Glancing over his shoulder the stocky boy says, “You 'ho! Every dude knows 'cept you, Jim. You dumb bastard.”
“What'd you say?” says the girl. Her voice is shrill.
“You a 'ho, 'ho, 'ho,” he says, breaking off in vicious laughter.
“You let him call me that!” She pushes the skinny Jim, grabs him by the arm, and punches him as hard as she can.
“What'd I do?” he says, rubbing his biceps.
“Just get me away from this fat-assed creep!” she screams. “And keep your hands off me!”
You press your forehead against the glass and watch them walk toward the parking lot, watch them until you lose them around a corner, skinny Jim catching up with stocky Gary. The 'ho lagging behind. The seat and legs of her denims are full of faded holes. You wonder if she is a 'ho. Do you buy it? Do you buy anything? Are you a 'ho?
You look at the phone. You know you are screwed. If you climb out the window and beat it to the parking lot, you could miss the meeting that will destroy you. Your hands shake. Twisting and turning, you wonder if you can escape what's coming to get you. Evidence is everywhere: a dark stain on the chair, gooey tissues in the drawer, soiled panties sticking to your crotch and bottom. A used condom in the trash. Your office smells like steamed crab. The open window has done little to clear the air. You turn back to the window, push on the screen, and that's when you notice it, the police car parked at the curb a hundred feet away, the cop standing outside, arms loose, hands resting at his belt, watching your window. Your trembling legs can't hold you. You fall. You are on your knees. You want to lean far out the window and yell at that cop. Go away! Go away!
Peeking over the sill you see him straighten his shoulders, his hand stroking the baton in its holster. He shades his eyes, but stays put, gaze fixed firmly on your window. Can he see your eyes peeking through a slat in the blinds?
“What?” you whisper. “What will they do to me?”
Guilt chews your bowels. You need to go to the bathroom. You pull yourself up, bracing against the desk, much like you were earlier today when your door was locked and the blinds were closed and his wet fingers were in your mouth, muffling your moans.
At this point you realize you won't be rescued, won't get away with what you've done, won't continue with life as usual. You let go of the desk. You pace your office, picking up mementos: the photo carousel with pictures of Kaylee, the portrait of you and Karl taken at his high school reunion, a baby food jar full of periwinkle shells collected at Carlsbad Beach last summer. Are you groaning? You think you are groaning, but you're not sure the groans are leaving your mouth.
Well, it's a mess all right, much more than any of the other messes you've made in your self-centered, sybaritic life. You bite your fist, open the door, look down the hall toward the faculty toilet. Your colon is burning. You see Sheila Ferguson glancing nervously at you, ducking into her office. You hear the door click shut. Too late to get advice now—as if you could talk to anyone, anyway. What does she think of you? She can't know, can she? Does everyone know? These walls are thin as cardboard. You think your colleagues are deaf and dumb?
Why did you do it? Women do it like men do it. Heart trumps brain? Lust trumps shame. Bitch in heat trumps morals, ethics, principles.
You cheater.
You cheat.
Not a drop of decency in you. You have no excuses. There it is.
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