with older women?”
“I think you just answered your own question.” His tone was flat.
I considered him, his response, and the scar on his chin. I decided to let the age issue go and concentrate on his past, starting with his face. It was an ugly scar, but it didn’t make him ugly.
I tipped my head toward his chin. “How did you get that scar?”
He fingered it and surveyed me before answering. “I’ll tell you three stories. When I’m finished, you tell me which one you like the best, which one you like the least, and which one you think is true.”
I sat back in my chair, crossed my legs, and held my coffee in my palms. “All right. Proceed.”
“Story number one.” He gathered a deep breath before he spoke, and I had to remind myself to listen to the words rather than just slather myself in the sound of his voice. “When I was ten, I was walking home from school, and a wolf walked around the corner—just appeared, out of nowhere.”
I smiled into my latte; I loved how much effort he put into making the story sound plausible.
“Of course, I stopped where I stood, and tried to hold perfectly still. But it was too late. The wolf saw me. His eyes….”
“How did you know it was a male wolf?”
“Shh, let me tell you what happened. His eyes were yellow and fierce, and I was scared out of my mind. I thought about running, but I knew the wolf was faster than I was. So I waited. It growled at me—roared really—but I didn’t look away. It started walking toward me, and my heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest, but still I didn’t look away.”
I was no longer leaning back in my chair, but rather had become so absorbed that I’d slowly inched forward as he recalled his tale.
“Then the wolf stood directly in front of me, baring his teeth.” Alex demonstrated by pulling back his lips and giving me a quiet growl. “My hands were in tight fists. I thought maybe I’d get at least one good punch before he ate me alive. Then, quick as lightning, the wolf swiped at my face. I think he meant it to be a warning only, but he caught my chin, and he gave me this.” He rubbed the scar pensively as though he were just as lost in the story, remembering it, as I was listening to it.
“When the wolf’s paw came down, I stood completely still. We stared at each other, that wolf and me, as the blood ran down my chin and soaked my shirt. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t look away. I didn’t cry. He gave me a once- over—you know, looked at me from head to foot, decided I wasn’t worth eating that day, and just walked away.”
I released the breath I’d been holding and set my cup down. “The wolf just walked away?”
He nodded. “Here is the second story; ready?”
“Yeah, go for it.” He had my undivided attention.
“When I was nine, my father found me in my room and started screaming at me because his whiskey was gone. He had a knife in his hand, a serrated knife, and he kept shaking me. I didn’t say a word. There wasn’t any point; he was so drunk that nothing I had to say mattered. I just looked at him as he roared at me. He didn’t like that much, didn’t like that I wouldn’t respond, so he swiped the knife upward. I think he meant it as a warning, but it caught my chin and soon blood was everywhere—my clothes, his hands, the floor. The sight of the blood must’ve shocked him; maybe he thought it was his, because he left me and slammed the front door behind him.”
Alex’s eyes were steady on mine, waiting for my reaction. I gave him none. I spent most of my week listening to similar stories from kids, some more traumatizing than others. However, with Alex, I couldn’t tell whether the story was true. He hadn’t used too many details or too few, and the inflection of his voice was exactly as it had been during the wolf story—as though he were remembering something that actually occurred.
