Modern Dance

This is something I started a while ago. I'm trying to decide where to take it I have about 6 pages in total, but it could go much further. Should I bother?

“Stop! Turn around very slowly,” Miss Foucault commanded in her thick French accent. “Now when I leap, you should catch me by the hips around shoulder height and lift me over your head.” She leapt, I missed, and she came crashing down on top of me. Oddly, it was never the other way around.

It was only a fluke that I ended up in this class. My girlfriend Tamsin talked me into taking Beginning Modern Dance for my last PE requirement in my senior year of college. She was going to take it, too, but we broke up between my registration time and hers. In the end, I was the only beginner signed up, so they combined my “class” with the advanced class, taught by Elise Foucault, who if not for a tragic toe injury would be Prima Ballerina in the Royal Ballet.

I'd heard rumors that Miss Foucault...Elise...was a predator, but had found nothing to substantiate them. However, I'd become her “project.” As I was a raw beginner, none of the more-experienced women ever wanted to partner me...that, and the fact that I was older. I took time out after my sophomore year to play horn in the San Diego Symphony, which has since folded. At 28, I was the oldest person in the room; even Elise was only 27.

Unpaired, I became her demonstration dummy, especially it seemed, when I had to touch or hold her in intimate places. Of course, I was also the only straight male in the class. Half the women were gay, too, but not Elise; she made that abundantly clear. The only advantage I had over the other men was that I was bigger and stronger, so lifting Elise, who was tall for a dancer, was relatively easy. Very tactile and with a very small “personal space,” she stood too close for my American sensibilities, and was embarrassed by nothing, not even unisex changing spaces. Since our class put on a performance every three weeks, I frequently had to help her change costume. That was excruciating, but I kept reminding myself that I was dancing with one of the best in the world.

She wanted, I think, two things: to turn me into a dancer, and get me into her bed. I would say that neither was on the cards, but I have this thing about dancers, and she had a perfect dancer's body. I also liked how she showed her emotion. If she was sad, you could see it from the back of the auditorium. She was also very plain-speaking. “I want you to make love to me,” she'd said in front of the whole class. She was talking about a particular move we were working on, but I could see in her eyes that she meant it for real. If she wasn't my teacher, I'd be tempted.

The worst thing about it is that I dreamt about her about 10 years ago, before I'd ever seen or even heard of her...and she was wearing the red and white leotard that she was wearing now as she lay on top of me. I could never get that image out of my head, and when I first saw her dance in London, I immediately knew it was her, even from a distance. Nothing really happened in the dream, just her standing there in front of me...and she spoke to me. “Don't worry, I'll get there,” is what she had said in an American accent.

Fortunately, we had fallen onto a soft matt. “Don't try to do it all in a single motion,” she scolded as she rolled off. “Turn, catch, then lift.” Her blue eyes beamed out from under her short auburn hair. Unlike most, she looked me straight in the eye when speaking to me. It was a little disconcerting. The others in the class knew better than to laugh when I dropped her, which was on a regular basis. She had a sharp tongue, and if she swore at you in Franglais, you were in deep trouble. She would find something particularly embarrassing for you to do.

I don't know what she saw in me. Perhaps it was just because I was older than the others. Still, I had the least experience, and she was very demanding of me. Of course, she couldn't have her partner dropping her in a performance. Fortunately, I never have.

They had to give me a crash course in the basics of dance, and most of all, dancing with a partner. It's all about trust. The others were used to all the crazy familiarity exercises: moving blindfolded, falling and being caught by your peers, and the touching ones. That was the hardest – not being afraid to touch another dancer anywhere you are told to, or to allow them to touch you in the same manner. I did these exercises with everyone, but with Elise on a regular basis because I was her partner. I still haven't gotten used to it and often flinch if she touches me where I'm ticklish or somewhere private. If I baulk at touching her anywhere, I get slapped. Of course, someday I may have to lift her by her pelvis. I feared that day would be coming soon.

I finally succeeded in catching her and lifting. She seemed so light to me, as if she was floating and I was just holding her down. We tried it a couple more times to clean up a few lines, mostly my foot placement, and then the other couples tried. Elise and I would be the only ones doing the move in the next performance, but she always made sure that everyone could do it in case there was an injury. The rest of class was spent running that particular scene. It was pretty rough, especially me, since that was the first time we'd run it straight through.

“Daniel,” she said, accosting me at the end of the session, “Do you have some time later today?"

“I've got an orchestra rehearsal until late, and...”

“Would you come to the studio afterwards?” she asked. It was more of a command. She truly was a diva and never expected anyone to refuse her.

“It might run over,” I replied, hoping to put it off. “It's a dress rehearsal for tomorrow night's concert.”

“I will wait for you,” she answered, sounding slightly disappointed.

“Won't the building be locked?”

“Just knock on the window of my office and I'll let you in.” She had an answer for everything.

“I can't stay up too late. It's a difficult concert, and I've got a few solos.”

“Don't worry.”

I realized there was no way out. As I took a quick shower, I wondered what she wanted from me. Was this it? Would this be the moment she made her move? There were only four more weeks left in the term, and then I was finished with my PE requirement – no more dance. There was something about it that I would miss. I grew up watching a lot of ballet and was always around dancers. Gina, my high school girlfriend was a dancer, and I often played for her performances - I also play some piano. My mother had wanted to be a dancer until she got pregnant with me. My brother and sister followed in quick succession, and that ended her aspirations.

I was a quick study and had all but caught up with the class in certain things. Elise told me that I had a natural awareness of my body that few other dancers had. Others had to learn it, and even then, it was always forced. I knew exactly what she meant. I've always been able to see it – dancers whose every move was complete to the tips of their fingers and toes. Elise had it in spades, of course, even when she wasn't dancing. Anything that involved “classical” dance, I was pretty useless. She always choreographed around that fault.

Itchy feet

Rebecca stood waiting at the door. She'd knocked once, twice, three times. Biting her lip, she started turning away before the lock clicked and the door creaked open.

"I ..." she began.

"You are expected," answered a wizened old hag. That didn't properly describe her, she must have been beautiful once. She moved with a grace that belied her years, and she still had her figure.

"I was told ..." Rebecca started again, following her through the dusty narrow passage. The medium had told her to come, no reason, but the cards told the place and the time, and that it was both urgent and important.

"Just come on in and see what you find, dear," the hag replied, with a gentle, almost motherly smirk. "You will find it, what you are looking for."

"What am I looking for?" Rebecca asked. Besides a man, she thought, and she was unlikely to find one here.

"Your heart knows," she answered, leading Rebecca around a corner. That's where the bare bulbs stopped. The corridor widened and was lit by candles, evenly spaced at intervals of 10 feet.

Rebecca felt odd, that she'd already walked further than the length of the building, yet the corridor stretched as far as she could see. It had only been a small hovel at the end of an alley, deep in the heart of the City of London. If her bearings were right, she should have been standing in the middle of The Embankment, dodging cars as they sped past. Another 20 paces, and she would be swimming in the Thames, yet the passage continued.

As the hag led on, Rebecca was astounded by her strength. Someone of her advanced age should have struggled. Rebecca was still comparitively young, in her forties, long divorced, but kept herself in shape hoping that Mr Right would find her eventually. She would never give up hope; she was sure he would come eventually. As they continued, it became warmer, too warm for the coat that had protected her from London's cold, wet winter outside. She took it off, glad that she'd left her laptop at the office. That would have been too much to carry easily.

"You may leave it here darling," the hag said, pointing to a row of hooks on the wall. Likewise, she put her own gray shawl there. Rebecca was surprized at how thin she was, thin and upright, and she hadn't noticed before how tall she was, nearly as tall as Rebecca. "You have lovely hair, dear," she said, reaching up to clear a loose lock that fell before Rebecca's eyes on a regular basis.

That her hair had remained a deep red in her mid-forties was unusual in her family. By 40, her mother's hair was completely white, and her father's was almost gone by then, but it, too, was white along with his beard. They appeared as though they had been frightened to an inch of their lives when they were young, but never breathed a word of it to their only daughter. Rebecca couldn't remember when her mother's hair was completely red. Even at 5, she remembered a streak of white. That she would think of it then boggled her, as they pressed forward. She wished they were with her now.

She stopped. Something about the hag was familiar, as though she had seen her before, and suddenly she seemed even less old when she looked around.

"Come dear. Must hurry," she said. Her voice was familiar, too, as if she had always known it.

Embarrassed, she strode ahead.

"Relax," the woman said, she couldn't be described as a hag anymore. "You are safe here, more safe than you could imagine." She couldn't have been over 60, but Rebecca would have sworn that the hag who opened the door was at least in her nineties.

The passage had continued to get warmer as they progressed, and Rebecca found the heat stifling. If she wasn't sure that they had been traveling at the same level, she would have thought she was decending into hell.

"I think we are both overdressed," the old woman said, stopping, and beginning to remove the smock that hid what had become a beautiful figure, and now she was as tall as Rebecca and her hair was turning red. She couldn't have been older than 50, and her hair was darkening to a deep red much like Rebecca, and the air of familiarity was uncanny. "Here, put this on," she said, handing Rebecca a short cotton dress, plain white. The woman put a similar one on herself. The woman's build was much like Rebecca's.

Once Rebecca had changed, leaving her blouse and skirt on another series of hooks next to the smock, the woman turned abruptly and pushed forward. "Come now, we are almost there," she said over her shoulder.

Rebecca found herself much more comfortable, dressed the same as the woman. "What am I looking for?" she asked herself. Whatever it was would be behind the large mahogany door that they were fast approaching. She thought suddenly about her ex-husband, who was a mistake from the start. It didn't last long, not even close to the point of bearing children. Now it was too late. Still, she knew there was a man out there for her, one that had her name stamped on his soul, as his was stamped on hers. She wished she could read that name; it would make life so much easier.

The passage widened to a large antechamber, lit by six torches. The door towered before them. Rebecca wondered ironically that this might be the gate to hell, and Cerberus would be waiting for them on the other side. Would it allow her to pass, or would she be its dinner. The woman had said she was safe, but Rebecca had no reason to trust her, until she looked at her.

Speechless, she thought she was looking in a mirror, but the woman just smiled back at her. It was a smile she knew well. It was her own. "You will understand shortly,"

"What?..." Rebecca choked on her question. She didn't even know what she was going to ask.

"Would you do anything for him?" the woman asked, as if she knew the answer.

"Who?"

"The man whose name is etched on your soul."

"How did you know?" Rebecca asked.

The woman didn't flinch. "Would you?"

"Yes," Rebecca answered without thinking. "Yes, I would do anything for him, and I know he would do anything for me."

"You are right," the woman said, stepping forward and embracing her. "He has." She kissed Rebecca tenderly on the lips, and vanished.

Left on her own, Rebecca knew she had to open the door and face whatever was there. The return was easy, a long corridor and turn left, but she hadn't come all this way just to return without at least seeing what was at the end. She pulled on the large gold ring that she found at eye level. The door creaked open to an angelic chorus of horns and harps. It was filled with people, at least she thought they were people, then she thought they were angels, as some could fly or float, but none had wings. Souls?

At the sight of her, the hoard gave way to an aisle strewn with red rose petals. Stepping forward, she was surrounded by hundreds, perhaps thousands of angels; that's what she had finally decided upon. The aisle seemed to stretch forward endlessly, and she suddenly felt like Dorothy entering the Emerald City, but this city was diamond and gold with heavenly music.

The woman that brought her there had been one of those souls, she thought, striding forward more purposely. Was it her own immortal soul, come to retrieve her for this man for whom she yearned, who yearned equally for her? When she could see the end, she found an empty throne, mahagony again, like the door far behind her. She pressed forward, almost to a run.

Stopping before it, she realized that the throne was meant to seat two. Nearly out of breath, she waited, turning around to survey the crowd that watched expectantly. She suddenly felt conspicuous as the only person wearing any clothes.

"Have a seat," said a man's voice behind her. She knew that voice, instinctively. It was him, leaning, one elbow on the arm of the throne. There was a playfulness in his deep baritone.

Rebecca felt a lump in her throat as she looked at him, transfixed.

"What's another minute when I've waited an eternity for you?" he joked.

"Where am I?" she asked, stepping up to throne.

"Home, dearest," he said. "You have come home at last," he repeated, as though he couldn't believe it himself.

"Come sit with me for eternity," he said as they sat on throne arm in arm, "or at least until your feet start itching again."

Still here

This is a really busy time of year for me in RL - work, moving, work, trying to write, work, more work, work.

I'm still writing, but it's all big stuff and that's difficult to post bits of. There is a new part of Group Therapy up at my MSN space (Atlantaworld), and a few bits and pieces at the WritersCafe, but I'm struggling to find time to work on anything else.

I'm still thinking about things, like the new angel story, and publishing - hopefully there will be some news on that front soon. I'll keep you posted.

AC

Fallen from Grace

It’s different when it’s your own body. Except for the wings – they were painfully torn off before they chucked me down here. It’s not like I’m damned or anything. I’m one of the Boss’s most beautiful creatures, even without my wings. It’s not vanity; it’s a statement of fact. Unfortunately, I knew too much and gave too much away, and this is my punishment.

I’m a guardian angel, or at least I was. Now, I’m human ... well mostly. I’m still immortal. If I died, I’d have the chance of going back to heaven. If I went to hell, I’d be the highest ranked of the fallen angels – in a position of authority, and I’d get my wings back. They’d be webbed and ugly, but I could live with that. Lucifer himself would be forced to pay homage to me. Besides, I’m not one of them. When they revolted, I fought steadfastly against them. I was Michael’s right-hand man – well, man is stretching it a little, but I do have male equipment.

I’m screwed, and all I did was fall in love. If I was lame, like Adam, I’d blame my situation and the boss for putting me in it. Maybe I’d blame Marilyn for being a perfect partner, a perfect loving soul, and the wife of the body that I inhabited during her last days. Even as the possessor of forbidden knowledge, she got heaven, and I got humanity. I was the one who gave her that knowledge. I fell in love with her, and she loved the body I was in, the body of her husband as he hovered near death. I couldn’t save him – he’d made a fatal mistake, cheating on Marilyn, and she had a terminal illness. Only she could save him. Her forgiveness would have set him right. Unfortunately, she didn’t even suspect him, and I couldn’t tell her. I was there to protect her – that meant NOT telling, easing her passage to the beyond, content with a well-lived life.

I was a good guardian, perhaps even one of the best. Ghandi was mine, and I was part of Jesus’s retinue. He had special status, for obvious reasons, and I was there at the end helping to carry him upstairs. Jean d’Arc was another, Galileo, several Popes, Confucius, Abraham, Moses, Mohammed – when there was a biggie, I was the one for the job. My secret was that I got really close to my charges, loving them was easy, part of my job. Falling in love wasn’t. That was a risk that had always been worth taking. If Jean hadn’t been celibate, I might have fallen then. Perhaps, it was only a matter of time before the inevitable happened.

I fell hard, landing in London. It could have been worse; I could have been stuck in the middle of Africa, a naked, frightfully pale man left to fend for himself in a harsh environment. Instead, I got humanity, and the only thing that kept me from being thrown directly in jail for public indecency was my crushed shoulder from the fall. That covered up the bloody stumps where my wings had been. I landed in Trafalgar Square in full daylight near Nelson’s feet. Somebody thought I had jumped from the top of his column, but nobody could explain how I got up there, and I couldn’t exactly tell the truth. My cell would be padded instead. Of course, the fact that I survived at all was a miracle.

I was a little dazed when I hit, and couldn’t identify myself. “I’m Davidl” David who? “Just David.” I was too slow to make up a surname or an abode. So they think I have amnesia. The point is that I have no life to remember, since I wasn’t human until 7 July 2007. They’ve kept me in hospital for the past week and circulated my description in the papers. At least they’ve continued to call me David, rather than the ubiquitous “John Doe.”

Fall from Grace

I'm thinking of another guardian angel story. This one is about an angel (David) who falls in love with his human charge, causing him to reveal himself to her during his brief human appearance. That's strictly forbidden, and his charge dies because of it.

David is therefore cast out of heaven and has to cope with being human, something that guardian angels find mildly distasteful, since humans are the next rung down the ladder.

For my previous one, see: It's got to get better (than this) http://www.writerscafe.org/stories.php?id=80970

Feel free to review it there, if you'd like.

Guardians of the Future

This is the beginning (I think) of a new Ark Project story. Comments please. Title is provisional.

Chapter 1 (scene 1)

Jonas Lake almost missed the most spectacular find of his illustrious career: a tiny, camouflaged door of 21st century design. That it was locked wasn’t surprising. That it had been bolted shut was.

Polar exploration had been dangerous since the first cataclysm. Only a prolonged period of weather moderation had allowed the ice to form into a stable thick sheet. Antarctica’s terrain was rocky, frigid and almost impassible in places and the ice sped transport during the summer daylight months. Winter was still too treacherous for land travel.

Opening the door was awkward even in his modern thermsuit, which was almost like a second skin. It covered him comfortably and completely, and was of the same design used in space. He longed to try it out there, but ongoing difficulties with Callisto made Terran spaceflight rare. The Carterian rebellion had only re-opened trade routes. Callistan and Eran visits were common, but Terrans (he hated the term Earthlings) were home-bodies and rarely wished to venture out. Lake was in a small minority, and longed to see Callisto and its mysterious twin Artemis. Even moreso, he wished to explore Haven, a distant planet still relatively uninhabited and uncharted. It lacked the dangers of Artemis, and exploration was only useful if you survived. Only mining fortresses could stave off Artemis’s carnivorous vegetation.

Ordinarily his people cherished their rescued ancestry, but Lake found it an obstacle. His dark skin was rare even two millennia after his ancesters were rescued. Less than 25% of the rescued families were black and compared to the fair-skinned Campbells, who bred like rabbits, their colour was soon assimilated. Of Earth’s 2 billion inhabitants, only 1% could claim pure-bred African heritage. Lake’s skin colour kept him out of space, so he’d turned his attention to Earth’s harsher climates.

Lake was, in fact, the only black in his landing party. He often joked that he might lose his blond-haired blue-eyed companions in the snow, but on the hard black slopes of Mt Scott, he was indeed the best camouflaged.

Cutting the bolts was easy, but the door groaned on its ancient hinges. Not knowing what was inside they did their best to avoid cutting through the door, but it became inevitable when the hinges froze with the door open only a couple of centimeters. Setting the door to the side, Jonas and his party ventured in.

Surprised to find the entryway in pristine condition and working electricity, he asked his second in command Suli Campbell if there was anyone in range. She was the only telepath in his party. He found having her around convenient in such circumstances. She could also gauge the feelings of their party in an instant, and since she was a profound telepath she could even stir people’s memories. What Lake appreciated most was that she could become his step to the stars. Not only did she have connections, but she was a potential pilot herself, although she hadn’t trained.

With the exception of their heights, both being quite tall, they were polar oppositions. She had thin straight pale blond hair, light blue eyes, and wasn’t afraid to let Lake know that she was attracted to him. Jonas knew that he couldn’t hide from her, but it didn’t stop him from trying. Opposites attract, but her most attractive feature was that she was a Campbell. Lake’s family would not be pleased about a liaison with a Campbell, so they left it as a devoted friendship with extras. He didn’t have a lover from his own race, and approaching 90, he wasn’t getting any younger. She was 96 herself, but as a Campbell had an expected lifespan almost 50% longer, even spending much of her time on Earth.

Lake found living over 200 years almost impossible to contemplate. It was widely romoured that the Campbell genes had been infected by a parasite aboard the Ark Foundation in the twelth millenium, extending their lives by nearly 100 years. It was well known, however, that men had been known to live up to 300 years as early as the fifth millennium as long as they spent their entire lives aboard one of the Arks. Surface life severely curtailed their longevity.

“No one alive nearby, Jonas,” Suli replied. “It is really strange. It’s as if someone still lives here.”

“Let’s have a look around,” Jonas decided. “We’ll travel in pairs and report every 15 minutes.” He knew that was unnecessary. Letitia would keep track of them all, since they all wore thermsuits. She was the on-board computer system in their suits. Officially, her designation was LAURA, but she had a personality and many people preferred to give her a name that suited them better. Suli stuck with Laura, but Letitia’s personality reminded him of his grandmother, so that’s what he called her.

Jonas only just tolerated her presence. She pervaded society and knew where everyone was and what they were doing. If only she could tell what they were thinking, she would be omniscient. He thought that was very bigbrotherish. Strangely, 1984 was required reading in schools. The parallel was so close that it scared him, although Letitia never seemed sinister. In fact, only Earth's government was questionable, and Letitia was definitely anti-government. She could interfere if necessary, but had learned long ago to keep her hands out of human relationships.

“I don’t like this,” Suli confessed when they were alone. “Somebody obviously built this to spend a long time here, and I think they actually did. Look at the wear on the floor around the doorways.”

“I wonder why there isn’t any dust,” Jonas mused.

“The air is scrubbed,” Latitia interrupted. “I can sense the whirr of 21st century scrubbers.”

“Can they possibly still be working?” Suli asked. Latitia/Laura had broadcast her message to both of them.

“Apparently they are,” was Latitia’s flat answer.

“What’s this?” Jonas asked, finding a black box with letters and numbers on little buttons. “Q W E R T Y U ...”

“It is an ancient computer,” Latitia explained. “I was created on one quite similar. There is a switch on the back of the main unit. The image will be displayed in the flat square above the keyboard – that’s what the unit with the letters is called.”

Suli flicked the switch and it sprang to life. Words flashed on the screen until it stopped at a screen asking for a username and password.

“What do we do now?” Jonas asked.

“Wait one moment,” Latitia said, as a tendril sprang out from his pack and into a port on the back. “I can hack it if you will just give me a second. It will consider me to be a virus, but I can get around that.”

A short time later, the screen flashed blue and some graphics appeared. “What now?” Jonas asked.

“That little black oval next to the keyboard controls a pointer on the display,” Latitia explained, “and there is a database that makes interesting reading, but you might prefer to have a look at the science officer’s long and the command log. Don’t worry, I can control it for you, just tell me what you wish to see.” Latitia would have instantly scanned the entire contents of the computer, but this was Lake’s expedition and she wouldn’t interfere unless directly asked for help. He preferred it that way.

“Dr. Lake,” Kevin Weston’s voice interrupted, “I think you should see this.”

“You should,” Suli agreed, having scanned Kevin’s thoughts. “We can come back to this.”

Latitia guided them through a vast wing of empty living units to a laboratory area where Kevin was. Suli was right. The complex had been built to last, and had been lived in for quite some time. Whomever had been the last to leave had cleaned up after himself ... but how had they left?

The lab was extraordinary. Part of it was dedicated to a large wave generated power plant. That made sense, as the complex wouldn’t get sun six months of the year, and solar panels would have been prone to collecting snow. Wind turbines would have been too conspicuous, and likely to break down in extreme conditions. The wave generator took its power from a vast underground sea, perhaps even from the ocean. The generator had clearly been modified over centuries to be self-cleaning and maintenance free. Lake thought to himself how many generations that must have taken.

The inhabitants had been completely reliant upon the generator for light, heat, and food. The surface wouldn’t support plant life, so the hydroponics had to be lit below ground. That was the only area that showed signs of neglect, being overgrown and self-seeded – an underground wilderness of arable crops. Nobody had tended it for centuries.

The most interesting part of the lab, however, was its vault. It opened to a large underwater storage area.

“What do you suppose it holds?” Kevin asked.

“Someone will have to go in and find out,” Lake replied, knowing that meant one person: Suli. She was the best swimmer on the expedition, and was accustomed to swimming in a thermsuit. It provided its own source of air, which was either recycled in space or discharged as CO2 under water. Many, like Jonas, couldn’t help trying to hold their breath as they swam, causing quick muscle fatigue and in some cases a bout of vertigo. Jonas avoided swimming at all costs.

The Rise and Fall

Here is the beginning of a new story. I'm not sure about it's length and the title is provisional.


There’s nothing more political than a church choir. I’ve been in one for the last seven years…well, until two days ago. I managed to avoid most of the politics by being the only professional, or former pro at least, in the group. Ten years ago, I was thriving in the London music scene – in demand as a paid member of the BBC Symphony Chorus and even as a soloist for amateur choral societies in the southeast. They are almost as political as church choirs, to be truthful. Cara, my ex-wife, couldn’t stand my odd hours and all my travelling, and I also think that she didn’t trust me with all those women. Most choirs are at least 60 percent women, and she wouldn’t believe me that most were nearly twice my age, or half. Choral societies are always in need of men and adult women that aren’t past their singing prime. Anyone who is half-decent is doing what I did, earning a little extra money with solo gigs.

Cara made me get a “proper job” in computer support. My typical day used to be: practise for a couple hours in the morning, and then play some piano for an hour. Then, twice a week I’d have BBC rehearsals. On alternate days, I would teach, either singing or piano, and voice once a week at the Guildhall. Altogether, I earned enough to get by, at least until I married Cara. She was used to living a more opulent lifestyle than me, and even though she had a high-powered job in the City, she always said that I would need to be able to earn more if we were ever going to have children.

I think she didn’t really want them anyway. She was dynamite in bed until after we married. Even our wedding night was anticlimactic. We’re both Catholic and I think it was the excitement of breaking the taboo that drove our experimentation. Our rotten wedding snapped two years ago, and that set up my downfall at church.

I’ve never really been the most ardent of Catholics, but becoming a divorcee was the nail in my coffin. Nobody actually said anything to me, but I could sense the whispers. A month ago I decide to start over. I quit my job and bought a plane ticket to Chicago. Everyone said they were sorry to see me go, but only a couple were genuine. Penny, Rachel and I were the “axis of evil” in the group. Not really, but we liked to call ourselves that, since we didn’t take any shit from the blue-haired sopranos. They were the worst; most have a vibrato that you could drive a lorry through, and shrieked at the tops of their lungs, calling it singing. And they are always the first to volunteer to sing the psalm. Since I’d “retired,” I never volunteered, but was often drafted when the song was too difficult for the others.

Both Penny and Rachel were altos, and quite good. They knew how to play the game – something that I had no desire to do. Both were good friends, and I even had a few social outings with Penny, who was about 20 years older than me. There was really nothing special about Rachel, except something intangible that I really liked. We inhabited the same wavelength. Both of us were married, and she had a young daughter, so nothing would ever happen…or so I thought.