Hello, Dear Readers. Love your feedback, thank you, thank you! This chapter is a tad long (though there have been longer ones); thought of splitting it into two, just to, you know, draaag things out even longer. But then I thought, what the heck. It was one continuous scene on the show, after all; this interpretation of the action is just filled with all that interior monologue, internal reflection kind of stuff.

As always, lots of feedback makes for a happy author, which makes for more chapters coming sooner. In my musings, I wonder if there are readers out there who've never commented, never let me know they are there. You can be anonymous, you know. Just speak up, speak up.

Chapter 20: A Modest Proposal

"Hey," Grace said as she came in.

"Hey," I responded, glancing at her, and then quickly turned to concentrate on the dishes. Grace looked different tonight. She wore a skirt, a short, black, shiny skirt. For the first time, I noticed her legs, usually hidden under pants. They were muscular, shapely in black tights. And her hair was waved, instead of straight. She looked... dressed up.

I liked how she usually looked, but the thought of her putting time and effort into her appearance before this time we'd have together gave me a small thrill. Those little signs. And I can have that still, that moment, that time with her in my kitchen, in spite of everything that happened after, I can remember that time and smile. Though still she had said nothing about the book, and I wondered if she had even opened it yet. Casually, I said, "Just want to finish these up." And turned up the water, sure she could hear the loud beating of my heart, as I pictured her getting ready, changing her clothes, crimping her hair, putting on makeup.

"I'm actually early," she said, removing her jacket. Underneath, she wore a sweater of a brighter shade of blue than she normally wore in school, a sweater that clung, revealing an attractive figure. She looked... great, actually. Not the Grace I was used to, but Grace about to embark on a date. Straining to keep my face in neutral, I turned back to the dishes and I heard her move toward the refrigerator, another habit she had fallen into over the past couple months. I enjoyed her familiarity with my house, that we had established a routine of sorts together here.

It occurred to me that it was dinner time, and she might not have eaten yet. "You hungry?" I said, hearing her open the fridge.

"Not really," she said, and I thought I detected an odd note in her voice, as if she were about to say something. I waited, and then she added, "So, it turns out Lisa and Russell can't come."

My heart leapt. I froze for a beat, then turned to look at her, and she looked at me warily from behind the open door of the fridge. Poised, waiting to gauge my reaction to this information.

Her eyes went from the refrigerator to mine, an unreadable challenge there. Would I delve deeper into the reason for their absence? Would I accept it at face value? Well, I couldn't exactly shout "Yippee!" although that's how I felt inside. There was this need, all along, as we grew closer, and more comfortable with each other, to pretend it was all up front, that everything we – I – was doing was normal and within propriety.

The charade I must continue. This was a student class trip. Not every student could come. I would be mildly surprised, but accepting. I monitored my voice carefully and said, dispassionately, with maybe just a touch of forced surprise, "Oh. Okay." And left it at that as I finished drying the bowl I was holding. I moved to put it away and jumped to safer ground, the role of teacher. "So," I said, "I've been thinking about  your story."

That obstacle surmounted, Grace pulled something out of my refrigerator, exclaiming, "Oh my God, you should throw this out."

"Feel free," I said without turning around, finishing the last dish.  "I've got a great idea for your ending," I continued. I  heard the fridge door shut, and turned as Grace discarded a bag of putrefying greens. She held her hands up, looking for something to wipe them on, and I stepped toward her, holding out the dishtowel. She wiped her hands as I continued to dry mine, another connection. We were standing barely a foot apart now. No other students would be coming tonight. Just Grace and me.

She looked up at me and said, "But I already sent it out to that place."

Her story. I remembered my days of publishing, of still altering poems even after the book had come out – I had my own revised versions of half my published poems.  "So what -- it doesn't mean you have to stop working on it," I said, a new concept to a budding writer.

She stepped back half a step, but still gazed up at me as she said,  "Okay... but I thought…" she paused to organize that thought. "I mean, I like the ending. Everything ties together."

Always the challenge for novice writers – wanting everything to be neat. It's the messiness that makes for better, more powerful stories, I think. "Yeah," I nodded at her words, but continued, "It all ties together maybe, maybe a little too much."

She took this in, a challenge to something she had thought was finished. "Oh," she said, processing. I watched her face, seeing the thoughts digesting, noticing the makeup she wore tonight, her lips shiny with gloss, her lashes thickened with mascara. I wondered again if she had opened the Chekhov book yet; I saw no clue from her eyes that she had. Without realizing it, I must have been searching her face too obviously, because she said, stepping back, "What're you...?"

Embarrassed, I quickly said the first thing that came into my head, looking at her eyes, "Oh, your eye makeup's smudged," touching my eye. Not that it was, but I couldn't really explain my staring.

"Oh shoot," she said; I had succeeded in making her self-conscious, unnecessarily. Because it made me self-conscious, about us, as well. She turned away and walked toward the door that lead to the living room.

"Where are you going?" I asked. "Come on."

Without turning, she said, "I have to find a mirror."

My comment on her makeup now sounded inappropriately intimate to me, and I felt a sudden urgency to leave, to get to the movie, to restore the status quo of teacher-student nothing improper relationship. I looked for my coat and said, "Well, there's a mirror in my car."

Grace still hadn't moved. "No, I…" she began, and then she turned to face me, a determined set to her jaw. She remained standing where she was.

 "Come on," I said, and found my coat under hers on a chair.

"I just realized something," she said,

We had to leave. Now. A sense of foreboding, that something was about to happen, something I both wanted and wanted to avoid, something inevitable that I was trying to forestall. "We can't miss the beginning," I said firmly, putting on my coat. But then I added, "What did you realize?"

Her voice held steady, she said, "That I've never seen the rest of your house before."

 "Yeah, you have," I replied quickly, not sure where she was going.

And then, "But I've never seen where you sleep."

I felt immobilized, floating, unreal, suspended in time. Was this her response to my inscription? Had I anticipated this? Did I really think that glances and camaraderie would be enough for her, or for me, for that matter? How could they be, ultimately, after I gave her that book, after I let her into my heart, and let her know she was there?

"Grace..." I said, helplessly. We couldn't do this.

"Well I haven't," she repeated, challenging me. "And I really want to."

She stood across from me in my kitchen, a blend of dichotomies in the flesh, at once vulnerable and determined, so very young and innocent, yet womanly and worldly. And so lovely, her declaration of desire touching my heart, warming my soul, and, yes, tempting my body, this assertion of desire for me. Stepping fully through that door I had unlocked months ago, the one we had slowly been opening together, the one I opened wide with my feelings put in writing, in a gift of value, in a gift of love. Yet still she did not mention the gift, the inscription; perhaps this attempt at seduction came wholly on her own? But even without reading my words, she had a foundation for her actions right now. I had stopped trying to pull back, hadn't I? She did come by my house, we did talk, although maybe not for hours, since we never had that much time together. This evening, this night, would be the greatest amount of time we had spent alone with one another.

But even without all that happened later that final week, did I really think there could be more such "dates," such one-on-one meetings? I kept pushing things between us. After the play. In the car. In the book. How far would I have taken things, I wonder now? And I wondered then, determined to keep this evening as mentor-student as possible. I looked away from her, silent.

Into the silence, she said, her voice cracking slightly, but no less determined, "If you laugh at me right now I swear I'll never speak to you again." Because she knew that would matter to me. She had seen how I reacted the last time she gave me a silent treatment. Not well. Or maybe too well, for her.

Softly, I said, "I'm not laughing." But I didn't say anything else, either. I didn't say the things I should have said then, the direct no this cannot be. I never said those direct nos to Grace when I should have. Perhaps to our detriment, perhaps to our benefit.

And because I did not reject her outright, yet, Grace continued, "So…can we just... not go to the movies?"

I was past the point of doing all the things I should have done before to discourage this relationship. But I could still exercise some restraint. As it turned out, I might as well have led her up those stairs, taken her in my arms, loved her. We would have had that, at least, to remember. But the teacher in me still prevailed, I know for the best.

"No," I said. "We can't." I couldn't meet her eyes as I said this, because I knew if I did she'd see the insincerity there, masking the desire.

But Grace, ever determined, with that strength of character I so admired, wouldn't accept that no. She walked toward me, gesturing.  "Please. Okay, I know I'm doing this really stupidly—"

Hardly. "See where I sleep?" No, not stupid at all. And I shouldn't have been surprised that she might respond this way to my declaration. For, although she never mentioned it, what else could this have been but her answer? I had to be honest with myself, at least. I had been flirting with her, yes, but ambiguously. But there was nothing ambiguous about writing "Love always." I could convince myself otherwise, I could probably counter with an argument that I meant paternally, as a friend, as a mentor, but my actions demonstrated otherwise. And, especially after that car ride where I almost kissed her, where she almost kissed me, I had to be careful how I interacted with her. I interrupted her as she walked closer to me. And I stooped to patronization:  "No, you are doing this alarmingly well, and I'm extremely honored, however—"

Of course I shouldn't have said that. Because that made it sound as if it were all her, having a crush on me, as if I hadn't contributed anything to what was happening between us. And she knew that. She exclaimed,  her face animated with annoyance, "Oh God don't say that!" at such a hackneyed response. I was silenced, momentarily, and she searched for words. "No... just... please—"

But I couldn't let her continue. I was not going to sleep with Grace, I was not going to show her where I slept. "Grace," I began, but she made one last attempt.

 "Okay? I've given this a lot of thought—"

I raised my hand like a crossing guard; I had to stop the words. I couldn't let her say more. "Grace, listen to me, okay?" And now she did stop talking, the animation gone from her face, her demeanor deflating. What could I say? Not interested? I don't want to, I don't want you? All lies, and she'd know. But while I could write an inscription to her, could sign it with love and my name, I could not say these things out loud. I couldn't, just then, still reeling from her offer, an offer I could not accept, articulate a rejection that included acceptance. I'd love to show you my room, I'd love to skip the movie, but, but... And so I retreated to the safety of the movie, the movie I wanted to share with her. Because as much as I wanted to take Grace into my arms, embrace her, I also wanted to do things with her, go to a movie, go out to dinner, hang out at a jazz club. And we couldn't do those things any more than we could sleep together. Except for that night. That night, we had a vague pretense that had enabled a legitimate tryst. "We really can't be late," I said.

Silence. Arms crossed against me. Would she now refuse to go to the movie altogether? The though filled me with a surprising emptiness, this evening planned, this time  alone together. Would she now reject what I was able to offer her? "Come on," I coaxed, and stepped toward her. "It's a ground-breaking film. It's part of your education." I attempted an encouraging smile, but still she said nothing. I tried to articulate the importance of the film, hoping through that she'd understand the importance, to me, that she still come. "See, Kurosawa takes one event and he plays it over and over and over from four different points of view. You can really see how each person has their own view of what happened."

Her voice shaky, Grace finally spoke. "I made a total fool of myself just now, didn't I?"

Hardly. More the other way around. "Well, that's not how I see it," I said, though I did not tell her how I did see it. "Come on." I picked up her jacket from the chair and held it up. "Let's go to the movies, okay?" She didn't say no, she didn't say she wouldn't go. She turned her back toward me, close. Her nearness, I could smell her shampoo, and a mild fragrance, perfume perhaps. I savored the feel of her arms gliding into the empty sleeves, risking a comforting caress near her shoulders, a platonic touch that I knew I would remember, the solidity of herself beneath the rough fabric. I longed to keep my hands on her arms, to turn her toward me, to hold her. And to feel those arms around me, holding me. Protecting each other. From each other? She was so quiet, now. Had I stifled all communication between us? "You okay?" I asked.

Distantly, she said, "Yeah." My hands were still on her sleeves, and I made an attempt to pat them reassuringly. Except what would the reassurance be? I want you but won't let myself have you? You're safe and sexless with me? She didn't respond to the slight touch in any way, moving neither away from or toward me. She just said, in that same distant voice, "I am a little hungry though." She started to zip her jacket, but left it connected just  at the bottom. Reluctantly, I removed my hands from her arms.

Gently, I said,  "Well, then, I'll buy you some popcorn." Sighing, she turned and walked out the door. I followed behind her, wishing I could somehow recapture the easiness of when she first arrived, of our conversation about her story. A cool breeze ruffled the crimps in her hair. A reminder that spring was still not fully entrenched. "Wait a second," I called.

Ahead of me, she stopped. I stepped up to her, looked at her. I saw her open jacket. "It's still pretty cold out," I said, and reached down to zip her up. My hands, so close to her; I was sad that this was all I could offer her right now, raising the zipper over her abdomen, the curve of her breasts, all the way to her neck. She stood docilely as I did this, watching my hand, and it felt at once both chaste and intimate, and I hoped she could see the care in my face, and maybe the regret, and also the passion, the joy, at being with her there, then, for an evening. I smiled at her, and her eyes cleared, her lips lifted imperceptibly. I would interpret this as a smile.

I unlocked the car with the remote and walked around to the driver's side as Grace got into the passenger seat. In unison, we strapped in. I started the car, and we drove toward Rashomon.