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12.
I held Miara while she cried herself out. Finally, she was quiet and still. I couldn't see her expression. There was no way to tell what was going through her mind. Was she angry? Excited? It might be both of these or it might just be disgust and loathing. I wasn't quite sure what I should say.
In the midst of my hesitation, she pushed herself away from me. Without a word, she fumbled around and found her small purse. She stood up and just walked away. I called for her to wait but she never even turned. For a brief moment, I considered going after her but decided against it. If I had been wrong, there was nothing I could say that would fix it.
I sat there wondering exactly why I had done such a crazy thing without thinking it through. It had been another of those wild impulses that I had no control over. When she allowed me into her mind, it was as if the lid of a vast toy box had been thrown open. Well, it was done now. I had probably lost her. In fact there was every chance that the police would be showing up at my door.
I grabbed the soft leather jacket she had left lying on the ground and stood up. As I walked out of the park, I passed a litter basket and tossed the jacket in it.
Back in my apartment, I checked my machine, even though I knew she wouldn't be on it. There was a message from Jason though.
Beep
"Hey, Man, that was wild! I hope I did everything right. I still can't get over the fact of a chick getting off on that trip. You sure hang with some kooky peeps, Alan. Gotta run, gimme a call.
Beep.
Jason's apartment is across the street from the park. He owed me a number of large favours and had been only too glad to play his part in my scenario. I'd assured him that my girlfriend desperately wanted to live out her fantasy and I rehearsed him as to what was required.
From hiding, I had watched his performance. The guy was a quick study. He'd had no idea that none of it was consensual on Miara's part. Any one watching the whole act, as I had, would have wondered. The first half of what occurred had definitely looked like a sexual assault. To a person arriving in the midst of the act, however, it would have appeared that Miara was merely using the man's cock to get herself off as she had frantically masturbated herself.
Spilt milk, I thought to myself. Miara just did not want to accept her dark side as legitimate. She was going to hate me for bringing it to the surface and making her face it.
She probably felt that Miara Martin, the history teacher, would be rejected by her world if it were to learn what she was really like. The Miara Martin who drove her Volvo wagon back and forth between her little box of a home and that same-same degree factory she toiled in. Miara Martin, the idealistic mentor, selflessly sacrificing her life in a vain attempt to excite a single original thought from the mass-produced little bubbleheads that filled her classrooms. That Miara would fight to prevent the needy, sensual, pleasure starved creature lurking inside from displacing her.
If only she had given me some tangible reaction. I might have gotten her past the shock of coming face to face with her desires. She had not left me any handhold at all though. She would probably slam the door on the whole experience… and me. Even if she decided to resolve her feelings, one way or the other, the debate would be between her and that inner voice.
I had half a mind to forget about her and fly to Costa Rica and go fishing. I had lived down there in idle splendor for a year after I sold off my business. I rented a whole family while I was down there. I slept with the three daughters; while mamacita ran the house and papa chauffeured me around in an old Chevy Impala that the sun had burned pink. I lived like a fucking Maharajah down there for a fraction of what I was spending now. They had cried crocodile tears when their gringo left but another of my wacky impulses had shaken me out of my hammock in paradise.
The more I thought about taking off, the more it felt like I'd be quitting. I've always been a sore loser. I'd never lost without being beaten bloody, whether literally or financially. It occurred to me that while I would not be allowed a voice, there were ways in which I could urge her to argue with herself. I went to the phone and dialed from the Rolodex.
"Yes, this is Alan Cameron. I have an account with you…That's right. Listen, I'd like a dozen each of red, white and yellow roses and your largest seasonal arrangement sent to the History Department at the university for a Miss Miara Martin. I want the same order sent to her home at 1283 Maple Street…. Yes, a very special occasion… No cards will be necessary. Yes, you're welcome."
While I was talking to the florist another thought had occurred to me. I called up the little pub where I had met her and asked the bartender to check outside for her car. Sure enough, it was still there. I called my road service and ordered it picked up and delivered to her house.
There, I thought, she was going to have to slam the door very hard and find a big lock if she wanted to keep me out of her head.
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