a maiden aunt who had died during Monica’s last year of school. Upon graduation she obtained a position as gym teacher and dancing teacher at the George D. Insley High School in Kilo, Kansas. During the six full years she had taught at the high school she had lived in a rented room in a small house on the edge of town owned by Miss Hipper, who had taught Home Ec at the high school for twenty-seven years.
The gods had endowed Miss Monica with one body in ten million. At twenty-nine she was five foot seven inches tall and weighed one hundred and twenty-eight pounds. Her measurements were a barely credible 38-24-35. The texture of her body was flawless, creamy, incredibly smooth, without sag or wrinkle or unaesthetic bulge. It was a goddess body, pure as marble from the high proud globe of breast to arched and dainty instep. Her digestive system could have handled scrap iron without pause or pang. The interlocking network of glands, secretions, hormones, worked in a perfect and rhythmic harmony. Underneath the rounded softnesses of arm and thigh there were muscles and such splendid elasticity kept in such perfect tone that she could work out with the senior girls’ basketball team until all the children were exhausted—but Miss Monica would experience only a slightly accelerated heartbeat, a minor increase in the rate of respiration, and a little moisture on her brow and upper lip. She was physically uncommonly strong, stronger than most men, and this knowledge shamed her. She thought it unladylike.
The body moved in seeming awareness of its own perfections,in grace and provocativeness of which Miss Monica was largely unaware. Her hair was glorious, inky-black with bluish highlights, glossy as the pelt of a healthy animal.
But having progressed this far toward perfection, the gods, in sudden irony, had given Miss Monica the startling and unmistakable face of a sheep. Slope of brow, wide and fleshy nose, long and convex upper lip, square heavy teeth of the ruminant, brown nervous eyes—all were in deadly pattern.
It would be unfair and inaccurate to say that Monica Killdeering’s personality and pattern of existence were in any way molded by hereditary factors. Her personality and her habits were the result of the horrid conflict between face and body.
She was an intense, explosive, almost hysterical bore. It was well known in Kilo that if you were putting on a carnival or a drive or a church affair, you should get Monica working on it. Her energies were inexhaustible. But if you wanted to turn a dinner party into pure horror, just invite Monica. Whoever she button-holed would end up in a curious condition—nerves frayed from the shrill and nervous tumult of her intensity, lapels damp from the fine explosive spray of her conversation, and quite ready to scream with such an excess of ennui that, afterward, it was difficult to understand just what she had done to you. Analysis would disclose that she had bored you by talking about you, a feat almost unparalleled in its rarity.
Childhood had been the best time for Monica. She had been skinny and ugly but in great demand because she could hit the long ball, climb the highest tree, and catch any kid her age in the county.
Adolescence had been the black time. The body bloomed, warm and ripe, full of an independent arrogance, aware of its own obvious destiny. But for a time Monica was too shy to speak to anyone. She acquired hopeless, helpless, bitter crushes, and wept them into her pillow. And there were the constant cruelties. The phrase overheard, or meant to be heard. And then to lie in the tumid night, and sense, but not understand, all the strengths of the body’s yearnings, and touch then the flowering breasts and feel such an aching emptiness that she wanted to die.
But the adjustments came in time. The painful shyness was obscured by a highly nervous imitation of an outgoing personality. And it was inevitable that she would choose a career that would chronically
The gods had endowed Miss Monica with one body in ten million. At twenty-nine she was five foot seven inches tall and weighed one hundred and twenty-eight pounds. Her measurements were a barely credible 38-24-35. The texture of her body was flawless, creamy, incredibly smooth, without sag or wrinkle or unaesthetic bulge. It was a goddess body, pure as marble from the high proud globe of breast to arched and dainty instep. Her digestive system could have handled scrap iron without pause or pang. The interlocking network of glands, secretions, hormones, worked in a perfect and rhythmic harmony. Underneath the rounded softnesses of arm and thigh there were muscles and such splendid elasticity kept in such perfect tone that she could work out with the senior girls’ basketball team until all the children were exhausted—but Miss Monica would experience only a slightly accelerated heartbeat, a minor increase in the rate of respiration, and a little moisture on her brow and upper lip. She was physically uncommonly strong, stronger than most men, and this knowledge shamed her. She thought it unladylike.
The body moved in seeming awareness of its own perfections,in grace and provocativeness of which Miss Monica was largely unaware. Her hair was glorious, inky-black with bluish highlights, glossy as the pelt of a healthy animal.
But having progressed this far toward perfection, the gods, in sudden irony, had given Miss Monica the startling and unmistakable face of a sheep. Slope of brow, wide and fleshy nose, long and convex upper lip, square heavy teeth of the ruminant, brown nervous eyes—all were in deadly pattern.
It would be unfair and inaccurate to say that Monica Killdeering’s personality and pattern of existence were in any way molded by hereditary factors. Her personality and her habits were the result of the horrid conflict between face and body.
She was an intense, explosive, almost hysterical bore. It was well known in Kilo that if you were putting on a carnival or a drive or a church affair, you should get Monica working on it. Her energies were inexhaustible. But if you wanted to turn a dinner party into pure horror, just invite Monica. Whoever she button-holed would end up in a curious condition—nerves frayed from the shrill and nervous tumult of her intensity, lapels damp from the fine explosive spray of her conversation, and quite ready to scream with such an excess of ennui that, afterward, it was difficult to understand just what she had done to you. Analysis would disclose that she had bored you by talking about you, a feat almost unparalleled in its rarity.
Childhood had been the best time for Monica. She had been skinny and ugly but in great demand because she could hit the long ball, climb the highest tree, and catch any kid her age in the county.
Adolescence had been the black time. The body bloomed, warm and ripe, full of an independent arrogance, aware of its own obvious destiny. But for a time Monica was too shy to speak to anyone. She acquired hopeless, helpless, bitter crushes, and wept them into her pillow. And there were the constant cruelties. The phrase overheard, or meant to be heard. And then to lie in the tumid night, and sense, but not understand, all the strengths of the body’s yearnings, and touch then the flowering breasts and feel such an aching emptiness that she wanted to die.
But the adjustments came in time. The painful shyness was obscured by a highly nervous imitation of an outgoing personality. And it was inevitable that she would choose a career that would chronically
Similar Books
