Editorial Indiscretion

The condoms! She almost forgot as she started to straddle him. She dug into her purse and whipped one out, fumbling with the wrapper. Damn! She should have practiced this. This wasn't her first time, but it had been a while. He grabbed the packet from her hand, freed the condom from its plastic prison and slipped it on. Now he was ready. He embraced her and rolled her onto her back. She came as soon as he entered her, warm waves spasming through her body. She didn't even know that was possible.

He thrust again and again, and she moved with him. His hips and her hips took on a life of their own, one living creature throbbing frantically on a one-way trip to ecstasy. He filled her, he moved her, he completed her. They exploded together. Her eyes closed hard enough to see stars. She wrapped her arms around him, satisfied, exhausted, happy.

Steve was still on top of her, resting on his elbows to keep his weight off her. He ran a finger around her earlobe. "That was really something special."

"Glad you noticed." She was still breathing hard.

"I wouldn't have done it with you if it weren't. I've never been with any of the models the Agency sends over here. It's unfair ethically."

Models? Her stomach tightened. What was he saying?

"And it takes away from the tension. My writing process is based around sexual tension. But I felt a connection with you. You want to go out for a coffee after we finish up here? I'd love to get to know you better."

"OK," she said, drawing out the two syllables. "After we finish up." Hadn't they already finished? "How long does it usually take?"

"Usually about an hour, sometimes longer. But I think we can cut it short today. I already have most of what I need. Maybe twenty minutes. Is it OK if we begin now?"

"Yes. Begin now." Her stomach, so happy and content a minute ago, now felt as if she had swallowed a boulder. "What do you want me to do?"

"For the moment, just lie there. That pose is fine." He smiled, pulled on his shorts, and took a seat behind his desk. The click-clack of the keyboard was the only noise in the room.

"What are you doing?" Her voice came out squeaky, like her cats when they got upset, but quieter

"Shhh. Working."

Clack-clack-clack.

"OK. I think we're done."

"What did you type?" She was his editor. She had a right to know.

"They didn't explain this to you very well at the modeling agency, did they? I use nude female models just like some painters do. I study their bodies and how they move and I take notes. I admit there is some sexual tension on my part, but I'm professional about it and don't let it show. Present company excepted, of course. Special circumstances. But that tension turns into a fantasy, which turns into a story." He shrugged. "People seem to like my books, so I guess my method works well enough."

"I see." Janice pushed herself up off the sofa and reached for her dress. Her chest was tight. Her arms felt like lead.

"Are you OK?"

She pulled the dress on over her head, letting the zipper gape open. She shoved her feet into the silly high-heeled shoes and then stumbled over them as she bent to pick up her purse. "I have to go."

"Wait! Did I upset you? Didn't you want for us to be together?"

Janice shook her head, her cheeks flushed. She couldn't turn to face him. "This isn't what I expected. No! Don't get up. I can find my way out."

Her scathing self-recrimination sped her steps to the door. She was such an idiot. How ironic that she was more upset now that she knew he was not using prostitutes. But she wasn't upset with him; she was upset with herself for assuming the worst about him, for deceiving him, for throwing himself at him.

Outside in the balmy night, Janice drove her Toyota Corolla half way down the block and parked in a place she knew well. She cut the ignition and turned off the headlights, her tears glistening on her cheeks in the semidarkness.

***

Some weeks later, Janice's chief editor asked about Steve Valentine. Why had their star author missed his latest deadline? Had he at least turned in any new chapters?

Janice closed her eyes for a moment to put aside the feelings of shame and self-doubt that still haunted her. She was not entirely successful. She sent Steve Granger an excessively formal email asking for an update on his latest project. A few days later, he responded. She hesitated, then double-clicked the attachment. It was a short story.

A medieval prince must choose a wife to maintain the royal line. Three princesses from neighboring countries come to visit him. He interviews each one separately, seeking the one most capable of entertaining not only him, but also his family and guests as well.

The first one is beautiful, and stylishly dressed. She will make a fine choice. He asks her to tell him a story, but she only babbles on about her pets and her friends.

The second princess is also beautiful, and she is very rich. She is another fine choice. He asks her to tell him a story, but she can only recite some fairy tale that her nursemaids told her to put her to sleep at night. She knows no other stories.

The third princess is not as beautiful as the others. She is not rich and her clothing is plain. But she is attractive enough, and she has a warm smile. The prince asks her to tell him a story. She tells a tale of two young lovers who met in the palace of a powerful king. One is a stable boy; the other a scullery maid. They brave terrible dangers and the king's wrath to be together. Finally they leave the employ of the king. The man becomes a successful merchant and the woman bears him many fine sons.

Enthralled by this romantic tale, the prince asks, "How did you come by this story? Do you know these two people?"

The princess hides her mirth behind her hand. "I passed a stable boy and a scullery maid as I entered your palace, and invented a story about them."

The prince knows that he need interview no further princesses. This one will provide him with a lifetime of stories.

The princess accepts his proposal, but fails to appear at the wedding. Deeply wounded, the prince sends messengers to her country, but they return with the news that the neighboring king does not have a daughter.

The prince sends soldiers far and wide to search for her, but it's as if she never existed. Was she just a dream? He abandons his royal duties and goes out into the world as a beggar, searching every street corner, every bar and tavern, for his lost princess. He gradually loses his sanity, and his country falls into ruin. The story ends when the prince dies, a desolate old man who never found his princess.

White-faced, Janice closed the document. She wiped tears from her eyes and turned to the phone. She picked up the receiver and dialed the numbers she had memorized so many months ago.

"Steve? This is Janice. Yes. I know I'm calling from a Boca Raton area code. I want to explain that to you. Can we still meet for coffee?"