Ice Cream

While this story is set in the modern day, it has some loose connections to a century earlier, at least here and there. I hope you enjoy it. F. S.

When I came back from the East Coast in Spring, I felt that I wanted the World to be a simpler place. A safer place, away from the riotous emotional trauma that had left me with a heart that was in urgent need of reassembly. That is, assuming that all its pieces could even be located with any surety.

It was the first warm day, and the daffodils and crocuses were beginning to advertise their vibrant arrival. With the Sun bright in a flawless, azure sky, I'd determined to take a trip out to Mezny's. It wasn't far, and everyone who was anyone said that they made the best ice cream in the state. With the crystallIne lens of retrospection, there was also an, at the time barely acknowledged, element of revivifying my younger days. Quite simply, it had been one of my favorite things to do when growing up in the area.

The soulless interstate was quicker, but I opted for the slower, but more picturesque, route. I soon left the tarnished gilt of the city's railroad-era buildings behind, and drove down empty, winding roads laced between sparse houses, scattered woods, and open farmland. The vistas and the buildings were all etched into my mind, evocative of an earlier and more tranquil time.

In not more than twenty minutes, the distinctive dark blue silos of my dairy destination appeared over the newly decked tree-tops. The lot was a turbid tumult of parked and parking vehicles; ones generally suited to the accommodation of families. The good weather had clearly prompted the same idea in others as it had in me. But I nevertheless found a slot and joined the lengthy line in the shop. I must have been the only person not to be accompanied by their kids.

There were two servers behind the counter. Taking orders, filling paper cups, erecting edifices of infeasibly high ice cream based on sturdy conical foundations. The boy - he was obviously a boy, he looked like a highschooler - had curly hair and glasses; his complexion lent weight to my estimation of his age.

The woman? Yes woman, I had hesitated, but it was the appropriate nomenclature, if perhaps a title she had acquired only recently, and wore with some uncertainty. I thought I knew her. It had been three years since I had been in these parts for anything beyond a mandatory and fleeting Christmas visit, and yet I was convinced that it was her.

Her brown hair was threaded through the back of a battered Mezny's baseball cap. Below the peak, her face was round, her friendly smile guileless, and her nose and cheeks smudged with many brown blotches. There was something almost cartoon-like about her appearance. Her features were maybe a little too large, and a little too unbalanced, for classical beauty. But there was an immanent, though intangible, aspect to her; maybe as simple as an all too rare warmth of personality. And she exuded an air of being genuinely pleased to serve her customers.

She wore a pale yellow, chocolate stained T-shirt. But this was not what drew my perhaps overly attentive eye. With an obvious suppression of guilt, it was her black athletic leggings that engaged my attention. Or - trying to live up to my late father's regular exhortations to honesty - what was underneath the tight material. While the featureless flatness of the front of her T-shirt was inconclusive, the curve of her hips and the pertness of her butt spoke loudly of emergent womanhood. And when she bent to select a waffle cone from a low shelf on the rear wall, it was beyond my meager will not to stare.

Many years ago, I had reached an uneasy accommodation with myself upon the subject of scrutinizing the female form. I apprehended that I was a mere man. My sex was, perhaps cruelly, programmed to do just this. The weak justification I made to myself was that this tendency was simply part of being male. My rule was, it is fine to look, to enjoy looking, so long as it never veers into intrusiveness. A convenient rule, I freely admit.

I considered it was when things went beyond simple appreciation that intentions devolved into the macabre and outré. Secure in my rationalization, I looked and I appreciated. And I told myself to guard against any inappropriate escalation. Still, as the line moved forward, I found myself hoping that the curly-haired boy would serve the family of four in front of me.

The patron saint of the recently divorced was smiling on me, and soon so was she. "What can I get you?" my muse said brightly.

"It's Jordan, right? Jordan Becker?" The question had left my too eager lips before I'd even thought about it.

I received an initial look of incomprehension, then her broad smile returned. "Yeah, and you're... Nick..." She paused, her brow furrowed in thought, trying to retrieve a reluctant memory. "Nick Dreieck, right?"

I benefited from an even more expansive smile - which only further emphasized the cartoon-like element of her appearance. But one that spoke unmistakably of a generosity of spirit that was in all too short supply in recent years. My server was clearly pleased at her mental acuity in having retrieved my recherché family name. But her sincere visage never displayed the slightest trace of any vanity.

I nodded, swiftly overwhelmed by sudden shyness, for reasons I didn't fully comprehend. Was it her transition from an object to be observed to a human to be interacted with? Or was I merely overthinking? Perhaps the messy aftermath of a marital schism is more than enough to promote unhealthy self-analysis.

I realized that I'd been mentally wandering, preoccupied by my own thoughts. Jordan still smiled patiently at me, but I was acutely aware of the line behind.

"I... can I have a small peanut butter chocolate in a... a waffle cone please...?" after a pause, whose duration I thought rather too long for comfort, I added, "thank you, Jordan."

Again the smile. Was its extent of greater magnitude than those she had favored on previous customers, or was this just an optimistic artifact of my overactive imagination? "Sure, Mr Dreieck," she said.

"Nick... just Nick," I insisted. It seemed important to do so.

"Sure, Nick," she replied, and again I was enchanted by the sight of her bending to retrieve another cone. My feelings were now increasingly confused and conflicted. I averted my eyes, without - it had to be said - successfully wiping the image of Jordan's appealing derrière entirely from my mind. I don't even like waffle cones, and I began to feel compromised, having ordered one. Had I become the sort of man I cordially disliked? I could only hope not.

As Jordan scooped and then asked if I wanted sprinkles, an older woman tapped her on the shoulder. "You can take your break now, honey."

Her smile at that news rather shattered my daydream that I could be somehow special. What a foolish idea! I should know better. I do know better.

I prepared to pay and take my leave, when Jordan said, "Want me to keep you company while you eat that ice cream, Mr Dreieck... sorry, Nick?"

This time there was no mistaking the breadth of Jordan's grin, and I heard a voice saying, "That would be great." It was a voice with which I was intimately acquainted.

She grabbed a Pepsi from one of the coolers and together we went to find a seat outside.

The roadside tables bore scars of winters past, their white paint cracked and flaking, but the slatted benches of the first five were nevertheless already occupied. The air rang with frustrated parents admonishing cream-smeared offspring, and siblings screaming their insistent accusations of petty misdemeanors at each other. Jordan and I moved further down toward the cow barn, its primal reek meant fewer people, but for me the friendly, bovine aroma evoked pleasant childhood reminiscences.

As we walked, both silent for now, thoughts of my earlier life battled with questions about my current situation. Why had Jordan sought my company? I was favored neither with her youth, nor any grace of feature or form. Any original, youthful symmetry was now broken by a curvilinear cicatrix, marring much of the right of my face. As for personality, my recent, and not so recent, tribulations had rendered me taciturn and prone to a crabiness recalling the worst excesses of my father. I told myself she was just being friendly, that I was reading way too much into a casual encounter, one with most likely no deeper meaning, but my unsettled brain disobediently buzzed with catechetical self-inquiry.

Now seated, face to face, I regarded my companion more closely. If her large, green eyes were indeed a window to her soul, then I would guess that Jordan's inner being was dominated by openness and simplicity. Not simplicity of thought, but I sensed a desire to focus on essentials, to not over-complicate; an attitude I could learn much from myself.

My philosophical musings were broken by her inquiry, the first words either of us had spoken since leaving the store. "So what you doing back home, Mr... Nick?"

It was an innocent enough question, but one that loosed inner turmoil in my troubled psyche. The standard answer would be a maternal visit, and then a swift transfer to other topics. But, almost without prior volition, I found myself instead blurting my inner anguish to my young interlocutor.

"My..." the words failed me for the moment, I inhaled, exhaled, and started again. "I... I was married. Married to a woman from New York. Her name is Beth. We met at work there. It... it didn't last."

My final three words encompassed the benthic depths of my misery with such misleading economy. When I first felt tears demanding to be finally released from their lengthy confinement, I suppressed my unwelcome emoting with a savage ruthlessness, one I'd never known myself capable of before Beth. Beth. Even just her name sent my viscera into somersaulting spasms.

Then a hand was on mine, and Jordan leaned forward, her words of soothing sympathy softly spoken. "I'm sorry, Nick. I didn't mean to pry. That must be so rough."

The simple act of connection with another, physical and emotional, cracked the dam of my reserve, and its long pent saline surged through the widening fissure. With blurred eyes, I was aware of Jordan standing, and then of her warm body next to mine, her reassuring arm around my shoulder.

"It's OK, Nick. You'll be OK."

As the suppressed sadness flooded out of my now shuddering body, and as Jordan - effectively a stranger, albeit clearly a kindly one - held me, I began to think that - despite her words being formulaic - just maybe, given time, she might be right.

We sat huddled together, neither speaking for some minutes. Until the concerned voice of a solicitous onlooker stirred us.

"Excuse me, Miss, is your father OK?"

Looking to my right I saw a thirty-something woman, a small boy grasping both her hand and an over-sized ice cream, the latter of which was dripping onto the grass and in peril of falling, such was the angle at which he held it.

"I... I'm fine... thank you for your concern. Just... just some upsetting... news."

I tried to reassert at least my adulthood with a firm smile. Manhood was maybe too much to ask, given how long Jordan had just cradled my sobbing form.

"Well, OK," replied the woman, uncertainly.

"I wanna see moos," her kid cried, plaintively.

With that she was dragged away, and I dried my eyes, wondering how many others had observed my juvenile breakdown.

I felt an elbow in my ribs, and turned to look at my young companion. "Doing any better... Dad?" she said, unable to disguise the innocent mischief in her voice.

I laughed too. "Yeah... thanks to you." Catching her mood of mirth, I added, "You're a good daughter, what would I do without you?"

My childish attempt at reciprocating her levity spawned gleeful girlish giggles. Feeling very slightly more myself, I said, "I'm sorry, but I guess I needed to let that out. Thanks for... well just being there. We hardly know each other, and I've probably ruined your break."

Everything about Jordan seemed so straightforward and genuine, antipodal to my own Byzantine and regret-wracked cogitations. Her reply was close to a perfect illustration of what I had so far perceived about her personality. "I give good hugs, anyone will tell you."

I could find no fault in her claim. But something was still on my mind. Maybe the intimacy we had shared emboldened me, perhaps Jordan was just easy to talk to. Either way, I inquired, "I have to ask... why? Why did you decide to spend your break with me?"

Jordan's reply exhibited the hallmark rapidity of unfiltered honesty, though, as she spoke, I could not help but feel there was some fact that she still held in reserve. "I remembered you too. And you looked like you might need someone to talk to. I sometimes just get a feeling."

"Well your intuition was spot on, thank you once more. I can rate the hugs on Yelp if you'd like."

The grin my silly scenario spawned was uplifting of itself. But spending time with so positive a person made my troubles, real and manifold as they were, somehow diminish just a fraction in importance. It was a gift for sure.

"Yeah," she smiled, "remember it's jordanshugs dot com, OK?"

We laughed again. Laughter seemed to be her default state. In these few moments together, my demeanor was so far removed from the morose and negative man I had let myself become. Jordan's company was restorative, medicinal even. She was a tonic.

"Listen, Nick, I have to go. But I wish you luck, OK. It was nice to meet you properly."

"It was very nice to meet you too, Jordan."

I extended my hand, but instead she pecked me on the cheek. As Jordan returned to her work, she paused and looked back at me. Raising her hand in farewell, she winked, before half-running into the shop.

My young friend - I dared to so describe her - left in her wake a man who suddenly felt differently about the World, and maybe differently about himself. Religion and I had agreed a trial separation long before Beth and I had done the same thing, but I did momentarily contemplate the existence of angels.

Dismissing the fanciful and fevered thought, I quickly finished my ice cream. When I sat down in the car, I took a moment to touch my face, perhaps expecting some physical evidence of Jordan's kiss, so deep an impression had the young woman made on me. But my fingers only brushed the strange numbness of scar tissue and the roughness of day-old stubble. Maybe, I told myself, I should shave before my next visit to Mezny's.

Of course there would be a next visit.

I was restrained, I consciously contained my newly acquired and already irrepressible enthusiasm for dairy goods. I lectured myself repeatedly: it had just been a hug... and a peck on the cheek... and a wink... And in that elemental and intimate trio lay the trap. One indication might be simply a mistake, two just coincidence, but three...?

Did women deal with the same dire dilemma, the ungainly steps of the 'does she like me?' dance. An awkward waltz to be sure, which consisted of moving joltingly from one uncomfortable pose to another ad infinitum. The problem was, as I finally admitted to myself, I liked her, I liked Jordan a lot.

Then I considered the passing mother's inquiry. I doubted that I was, in truth, old enough to be Jordan's biological forebear, but apparently it could all too easily look that way. I realized, with some surprise, that I had no real clue as to her actual age.

I tried to recall when I might have first seen her at Mezny's, but it was no use, my memory was not so precise. I guessed she was at college, probably making some cash during her Spring break. But was I sure? Could I be pining inappropriately for a girl, not a woman? I was beset by crippling and confounding confusion.

Three days. My self-imposed lactose moratorium lasted three days. And then I could last no more.

I spent the drive in a constant state of agitated consternation. I'd taken the interstate in some effort to shorten the duration of my torture. As I parked, I hoped that Jordan would be there. I'd considered calling ahead to check if she was working, but could think of no plausible and certainly no honorable reason why a man of my age would want to know who was serving that day. I simply trusted to providence.

And providence did not let me down. The line was shorter, and there Jordan was. Today's T was turquoise, but she wore the same cap, and - I noted with imprudent delight - a similar pair of leggings, but in dark blue. Her partner was another young woman, taller and blonde, but I only had eyes for Jordan.

During my brief wait, I experienced something of an existential crisis. What was I doing here? What could I want with a woman most likely a decade, or even two, younger than me? This couldn't be right. Was I being foolish, or worse sinister?

And then she looked down the line and caught my eye, and the evident pleasure in her smile and brief wave stilled my doubts, while sending my cardiovascular system into overdrive. I had feared rejection, I now realized that acceptance might be just as terrifying.

As I neared the end of the line, the blonde woman was free and motioned to me. I told the people behind me to take my place as I had yet to decide on which delicacy to select. Jordan was taking payment as I dissembled, and - as she understood what I was doing - I became the subject of a mock frown, her true emotions telegraphed by eyes that sparkled brightly.

"Peanut butter and chocolate in a waffle cone, right, Nick?"

I nodded, suddenly at a loss as to what to say. Sensing my discombobulation, Jordan placed her hands on the counter, went up on tiptoes, and leaned forward to whisper in my ear, as I lowered my head to meet hers.

"You have Spidey-sense," she breathed, "my break is in ten. Want to chat then?"

I mumbled an indistinct affirmative, and was rewarded by her hand on the back of mine and a short squeeze.

Hoarsely, I said, "I'll wait outside."

A quick grin, and Jordan focused on the next customer. I took my ice cream in search of a table, while I wondered furiously just what I might have already found.

If I had been nervous during the drive, the minutes I spent waiting for Jordan were some of the longest of my life. Doubts plagued me. Was I simply fabricating favorable fantasies, choosing to interpret signals in a way that fit my own wishes? I knew my mind had been a disoriented disarray of disconnected phantasms, overbrimming with formidable and conflicting emotions. The breakup had broken me, and also reawakened long buried dread. Was I just looking for someone to pick up the pieces? Did I want Jordan to fix me? That was unfair and unreasonable surely.

I decided that this was crazy, ill-advised, immoral, predatory even. This wasn't me. Not the old me anyway, the pre-Beth me. And then there was the age discrepancy. I was clearly out of my addled mind. And was going to end up hurting her, and probably me. No, I needed to be an adult about this. To take a principled decision. I should leave, I should leave right now.

As I stood, and picked up my car keys, the store door opened and Jordan walked out. She all but skipped over to me, her face radiant with uncomplicated welcome. The contrast between her sweet simplicity and my own internal turmoil could not have been any greater. But, in her presence, I felt my inner conflagrations damp down, a sense of serenity begin to emerge, small at first undoubtedly, but growing.

"Hiya, you've not eaten your cone. Were you waiting for me?"

She placed her soda on the table and sat down. I found myself mirroring her movement.

"Did you leave something in the car?" she asked.

"I... no, I... I just had a charley horse. It's better now," was my stuttering reply.

In a way that seemed both wholly natural and entirely unpremeditated, she reached forward and stroked my cheek. Her fingers lightly traced the line of my scar. "Poor you..." I could not tell if her comment related to my real, historical injury, or my feigned, current one. But then Jordan continued in a lighter vein, "Can I have some of your ice cream?"

I nodded and tried desperately not to stare as she took my cone and her pink tongue darted out to lick its heaped contents. She managed to get some on her chin and gave me a 'how goofy am I?' look while returning the ice cream, collecting the stray bits with her finger, and sucking her digit clean.

The way she lingered over this process, her eyes fixed on mine, had my heart racing, and blood urgently surging into another organ. Maybe my flushed face and quickened breathing revealed the effect Jordan was having on me, as she added, "Sorry, I'm a terrible tease sometimes, just can't help myself."

As if we had merely been discussing the weather, Jordan then seamlessly segued into another topic, leaving me wondering whether I was suffering from delusions. Surely I was imagining things.

"So, I haven't seen you in a while. What have you been up to. Don't you have a job?"

"I work, yes. But, they let me take some personal leave, after..."

"Let's not talk about that now, OK? Happy thoughts are what you need," Jordan interjected.

Quickly she went on. "So you staying with your Mom?"

I nodded. "I just needed some space and time."

"Well," said Jordan seriously, "I'm sorry for what you've been through. But it's still been nice to meet you again. What are your plans?"

I considered replying that they mostly involved spending all of my time at Mezny's, but that seemed a little strange.

"I dunno, just trying to get my shit together. How about you?"

"I'm home for Spring break." I felt a surge of relief rush through me, college, she was at college. Still an issue, of course, but not a terminal one. Shit! Why was my brain thinking this way? Then an image of Jordan with her finger provocatively between her lips flitted across my mind, and I knew the answer only too well.

"What year are you?" An innocent question, of course, but one with obvious undertones.

"Junior," she replied with her customary smile.

"So you're what? Twenty?" As soon as I said the words I regretted them. I was being a douche and it wasn't subtle.

"Twenty-two, Jordan said, "with COVID I delayed my enrollment."

Without asking this time she reached for my cone and took an even longer, more deliberate lick, her eyes again riveted on mine.

"You seem very interested in my age, Nick."

"I... I was..." My brain seemed to have shut down for the moment. Maybe it was the transfer of blood to meet the more urgent needs elsewhere in my body.

Jordan placed a finger on my lips. "Hush, I said I'm a terrible tease. Let's talk about something else, OK?"

And we did. And she was easy to talk to. Funny, positive, smart. We were just two people enjoying a conversation. But still the image of Jordan's tongue running over my ice cream would not dislodge itself from my mind.

"OK, Nick," she said brightly. "My break is over. Might see you tomorrow?"

The question was all I could have hoped for and I readily agreed that I'd be back

"I'd better get your number," she said in a matter of fact way, "in case I don't come in, or..."

My heart pounding we exchanged details. I was so grateful that she had asked what I was longing to ask.

"It's around the same time each day," Jordan said as she left. "My break, I mean. I'll bring my own ice cream tomorrow."

"No need, we can share," I blurted out.

That got me another wink, and a smile played over my face the entire drive back to my childhood home.

At dinner that evening - I had insisted on cooking, it was the least that I could do - Mom had commented that I seemed to be in a better mood. Being a parent, she couldn't resist adding, "Though I guess, with how you've been, the only way was up."

It was true, I felt like I had been putting my mother through my torrid teenage years for a second time; mid thirties angst was clearly a phenomenon.

"So what's cheered you up, the Sun? getting the filthy New York air out of your lungs?"

I shrugged, hoping for a change of subject, and went back to eating my clam linguine. I wasn't so bad a cook, I told myself.

"In fact," my mother went on, "I've not seen you so happy since you first started dating The Slut."

For an avowedly pious Christian woman, Mom had a sailor's mouth, especially when it came to Beth; it had been irrevocable and implacable hate at first sight for the two of them, then the relationship had gone downhill. In retrospect, maybe my mother had had a point about my perfidious ex-wife.

But now, at the mere mention of a woman perhaps being connected to my shift in temper, I choked, and grabbed a glass of water to ease my spluttering. Mom sat back in her chair and folded her arms in a manner most likely familiar to most errant offspring. "So a new woman then, am I right?"

While I had briefly flirted with the capricious concept of Jordan's heavenly provenance, Mom much too frequently exhibited an almost devilish endowment of insight, then perhaps my fevered thoughts were facile to discern, for her at least.

"Maybe..." I hazarded, knowing that there was, as yet, virtually nothing of substance to report.

"Is it someone at Mezny's?" she asked, and I nearly fell off of my chair.

"Um..." was the most cogent response I could conjure.

"Don't look at me like you've seen a ghost, Nicky,"

only she called me Nicky, and I didn't much like it. "It seems as if you've been spending a lot of time up there."

"Twice, Mom, I've been twice, OK?"

"So you're not denying it then?" She was clearly delighted with her prowess in deductive reasoning, or perhaps with her binding contract with Mephistopheles; 'Il Diavolo' as my Nonna would have said.

I decided I wasn't going to play this game, but Mom was enjoying herself way too much to stop. "It's Melanie Kaminski, isn't it?"

"Who?" I asked, genuinely in utter ignorance.

"Skinny blonde girl, Polish, kinda tall."

"No, not her, Mom." I was pleased to see her maternal powers were not infallible.

"Then who?" she mused, obviously scanning her encyclopedic local memory banks.

"It's the oldest Becker girl, right?" Mom said triumphantly.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Mom!" I exclaimed.

"I'll have neither that kind of language nor blasphemy in this house, young man."

'Young man' was at least two decades out of date, but I nevertheless apologized, and both my intemperate ejaculation and subsequent hangdog manner provided Mom with all the corroboration she could desire. I was anticipating barbed comments on the subject of cradle robbing, or even a stern lecture on the evils of pedophilia, but I received neither.

Mom was clearly carrying out a proactive pre-screening on my behalf. "She's from a good family. German of course, but you can't have everything."

Dad was of German stock, Mom's ancestors hailed from Calabria.

"At least they're Catholics," she added. "And, at her age, she's more likely to give me a grandchild than The Bitch."

Regulations about language were things that were applied rigorously to others, but not to my mother herself.

"Mom, we are not having this conversation, we've, like, talked twice, OK? I've not proposed."

"So you're thinking about marriage again, so soon after..."

"Shit, no, Mom!" I said, exasperated.

"I've told you once about language, if your father was alive..."

"He'd tell you to mind your own business, Mom, and you know it."

That got me a dismissive "Hmmp!" followed by a hostile silence that I frankly preferred to the interrogation that had gone before. I had visions of her calling Jordan's mother to make wedding arrangements.

"Mom..." I began with as much firmness as I could muster, "I need you to stay out of this, OK? Do you promise?"

"I promise, son," she replied, with too much celerity for my liking.

"Mom...?" I persisted.

"Oh very well," she crossed herself, "by the Holy Trinity, I promise. Satisfied now?"

I was, this was my mother's most solemn vow. "Thanks, now let's finish our food, and then I'm going out to meet George."

George was a childhood friend. I was pretty certain that our discussions would involve nothing more emotional than the unfairness of last year's football season and how things would be so much different this year.

The casual colloquy that George and I had engaged in the night before has been as free of overwrought entanglements as I had predicted. It had been an amusing diversion from my frantic, phrenic peregrinations on the subject of relationships; real or imagined. And the chilled beverages we had shared in convivial fraternity had birthed a proposition; one I felt both excited and tremorous to submit for Jordan's consideration.

As I looked in the bathroom mirror, face partially obscured by foam, I evaluated my degrading disfigurement. So I viewed it. Beth had said it made me look distinguished, and told me not to obsess about essentially nothing. But she had asked our wedding photographer to Photoshop it out, perhaps foreshadowing her later erasure of me from all aspects of her life.

To my eyes, it was ugly, and the dominant aspect of my otherwise unremarkable visage. Then I thought of Jordan's lips brushing its delineative defacement, and I picked up my razor, determined to provide her with a smoother substrate.

The blonde-haired woman - Melanie according to my mother's estimation - should, by rights, have served me. Instead she beckoned the next group forward. Maybe she was observant, maybe she and Jordan talked. Either way, as I stood in front of 'the oldest Becker girl,' she was already filling my cone, her amused lips advertising her habitual contentment with the World and its inhabitants.

"Five minutes?" I inquired.

"See you soon," was her bright reply.

As I sat outside, I closed my eyes and let the unseasonably warm Spring Sun bathe my inclined visage. I felt an unaccustomed constitutional calmness. Perhaps it was the benediction of unanticipated parental appropriation, though I prayed this was not my central motivation. More likely was my, perhaps unevidenced, certainty that Jordan's response would be positive. As to where my optimistic assurance sprung from, I was less than clear, but I welcomed it.

It was Friday, a day not unconnected with my nascent idea. As Jordan came to join me, I thought that maybe Fridays were skirt days. Hers was short without being too suggestive, and its pleasing pleats swung balletically in cadence, accentuating toned legs, dappled by her - to my mind - perfect imperfections.

As she sat, Jordan leaned and bestowed a soft kiss on the side of my - freshly shaven - face. It seemed to me the caress of her lips was more lingering, the pressure of her touch more insistent. I did not even try to resist the rising image of our impassioned mouths meeting, and my pulse quickened at the delicious thought. Once more, I noted, she had chosen the right-hand side for her affections.

"Hiya, Nick," was her effervescent greeting.

I could not but help the likely ill-advised observation that, "You always seem so pleased to see me."

"I'm a people person," she replied. Then, perhaps detecting my crest falling, she added, "Of course, some people more than others."

This encouraging utterance restored my previous hopeful demeanor, and I decided that there was no time like the present.

"On the assumption that I might fall into the 'more than others' category, I wondered whether... if you have no prior engagement of course... you might consider joining me for a drink this evening."

The further I proceeded into my prolix petition, the more my confidence in Jordan's positive response abated. But my customary reversion to inured negativity was misplaced, as the biggest smile to date greeted my words.

"I was wondering whether I would have to just ask you myself," she grinned. "Yes, I'd love that."

"And... sorry to ask again... twenty-two, right?" I felt myself blushing as I spoke.

Her reply was laced with tinkling laughter. "Yeah, wanna check my license?"

"That won't be necessary, Miss Becker," I laughed.

For the first time in months, I was overtaken by a most unfamiliar optimism. And the sensation persisted even as we agreed time and place, and Jordan stood, preparing to return to her shift.

She hesitated, her form outlined in silhouette, then seemed seized by a spirit of decisiveness and stooped to kiss me once. Fleetingly, but lips brushing lips, and I felt an inner warmth far in excess of the Sun's rays. A glow that lingered long into the day, outlasting the transitory solar radiance.

I'd offered to pick Jordan up, but that courtesy had maybe been a little too much a little too soon, I apprehended her potential concern all too easily. As my Uber dropped me off at the bar, I could see her waiting, chatting with a few guys, somewhere between her age and mine. As I approached they dispersed. I found myself immediately protective.

"Everything OK, Jordan?"

"Yeah," she smiled sweetly, "just one of my cousins and his friends. No biggie."

Some thought appeared to cross her mind, her facial expressions were often unguarded. "But, that reminds me, there is something I should talk to you about."

My face was clearly just as communicative of my inner psyche as hers had been, as she quickly added, "Nothing bad... good... at least I hope."

Obviously desirous of a new topic, Jordan said, "What do you think?"

With that she stepped back and pirouetted on one foot, her mid-thigh, a-line dress an exquisite lecture in the beauty of angular momentum, delivered in pale lavender. It had a fitted bodice, containing her less than pneumatic cubes with ease, and with spaghetti straps, showing off her upper torso, which was as prettily mottled as Jordan's face. Speaking of her face, she'd added just a touch of blush, a smudge of sapphire on her eyelids, and a muted matte rosewood accentuated her lips. The overall effect was subtle, but - to my mind anyway - adorable.

"Will I do?" she asked, her smile revealing that she already knew my answer.

Playfully - not a mood I had experienced in many months - I inquired, "For what, Miss Becker?"

"Oh... you know... a date... maybe?" Her coyness was clearly exaggerated, but it made me feel like kissing her there and then.

But thinking that Jordan deserved something rather better than a parking lot embrace, I instead replied, "You look lovely," and offered her my arm. Together we walked to the bar door.

En route, I told myself happily, 'It's a date.'

They asked for her ID, and Jordan fished a license from her purse. When the guy returned it to her, she grinned and offered the card to me with an ironic, "Best to be sure, right?"

"I don't need to see that, Jordan," I smiled, "let's find some seats."

I was acutely aware of a cutie by my side as we made for an empty cubicle. Perhaps it was still the erroneous assumption of parentage made by the woman at Mezny's. But - rather less laudably - I also felt a febrile frisson at the thought of being on a date with someone like Jordan. Male pride, or male insecurity, perhaps they are essentially the same thing, either way, I enjoyed the sensation of eyes being upon us.

Jordan eased into her bench a little awkwardly. "Not sure this dress was made for sitting," she giggled.

"It looks great on you," I offered in consolation, receiving a blushing smile in reply.

"So, you wanted to tell me something, right?"

"Yeah, but maybe let's get some drinks first."

There was table service and I waved at one of the employees. She acknowledged me and in two more minutes was asking what we would like. Our needs were simple and soon Jordan and I were clinking our beers together.

"So... here's the thing," began Jordan. Once more my expression must have conveyed nervousness, as she added, "it's nothing bad," while squeezing my hand.

Perhaps it was evident that her words had not fully allayed my fears, as she half-stood, leaned forward and cupped my face. Looking into my eyes from only inches away, she deliberately enunciated, "It's... not... bad..." her words punctuated by kissing me, a little longer and a little deeper each time.

Sitting back, she asked, "Better now?"

"Much," I grinned in what was probably a rather hebetudinous manner. The warmth of her lips and the caress of her breath were still sending shivers through me.

"I just wanted to explain something," Jordan said, with greater seriousness.

She took a swig from her bottle and went on. "I wanted to say this before, but I wasn't sure how. Maybe it's just easiest to start with a question."

As she spoke, Jordan reached forward and - just as she had at Mezny's - traced the traumatized flesh of my cheek with her finger-tips. Speaking quietly and slowly, she asked, "Do you remember a girl called Daisy Canon?"

I touched my cheek, fingertips traversing its tortured topography. And I felt a swirling vortex open beneath me, waiting maw-like to consume my troubled soul. And in its focus, a glint of metal, the razor-edge of keen steel.

Part of me welcomed it, loved its sharpness, embraced the pending oblivion. I found myself falling, falling calmly and with acceptance of long-desired peace. This was right. This was good. This was my only future.

And then... a hand extended. To grasp its saving grace, or to surrender to sweet insensibility...? I reached out.

"Nick! Are you OK?" Jordan's voice both sounded from afar and brought me back to my senses.

"Yeah, sorry. I... I was..." my words were fumbled and meaningless.

"No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause you pain. It's OK."

Jordan was holding both of my hands tight and regarding me in something close to horror. I feared she would recoil, repelled by the evident darkness spilling out of me. But, through tear-blurred eyes, I saw a determined set to her jaw.

"Forget about it, Nick! Let's... let's get out of here, OK?"

"To go where?" I asked close to hopelessly.

With heavy emphasis, she said, "Somewhere private..."

Jordan took control. "You're staying at your Mom's, right?"

I nodded, incapable of speech.

"The Station Hotel then, maybe? We could walk there. Could we?"

Once more I nodded, but now with just a trace of enthusiasm.

"OK, Nick, but listen... I know some people working on the front desk. I... I don't want to check in together. Could you...?"

"Get a room and then text you?" I replied, regaining my voice.

"Yeah, sorry," she said.

I shook my head and held up my hand, indicating that it was no big deal. The morbid memories, which had threatened to engulf me merely moments ago, were rapidly receding; being supplanted by desire.

Desire for this, frankly amazing, young woman - one who I now understood had some link to, or knowledge of my checkered past - had dragged me out of my acute catatonia. The thought of the two of us alone in a room was so sweet an image that it both saved - and almost broke - me.

"Don't say sorry, Jordan. It's fine, I get it, let's go."

And as I spoke, I knew nothing else mattered. Not Beth. Not New York. Not what had happened here. Not even my mutilated face, mirroring my battered psyche. I knew wanted this. I wanted this more than anything. I wanted her.

As the woman behind the front desk validated my credit card, I wondered idly whether she knew Jordan. She seemed too old to be a contemporary. I got the distinct impression that my lack of baggage had drawn a little disapproving scrutiny; 'in this day and age?' I wondered to myself.

Two door keys in hand - I guess she'd made the logical assumption - I headed for the elevators, but then was hit by a potential problem. Scanning the lobby, I saw a sign above a door saying '24 x 7,' and headed gratefully toward it. Sure enough there was a toiletries section, and I grabbed what I needed, also picking up some toothpaste, mouthwash, and two brushes as an afterthought.

My items purchased, I headed for the fourth floor, hoping that Jordan had not found the delay too frustrating. En route to the room, I tapped out a message to my friend. It felt conspiratorial, almost like a secret affair, though neither of us had a current significant other.

As soon as I pressed 'send.' I was assailed by a towering wave of doubts. Would the intervening time have allowed Jordan to come to her senses, to do the math on my infinitesimal eligibility? I knew the age gap precisely now, fourteen years. It seemed a yawning chasm to me, though she had once told me that she found many men her age insufferable. If nothing else, Jordan had undeniably been precipitate, carried along by her - no doubt laudable - sympathy for me and my serried problems. No, I was destined to sit alone in the hotel, and I resigned myself to my inevitable fate.

And then my phone beeped, and the message informed me that she was in the lobby. Until that moment, I'd not really believed that this could actually happen. Even now, I anticipated some last minute glitch. An insecure and uncharitable part of me wondered whether Jordan was just toying with me, making fun of the needy older guy.

And then there was a knock, and she was in my arms, and her urgent tongue was in my mouth, and - for once - I stopped worrying and focused on simply being.

I lay on my back, eyes finding pareidolic

patterns in the crepuscular popcorn of the ceiling, and my mind experiencing a most unfamiliar sensation of serenity. Jordan was on her side, arm draped across me, head resting on my chest, and - even with her eyes closed - a smile playing across her lips as she breathed quietly, her warm exhalations tickling the hair on my chest.

Despite my new found tranquility, my muscles were stiff from the unaccustomed exercise, and I shifted slightly to ease an annoying ache. It was enough to make Jordan stir, unveiling her emerald eyes slowly. She too shifted, just enough to kiss me briefly, but still intensely. Then she rolled onto her back, stretching and yawning in a way that displayed her naked form and piqued my renewed interest.

But I was cognizant that there was another matter to be dealt with first. Jordan had centered me, become an anchor for the storm-tossed bark of my unmoored brain. And, lying next to her, I thought I maybe had the strength.

"Angel," I smiled inwardly, recalling my previous supernatural speculations, "you mentioned Daisy, and I kinda freaked out. I'm sorry. Let me tell you about Daisy."

Jordan clasped my hand, and said softly, "I'm here... but only if you want to... if you feel able to."

I turned and kissed her, replying, "I think maybe now I can."

I had been a High School teacher, English was my subject. I liked it, and I liked the kids. I knew many of their families, some of the parents were friends. Generally no one took my classes who hadn't spent much of their short life with their head in a book or e-reader. A love of prose was our shared passion and I saw myself as a guide to the treasures of the written word; both the glistening gems of literature, and the friable crystals my students began to falteringly grow themselves.

I'd taught Daisy Canon in both ninth and eleventh grade. She was in one of my classes again for her senior year. Daisy had always been quiet, serious, but an avid reader. And her written work was maturing. She had talent and hoped to major in Literature at college. I'd become fond of her, in a fatherly manner. It wasn't appropriate to have favorites, but I took, I hoped, a nurturing interest in her compository development.

Which is maybe why I began to discern a disturbing trend in her. Where she had been fiercely focussed, she was now dilatory and distracted. Where her words had eloquently flowed, they now seemed to slowly and uncertainly drip. And her writing began to exhibit a disquieting darkness in both content and imagery.

I did what I was meant to do, and spoke to her counsellor. And I also did what I wasn't meant to do, and tentatively tried to talk to my clearly troubled student. But I was met by defensive battlements the penetration of which was far beyond my educational occupation. What she said to her counsellor was, of course, confidential, but I sensed from my colleague's hints that it had been the same story.

There was a limited amount that I could do, and I had already stepped over the bounds of professional propriety. I suppose I ended up doing nothing more than hoping that things would improve for Daisy. That is until I came across her one Saturday afternoon, as I walked to meet a friend for coffee.

She was standing in the shadows off of the sunlit Main Street, maybe thirty feet down a narrow alley. I would probably have missed her altogether had not some chance noise caused me to look that way. When I recognized Daisy, I raised a hand in greeting, but could tell - even at a distance - that something was amiss.

As I walked down the side street, and my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw her nose was bloodied and her face tear-stained. Daisy seemed to shrink away as I approached. To me it even looked as if she had considered flight, only to return to a heart-breaking, arms-crossed, shoulders-hunched sobbing.

"What is the matter, Daisy," I asked earnestly, resisting the urge to place a comforting arm around her.

She rubbed the back of her hand across her face, leaving it bloodstained, and snivelled, "It's nothing just a nose bleed. I'm fine."

Suddenly Daisy's demeanor changed, her eyes widening in fright. "Go! You have to go! He's coming!"

Daisy grabbed my arm as she spoke and tried to push me away. But I turned to see who she was looking at. I'd seen him before. He had attended the High School a few years back. I'd never taught him, but I knew the boy by reputation. When I say 'boy,' he had grown in the intervening years, and was now significantly taller than me.

I felt an exigent emptiness in my viscera, rapidly piecing together the scenario, and already thinking that things were unlikely to end well. But I nevertheless tried, "Hi, Ethan. I was just talking to Daisy... I..."

He cut me off abruptly, and walked up to the frightened, huddled girl, putting his face close to hers. "Bitch, what you doing with him? Giving ten dollar BJs again?"

Daisy flinched. I felt a wave of nausea, but couldn't help but get involved. In timorous trepidation, I pulled at Ethan's sleeve and said, "Please leave her alone." And then to Daisy, "Let's get you home, OK?"

She nodded and moved toward me, but Ethan slapped her hard across the face, the actual genesis of her nosebleed now all too clear. "Do as you're told bitch!"

Ethan turned to me, malign menace in his eyes, and I involuntarily stepped back, a movement which generated a lewd leer. "That's right. Now fuck off! Her home is with me. Isn't that right, bitch?"

Once more Daisy nodded silently, but with fear now in her eyes.

I lack physical courage, oft associated with my gender. I avoid confrontation whenever I can. My father, a military man, despaired of me. I'd been fifteen when he first went to Afghanistan, old enough to see what the tour had done to him, not old enough to comprehend why he took so much of his rage out on his only son. Maybe I didn't want to be like him. Most likely I was simply the coward he accused me of being so frequently and freely.

But now, terror in my heart, I knew I had no choice. It wasn't about courage, it was merely what had to be done.

"Daisy, get behind me," I said, pulling out my phone and tapping 911. Before they picked up, Ethan knocked it from my hand. "You're gonna regret that Mr Dreieck," the sneering honorific was taunting.

With an unpleasant laugh, he reached back and pulled out a blade. It was large, with a serrated edge, and - even in the shadows - it gleamed murderously.

Feeling I was about to violently vomit, I still shepherded a cowering Daisy behind me. And I screamed as loud as I had ever spoken, "Help! Help us please!"

"I know most of the story," said Jordan quietly, kissing my mangled cheek. "Daisy, understandably, didn't like to talk about the details. But she spoke about you... about the guy who stood up for her. Rescued her. And... the price you paid for that."

With another kiss, she added, "Enough for now, another time... but only if it helps, OK?"

I nodded, she was right. There were limits to the benefits of catharsis.

"But why...?" I asked.

"Why did I mention it?" said Jordan, taking a breath. "I knew Daisy, we were friends growing up. Then my folks moved out of town and we ended up at different schools. We kinda lost touch."

Again she paused. "But, I heard about what happened. About Ethan, his arrest was on the news. And I got back in contact. Why did I use her name? Because her story made a deep impression on me. The teacher who intervened, when she said many could have but didn't. It was terrible what happened to you, and then you were off to New York and a new career. I get it, too much baggage here."

I shifted uncomfortably, Jordan's guesses were close to the mark. Though she didn't fully comprehend the irrepressible, raging fear, fear that made the big city with all its manifold problems seem like an oasis of safety.

Jordan squeezed my hand. "Daisy said one thing. It stuck with me. She said you were just as terrified as she was, but that it didn't stop you."

I felt myself choking up, and Jordan held me. "Listen, Nick, this... us... it's not some 'thank you' for your bravery. It's not a medal surrogate. That would be fucked up. But..."

She pulled back and looked at me unblinkingly.

"Nick, real heroism is doing the right thing, even if you know what could happen. It's not about fearlessness, it's about knowing right from wrong and making a choice, despite your fear."

I was struck by her wisdom, far beyond her age, and found myself smiling weakly through my tears.

Jordan kissed me once, then held both my hands. "That's what I want, OK. I want people in my life who will do the right thing, no matter what. I'm only twenty-two, it's too early for commitment. And you...? You're broken, broken by what happened with Daisy, and your divorce, probably by your Dad too from what you say."

I shut my eyes tight, tears still somehow squeezing through, and whispered, "Yes," hoarsely.

With a little more levity in her voice, Jordan said, "So I'm not proposing, let's get that straight, but I want you in my life, Nick. I think maybe you could do with me in your life too. Can we just see how things go?"

"Yeah, of course," I replied, "I'd like that."

A thought occurred to me, "But college, you'll be leaving soon..."

"I'm transferring to the local one. It's cost as much as anything, plus I missed my family and friends. I'm not going anywhere. I kinda got the feeling you might be sticking around for a while as well, am I right?"

"Yeah, I think you are. I... I was thinking of trying to go back to teaching. The High School. We could..."

"We could hang out, or date, or something. If you want to, that is..." The look on Jordan's face told me what she was hoping to hear.

Thinking that - just maybe - my ruination could also be my salvation, I gave Jordan the answer she wanted. And I knew it was what I wanted too. What I wanted with all my heart.

THE END