voice to our paper.”
Well, I think, that sounds interesting. I wonder why Dan wasn’t very enthusiastic about this news. It might be a bit chaotic, I suppose, but it’s only for one week.
David continues: “We’re launching the Guest Editor program as of today. Many of you may already know Eric, who until recently was the editor of Politics Monthly . He is our first Guest Editor and will probably bring a more political slant to Voices this week.”
The mystery man, Eric, steps forward and thanks David for the opportunity . He says he looks forward to working with all of us and tells us he will meet with us, as needed, during the week.
Meeting over.
Then Eric turns to Dan. “Come in to my office and we’ll get started.”
At lunch, the salad bar again, I learn from Cathy why she had such a skeptical look on her face.
“Eric has a lousy reputation. He’s a brilliant writer and smarter than most, but he thinks that means he can run roughshod over people, even his staff. And he is obsessed with the war. The only people he treats well are the people who put up the money for him. I’ve heard he is a really smooth talker with his financial backers.”
“That doesn’t sound good, but he’s only going to be here for a week. We’ll all survive,” I answer.
Chapter Twelve
This afternoon I decided to put on a full-skirted, white dress with black polka dots. It buttons up the front from the hem to the scooped neckline and has a thin black belt. It’s summery. I am tired of wearing winter clothes in late June. I even have bare legs—no pantyhose for me today—and strappy black sandals to complete my personal rebellion against San Francisco’s cold, foggy summer weather.
Now I am parked in my old blue Chevrolet at the Arrivals area at the San Francisco Airport with the car heater turned on full blast, creating an artificial summer in my car. As my back-up plan I’ve brought my black jacket and a change of clothing just in case it gets too cold, which it probably will. But right now I’m enjoying my imitation summer warmth.
Then Austen ope ns the car door, slides in and clasps my face in his two hands and kisses me, deeply, hungrily.
“ Oh god, I missed you, baby.” He kisses me again and runs one hand down to my breast and caresses it through the dress. Then he runs his hand up my leg under my skirt.
“Bare legs. I like that. And silk panties at the top of them. I like that even more.”
I push his hand away, smiling. “If you keep doing that we will never get out of the airport.”
“ That’s an idea.” He laughs. “We could park on the other side of the parking lot and do it in the back seat.”
I shake my head, smiling.
He continues: “This car is like the one I had in high school. It was red and the girls loved it.”
T urning out into traffic, I ask: “Where are we going?”
“Marin. To my place.”
“You have a place in Marin? I thought you lived in that house on Lake.”
“No pe. John and I bailed out of there after two weeks of living with Tommy’s 24-hour-a-day crazy partying and rented a home in Sausalito for the summer.”
This is news. I didn’t have to avoid that house on Lake after all.
“So, do you want to hear about my red Chevy?” I’m watching the traffic ahead of me but I can hear the grin on his face.
“ Tell me about going to high school in No-Where Texas. You can skip the parts about girls in the back seat and the red Chevy.”
I learn that sports—especially football and basketball—were a big deal. He was not on either team. He had an English teacher his Senior year who read poetry to the class every Friday. She was determined to bring culture to her small town students.
“Most of them thought it was stupid—except me, of course. She left after two years and I heard she came out to San Francisco. I wondered if she was that former school teacher who dances topless in one of
Well, I think, that sounds interesting. I wonder why Dan wasn’t very enthusiastic about this news. It might be a bit chaotic, I suppose, but it’s only for one week.
David continues: “We’re launching the Guest Editor program as of today. Many of you may already know Eric, who until recently was the editor of Politics Monthly . He is our first Guest Editor and will probably bring a more political slant to Voices this week.”
The mystery man, Eric, steps forward and thanks David for the opportunity . He says he looks forward to working with all of us and tells us he will meet with us, as needed, during the week.
Meeting over.
Then Eric turns to Dan. “Come in to my office and we’ll get started.”
At lunch, the salad bar again, I learn from Cathy why she had such a skeptical look on her face.
“Eric has a lousy reputation. He’s a brilliant writer and smarter than most, but he thinks that means he can run roughshod over people, even his staff. And he is obsessed with the war. The only people he treats well are the people who put up the money for him. I’ve heard he is a really smooth talker with his financial backers.”
“That doesn’t sound good, but he’s only going to be here for a week. We’ll all survive,” I answer.
Chapter Twelve
This afternoon I decided to put on a full-skirted, white dress with black polka dots. It buttons up the front from the hem to the scooped neckline and has a thin black belt. It’s summery. I am tired of wearing winter clothes in late June. I even have bare legs—no pantyhose for me today—and strappy black sandals to complete my personal rebellion against San Francisco’s cold, foggy summer weather.
Now I am parked in my old blue Chevrolet at the Arrivals area at the San Francisco Airport with the car heater turned on full blast, creating an artificial summer in my car. As my back-up plan I’ve brought my black jacket and a change of clothing just in case it gets too cold, which it probably will. But right now I’m enjoying my imitation summer warmth.
Then Austen ope ns the car door, slides in and clasps my face in his two hands and kisses me, deeply, hungrily.
“ Oh god, I missed you, baby.” He kisses me again and runs one hand down to my breast and caresses it through the dress. Then he runs his hand up my leg under my skirt.
“Bare legs. I like that. And silk panties at the top of them. I like that even more.”
I push his hand away, smiling. “If you keep doing that we will never get out of the airport.”
“ That’s an idea.” He laughs. “We could park on the other side of the parking lot and do it in the back seat.”
I shake my head, smiling.
He continues: “This car is like the one I had in high school. It was red and the girls loved it.”
T urning out into traffic, I ask: “Where are we going?”
“Marin. To my place.”
“You have a place in Marin? I thought you lived in that house on Lake.”
“No pe. John and I bailed out of there after two weeks of living with Tommy’s 24-hour-a-day crazy partying and rented a home in Sausalito for the summer.”
This is news. I didn’t have to avoid that house on Lake after all.
“So, do you want to hear about my red Chevy?” I’m watching the traffic ahead of me but I can hear the grin on his face.
“ Tell me about going to high school in No-Where Texas. You can skip the parts about girls in the back seat and the red Chevy.”
I learn that sports—especially football and basketball—were a big deal. He was not on either team. He had an English teacher his Senior year who read poetry to the class every Friday. She was determined to bring culture to her small town students.
“Most of them thought it was stupid—except me, of course. She left after two years and I heard she came out to San Francisco. I wondered if she was that former school teacher who dances topless in one of
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