Disclaimer: Kimagure Orange Road (c) Matsumoto Izumi/ Shuueisha/ Studio Pierrot/ Toho. This work is not intended for commercial gain or to infringe on any copyrights.

AN ANGEL AT ST. MARY'S

I still remember when I first saw her, silhouetted against the low island sun and eye-bright water. Her figure trod the fine sand of St. Mary's and immediately piqued my interest. She was full-bodied, white-skinned, had a flawless complexion and long raven hair, and was very beautiful.

"Good morning," she called as walked up to me. Her voice had a lilt I could not identify. It sounded Asian. "Is Missus Chubby in?"

"Yes," I answered, struggling a little in my predicament, which embarrassed me. I felt like a boy who had been sleeping in church and woken up to find that the statues of the saints had come down and crowded themselves around my poor body.

"Do you need help?" Her eyes, almond-shaped and an earnest sea-green, looked down at me.

"If it's not too much trouble," I grumbled ungraciously.

She was strong. As easily as one would drag a table across a waxed wooden floor, she took hold of my wheelchair and pulled it and me out of the sand. In my eagerness to enjoy my solitude and freedom in the subtropical sun I had let myself get bogged down deep, mere feet from firmer earth and safety, and was feeling too sullen to help myself any further.

"Thank you," I said, when she had placed me back on terra firma. I hoped she wasn't laughing secretly at my weakness.

"Is no problem," she replied, smiling at me. Her teeth were white and even. She made sure I was okay, then passed me to continue on to the bungalow behind us.

That was when I first met the angel at St. Mary's.

-oOo-

He was a handsome young man when I first saw him, sitting in his wheelchair in the afternoon sun in front of Mrs. Chubby's house. I had walked all the way from the shack to tell her I was going to town for a while. The old lady smiled at me and said sure, there was no problem with that. I could even leave the door unlocked; there were no thieves on a place as small as St. Mary's.

He was still sitting there when I came out. I had judged him to be around seventeen to twenty-two years old, but when the noise of sandals on the wooden steps caught his ear he turned around and I saw eyes that were much older. I thought then that he was sick; his wheelchair justified the conclusion, and pasty white skin and thin body only strengthened my suspicions.

I gave him a smile as I passed by him, adjusting the small bag hanging from my shoulder. I had simply pulled on a pair of shorts over my one-piece and put on a polo shirt, which I had left unbuttoned. A straw hat sat on my head, to protect me from the sun. The days were very hot on the island, though the nights were comfortable and balmy.

I had gone a couple of steps towards the main dirt road when I heard his voice call after me. Thank you, he said. I looked back at him and waved. For some reason the plaintive eagerness in his pose and voice reminded me of someone. Someone I'd left far away.

-oOo-

Her hips swayed as she walked; I would later find it was something very unusual in women from her country. The lushness of her, the very music in her steps made my day come alive. I was less of a burden to Mrs. Chubby that afternoon.

When she left on her bicycle I resolved to wait for her return. I gave up moping in my room, which was usually how I passed the time here on the island, and after lunch took a book out to read in the open sun.

She returned at around two. I don't know how, but I looked up at the exact moment she came pedaling over the low rise of road which led to town. She was a splash of red and blue against the brown soil and green acacia trees.

She parked the bicycle and walked to the beach. Her shapely hips still swayed. There was no doubt in my mind that she was heading to the shack near the shore. She saw me, smiled, and said, "Are you still there? You might get sunburn."

Sunburn! After making me wait here all this time! What a petty thing to say!

I watched forlornly as she disappeared up the strip of sand. A bunch of leaning coconut trees soon hid her from my sight. I was hoping she would go up to the house again to talk to Mrs. Chubby. That chance having been stolen from me, I plotted and schemed a little myself, then got out of my wheelchair to walk the short distance up the stairs and talk to my aunt.

She wasn't really a relative of mine; the fat woman was an old friend of my father's. He had decided to come visit this former stomping ground of his, and take me along with him. This place was indeed a treat and very different from England, but the novelty soon wore off. My old man left me with Mrs. Chubby while he went gallivanting off to the other islands, saying that he'd not been here for a long time and might not have the chance to visit them again, and would I be a dear chap and wait for him? It was only going to be for a few days. I had sighed then; it wasn't like I could say 'no' to him. So the days went on and on with nothing to do except read the books in Mrs. Chubby's house and occasionally drop by the town. There wasn't even any decent TV to speak of; my ennui found all the channels inane and unentertaining.

Mrs. Chubby saw me out of my wheelchair and opened her wide mouth to give me the usual scolding; I usually came in by the back door, which was level with the ground. I raised my hand.

"Auntie," I said, "could you invite that woman over for dinner?"

"What woman? Oh, you mean the one who came over a while ago?"

"The very one."

"I suppose I could," she said, mulling it over. "Why? You interested in her?"

"Cor, yes, of course I am! I'm not blind!"

"Well, alrighty, then, I'll ask her to come over later. Don't get your hopes up, young 'un. She's told me she's here to rest, not go entertaining oversexed young men like you."

"I am not oversexed!"

"Sure, I've heard it all before. Boys your age, they all think with their ba—"

"Auntie!"

A mulatto grin. "Ah, I keep forgetting what a prude you are. It's so strange. I wouldn't mind you panting after the next hot bod that you see. It's just that you don't, even with the local girls." Who, of course, are very free-spirited and not ashamed of their bodies, of things earthy and sensual, unlike most of the girls back home.

Of course I don't, Auntie. If I let myself get—erhm—aroused, my blood pressure will shoot up and my heart will strain itself. It's not a very pleasant feeling.

"Well, now you know I'm not gay."

"Amen to that." For Mrs. Chubby, time stopped around the straightlaced eighties, when Mr. Chubby died on an island a bit of a ways from here. She's been living alone ever since. "I wish you told me about this earlier. You know it's a long way to town, and I don't think she'll like our ordinary food very much."

"I'm sorry, Auntie." I walked over to the dining table and sat down. "I'll go get whatever you need, if you want me to."

"And have you drop dead in the middle of the street? What will your father think of me?" She put down the knife she was using to fillet fish on the chopping board. "You're pushing yourself too hard."

Deep inside I just shook my head. Why wait, when every day I'm alive is a gift? I'm not an aggressive person; rather, I'm the opposite. But this illness of mine has robbed me of enough days of living, so why not catch the moment as it flies by? My reasons for wanting to see that woman were purely selfish, but I will not apologize for them. He who lives in Beauty's light... or something like that. The only one who can bring me to task on this, the only person I will listen to, is someone who has been through the same things I have, who knows what it's like to spend the whole night awake, struggling for breath, or spending the day twisting in a burning pain that cannot be relieved by anything except morphine up the spine. Begrudge me a little happiness, go ahead: call me a typical male, a gutter-minded freak. I will not listen to you.

-oOo-

I stared askance at the food on the table.

"It was very nice of you to invite me," I said, "but you shouldn't have gone to all this trouble."

"Oh, it was no trouble at all," explained Mrs. Chubby. "We get so few visitors this way, as you know. Thank you for coming over."

I nodded and started to help myself. When I finished I asked the young man, "Why haven't I seen you here before?"

"I only came last week," he answered, "and I've spent all the time in my room."

"So that man I saw... is he your father?"

The young man nodded. The resemblance was there: same cheek structure, same nose, similar ears. But his eyes, gray and light in color, were different.

"You have your mother's eyes, am I correct?"

His brows, fine and feathery, almost blending into his skin, went up. "Yes. How do you know?"

"Lucky guess."

It was that exchange that prompted him to speak up more, I guess. He mentioned that he was there for his health, and, God forgive me, I began to suspect him of being a hypochondriac as he talked about it. But in the end I learned that he had been very sick, and still was. I had been right, but the fact didn't cheer me at all.

"Well, I hope you get better very fast," I said, taking a spoonful of the sun clam stew Mrs. Chubby had prepared. He seemed faintly pleased by the comment. But he really beamed when I added, "I would like someone to go scuba diving with."

"Really? I'd like that too! You've been diving long?"

I told him I had obtained my certification back in high school.

"Really?" he repeated. "Wow, that's so cool! If only I weren't so much of a weakling," he said, his voice faltering.

It was only then that I realized my mistake. "If you want, you could walk from here to my house and back again as your exercise. I won't mind the company," I offered, feeling guilty.

He accepted and we continued talking. I was a bit dismayed: I had come there to think things through, not cultivate any friendships. I wanted to be alone; I needed to be alone. But there was no way to retract the offer, so I mentally steeled myself for his presence for the next couple of days.

-oOo-

From a distance she was beautiful, but up close she was stunning. She seemed to fill the little room with a thousand blazing lights, the very gravitas of her, even when she was just sitting there and not speaking. Several times I felt I couldn't breathe, that I had to get out of the room or suffocate; that was how powerful her latent presence was.

Excited as I was, young as I was, I asked her if she had a boyfriend, which in hindsight was a crass, stupid thing to do. It's probably a reflection of how enamored I already was of her, all nineteen years of me, all five feet nine inches of me.

The question made her laugh. It was somehow a tinkling sound, that bounced happily off the wooden walls and chased itself out the screened windows and doors into the cool night. "No," she answered. I was thrilled by the word and quickly cut her off by asking if I could walk over in the early morning, when the sun was just coming up and the sand was not yet hot. She looked at me for a long moment and slowly nodded. I decided then I had to curb my enthusiasm or I was surely going to offend her within the next two minutes.

She was what, twenty-five years old? I dared not ask such an impolite question, or the precious butterfly that had lighted on my hand might choose to fly away and disappear again among the flowers. I don't know why I thought of her that way—maybe it was her shiny black hair, or sparkling eyes, of much the same green iridescence as a butterfly's wings, or the silence that hung about her, fluttering at the edges, barely marked but certainly there. Perhaps it was her quietude, like a lepidopteran's; for she was quite taciturn, although never impolite. I counted the number of times she made unsolicited comments that night. Four times, was all. But her reticence only excited my imagination more. I couldn't wait for the morning to arrive. Only much later, when I was in bed, did I realize that I still didn't know her name. It had never come up in all the talk. So that night I still knew her only as the angel of St. Mary's.

-oOo-

You are an idiot, I told myself later as I lay back on the hard bed, staring up at the brown fiberboard ceiling low above me. You saw the warning signs. The boy's got a case of instanto kurashu on you, and you should have nipped it in the bud. Why didn't you? Why didn't you, sukeban-jan? You were less nice to your husband during your growing years.

It was the pathos, I answered. The pathos made me do it. The pathos of such an inoffensive little boy looking so happy, and for the first time in a long while, it seemed. And don't try and scold me for acting the way I did to Mister Chou-no-ryoku-sha. You know I only did that when he was acting like a pervert and a jerk, or was in you-know-who's arms. You know whom I'm talking about. I'll give you a couple of hints: one of her trademark expressions when we were younger was an earsplitting "Kyadakyadakyada," she's got fine blond hair, she's now in New York and is doing quite well for herself. I miss her.

Nevertheless, you're right. I'm not going to string him along, the way otto-san and I strung her along. Tomorrow I'll act tough and mean and break the little boy's heart.

Good luck.

-oOo-

The moment the alarm clock rang I got dressed, brushed my teeth and walked slowly out of the house. I couldn't help it. The sun was only beginning its long, slow climb to the horizon and beyond, but my day was already shining bright. I forced myself to a snail-slow pace; no sense in reaching her place gasping and wheezing like an old man. It wouldn't look very hip, nor would it convey the impression I was hoping to make on her.

Twenty minutes. It took me about twenty minutes to cross a strip of sand roughly 300 feet long. My chest wasn't hurting by the time I arrived, but I was sweaty and clammy.

The shack she was using used to be my father's, way back when he was trying to make an honest living by skippering fishing tours and diving jaunts and hiding from the rest of the world—and the law as well, of which Mom was a member. When he married her they spent seven years here, then decided to return to old Blighty, where they had me and settled down into a respectable life.

It isn't really a shack. It's quite well furnished. There's electricity, and a refrigerator and a radio, bathroom and gas range, so it's not ramshackle or anything like that. It's just what my father used to call it, and the name has stuck. Mrs. Chubby practically owns it now, and to administer to it better she sold her old home and moved here, to this lonely beach, to the bungalow she had had built. My father was concerned about her being lonely, but she said she didn't mind, as she never did like other people's company anyway. Other people excluding us, of course.

The shack was dark and unlit in the early-morning twilight. I looked at the silent, untenanted veranda and guessed she was probably still asleep. Five-thirty was quite early, after all. So I settled myself in one of the old wooden sway-backed chairs on the porch. The wood creaked loudly, but there was no hint of a response from within the house.

It was then that I looked out at the bay, and saw that the angel had turned into a mermaid. It had to be her, scything the water like that; who else could it be? She was a black shadow in the violet waves. Her arms described a half-circle, half-circle as she swam. Fascinated, I leaned back to watch in the chair.

-oOo-

I give myself credit for forgetting all about the sick young man's visit. Other things were occupying my mind that early morning as I took my customary morning swim, chief among them my husband and our relationship. I had come here to be away from him, so I could ponder over my future and his—our future, which seemed too hazy for my liking.

I was finished with my dip, so I stood up and began to walk towards the small house I called home for now. A friend of a friend of a friend had told me about this out-of-the-way island and the summer she spent here, in contemplative solitude. I told my sister-in-law about it, and she adjusted her large glasses—why she still doesn't want to wear contacts on a regular basis, I don't know, as she is very attractive without them, and is still single—and said, in her usual soft, kind voice, "I think that's probably what you need. Time away from each other. Time for yourselves. You've been so busy with your careers and married life that you've scarcely had the opportunity to grow as your own person. That shouldn't stop, not even when you're married, onee-san."

Onee-san. How I loved it when she called me that. Of all her family—my family too as well, ever since I said "Goodbye, thank you for taking care of me," to my parents—she's the one I can relate to the most: she used to bear the serious responsibility of keeping their household together, of shopping and cleaning and cooking and reminding her siblings to do their homework and sleep early, and for a long time was trapped in that role, that personality. Her older brother—my husband—was too much of an indecisive bum, and her twin was too happy-go-lucky, for them to assume that job as much as her. So when she talked about needing to grow as one's own person, I listened.

I was so lost in thought that I never noticed the silent, scrawny figure sitting in the porch seat until I was halfway out the water. Oh, great, I thought to myself. It's rather difficult to be tough and mean when your breasts are hanging out of the water for all the world to see. Nice job, idiot. Instead of being a hardcase you've managed to titillate his teenage libido all the more. Now it'll be even harder to get rid of him.

-oOo-

Possibly she saw me with my mouth gaping open as I sat there as still as a statue long before I thought she did. I never expected her to swim topless. I had assumed she would be in a bikini, like all the other girls on this island, except for the native ones who dove for pearls amongst the reefs dotting the coast. True, those pieces of swimwear hardly covered anything at all, but they still broadcast the message that the wearer was concerned about propriety, however small that concern might be. And yet there she was, standing waist-deep in the sea, with the waves going past her and her magnificent upper body on display.

To this day I still remember her reaction when she discovered me sitting there ogling her. She didn't yell, she didn't shriek or curse; she just covered her pendent bounty and those lovely pinkish-brown nipples of hers with an arm and sunk back into the water and waved to me. There was only the slightest trace of annoyance on her face.

"Excuse me," she called, "could you please throw me my towel? It's on the other chair."

I looked across the porch to the other wooden seat. Yes, there was a folded green towel there. I picked it up, looked at her kneeling modestly in the water, and decided to go out and give it to her. You see, her dignified reaction had immediately instilled a deep shame in me, that I should have feasted my eyes on her, like a man who had discovered a group of nymphs bathing and without remorse leered at their pure, otherworldly beauty. It was as if my lecherous thoughts had psychically soiled her, and my effort would be my apology. In retrospect I should've thought about things from her point of view: if I were naked and in her position, would I want a stranger coming near me?

I waded out into the wet. She gasped and moved away from me, still hiding herself in the water. I was puzzled but followed her.

"What are you doing?" she asked. "Give me my towel. Don't come near me."

I obliged and saw the apprehension in her eyes. She unfolded the cloth, not seeming to care if it got wet, and covered up while still in the water. When she had finished she stood up and looked at me. "Go back and sit down. I won't be responsible if something happens to you."

I slowly returned to the porch and the sanctuary of a chair.

-oOo-

I was mostly untroubled about having been seen topless by him. Really, who cares about what one boy thinks? In this out-of-the-way place, modesty is not so much valued as respect, and so far he was being respectful enough. The look on his visage I could understand. I had seen it many times before, on one particular face and a few others in the distant past.

I walked up to the door and opened it. He just sat there in the chair, shoulders moving up and down slightly, looking up at me. I had wanted to say something coarse and unkind to him, but when I saw those eyes of his, I felt as if I would be kicking a puppy if I did that, and consequently let him be for the moment.

I went in, saying that I wouldn't be long, and made sure to lock the door after me before I went to my bag and took clean clothes out of it, along with a new, dry towel. I headed to the bathroom and showered and dressed before coming back out.

He appeared to be watching the sunrise. I sat down in the unoccupied chair and joined him in doing that.

"It's a pretty sight," he said, after some minutes.

"Yes, it is," I agreed. "Like the show?"

"Excuse me?"

"I said, did you like the show I put on?"

"Oh." There was a contrite expression on his face. "Sorry."

"That's okay. I forgot you were coming, or I would never have gone skinny-dipping in the first place."

"I'm still sorry."

"I forgive you, then." That impossible-to-kick puppy-dog face again. He looked just the way my husband did when we were younger, when he was really trying to beg for forgiveness. "Aren't you too early up?"

"What? Oh, no, I'm usually awake at this hour."

"Really?"

"Yes." He seemed to want to say something more about it, but kept silent.

"Want breakfast? My treat."

"Oh, would you? That would be fine!"

I went back inside, cursing myself. Why was I being so nice to him? Was it because I couldn't kick him, and had settled for kicking myself instead? I should've told him I was busy. But doing what? And there was precedent for this anyway, among those friends of mine that until now my husband knew nothing about. When we got in trouble we looked out for one another. A group of mutts caring for each other: that says a lot about them and me.

It was a good thing I bought a lot of food yesterday. I had this vague thought of gorging myself and growing fat, so that my hubby wouldn't like me anymore when he saw me again. Shallow, true, but it showed how out of sorts I was. It was nothing serious, though, just a chimera of the night that soon evaporated into nothingness and sped off into the winds of the Indian Ocean.

I soon finished and called him in to eat. He came in with a bashful smile and an appreciative sniff.

-oOo-

Omelettes, bacon, bread and coffee—she certainly had an idea of breakfast different from what I expected.

"Why? Were you expecting miso and onigiri?" she asked, when I had remarked on this.

"Sort of," I replied truthfully. She was leaning back in her chair, wearing a baby-blue t-shirt and cut-off jean shorts.

"That's so stereotypical," she noted. "What we eat isn't that different from what you eat."

"What about squid and raw fish?" I challenged her.

"I meant breakfast." She made a face. "I don't eat those for breakfast."

"Oh."

-oOo-

I wasn't going to tell him about natto, or the fact that I could never understand what the British saw in placing cucumber in sandwiches, or beans on toast.

He was trying his best to be helpful and ingratiating. He offered to do the dishes and I let him, fearing that otherwise he was going to turn that puppy-dog look on me again. Besides, I was feeling lazy. I sat down at the table after placing the dishes in the sink and decided to watch him. The moment he started to show any sign of being in distress, down on a chair he would go, and I would finish what he started.

I dug in the back pocket of my jean shorts and produced a battered pack of cigarettes. "Do you mind if I smoke?" I asked, lifting the container into view as he turned around.

He frowned. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice full of shame. "I have to mind. I can't stand the smell just yet."

I frowned in return. For Heaven's sake, can't a girl ever get to smoke in peace? I was already so far away from home, and yet here was another man who was stopping me from doing so! I couldn't smoke in the airport, I couldn't smoke on board the planes, and now this! I tossed the pack down on the table and bit out "Che!" in disgust.

"My father also smokes, but not in my room," he said as he rinsed a plate. "He'd blow the house up if he ever did that because of the oxygen tanks in there." He smiled and put the plate in the dish rack. "That's why I got used to clean air."

"Oxygen tanks?"

"I use them when I have trouble breathing."

Unseen by him, I really frowned. This boy really was sick.

"Asthma?"

"No. Just plain difficulty breathing. Something about blood-soluble gases and the like, I could never really understand that part."

-oOo-

When I had finished she ordered me to sit down, a command that I gladly followed.

"How long are you staying?" I asked. "If you don't mind my asking."

"I don't know, myself. I have a career to get back to, but right now all I can say is, to hell with it. But why am I talking like this? You can't be interested in my problems."

"Sometimes," I ventured, "two heads are better than one."

"Oh, really? Well, tell me this, then: why am I feeling so insecure in my family life? Why do I get the feeling I'm drifting away from my husband?"

"Husband?" Just my luck. Well, what was I thinking anyway? Of course, someone as beautiful as her had to be claimed by now. No horticulturist would leave a one-of-a-kind tulip alone, would he?

-oOo-

Oops. I winced inwardly, but felt it was for the best. I watched his face fall and tried my hardest to shift things to a more positive light.

"I was trying to tell you at dinner," I said. "No, I have no boyfriend, and yes, I am married. Young man, you didn't answer my question."

"I... maybe you're looking for yourself," he said, struggling to stay in the game.

"That's not an answer," I said, "but I am."

"Do you think you'll find it here?"

"Maybe. Who knows?" I'm not normally this chatty, even with my own sisters-in-law. Maybe it's because he's just a stranger whose path happened to cross mine, and I have nothing to lose and nothing to be embarrassed about if I tell him these things—it's just too impersonal a relationship to work that way. Maybe it's the island magic one hears about; maybe it breaks down one's normal reserve. Life and love, trysting among the sands and kissing under the palms. Well, I wasn't going to do either just now, since my significant other was more than a thousand miles away.

I offered him a little aluminum-wrapped square. "Chocolate?"

"No, thank you. Allergy."

"Boy, what do you do for fun?" I asked in exasperation, throwing the square down on the table. "You don't smoke, you can't eat sweets..."

To my surprise he looked hurt. "I can eat sweets. It's just chocolate I can't. I read."

"That's all?"

"Of course not. I can play the piano. I can play the sax. I used to be quite an outdoorsman before I got sick."

"You can play the piano and the sax?" I asked, my curiosity aroused. Talk about coincidences.

"Not very well," he admitted. "The sax better than the piano. Actually, just about any wind instrument using a Böehm keypad. That means no trumpets, euphoniums, trombones, and the like." I chuckled as I imagined him trying to play a tuba and keeling over from the weight.

"What kind of sax?" I asked.

"Tenor."

"Ah. I play too, you know."

"Really? What?"

"Piano, sax, guitar, most of the time. I'm a composer. Not a good one, yet, but I'm getting there."

"That's your career, isn't it?"

I nodded. "How did you guess?"

"There's something in your eyes and the way you look that tells me you're a musician."

I tossed my hair back. At that moment I would've given anything for the chance to light up. "Oh, come on. That's ridiculous."

"Not to me, it isn't."

-oOo-

Our conversation turned to favorite singers and the like. We had a little game wherein we'd give each other five seconds to name a string of singers, composers, librettists and the like. At one point I mentioned that she had a lot of classical people on her list.

She nodded her head a little. "Well, I have always been inclined that way."

"But jazz and the classics? It doesn't seem to... fit together."

"Why not?"

"Well, one's so freeform, while the other's so formal."

"So? They're just alternate ways of expressing the same things, just as photography was once a substitute for painting before it became an art form in its own right. You would do better by treading both sides of the river."

I pumped my brows. "I guess." It is very peculiar to me, though, that we both enjoy the old Arakawaband.

"It's too bad there's no piano here," she said. "I play to relax myself, sometimes."

"I've got a synthesizer in my room over at Missus Chubby's," I suggested. "I could lend it to you. I don't use it much anyway."

She hesitated, looking straight at me. That was another thing that I found unusual, as though she had decided to act beyond the usual mores of her culture. Her next line could've been plucked straight from a movie.

"You don't give up, do you?"

I was taken aback. "W-what do you mean?"

"Oh, don't play the fool with me. I can see it in your eyes. You're interested in me, aren't you?"

I must have colored, because the heat rose to my face.

"I don't mean to embarrass you," she said, and her voice was a straightforward and frank as I had ever heard it. "But I don't play around."

"W-well I'm not looking t-to play around," I said, spluttering, my anger rising. Play around indeed! As if I ever could, without suffering a heart attack! The arrogance of her! Just because she's beautiful doesn't mean she could go assume that I'd hit on her! "I just thought you were pretty, and wanted the pleasure of your company, because I like beautiful women. I'm sorry I forced myself on you." I got up to leave.

-oOo-

I admit his words made me pause. A split-second ago I was exulting that I had found my backbone again. Now I was thinking that maybe I had been a little too presumptuous and arrogant. I wasn't looking to really hurt his feelings, just to push him away a little, tell him I needed to be by myself. Oh, well. Unkickable a puppy may be, but there was no stricture against using your foot to sweep one away.

"Wait!" I said as he walked towards the door. He looked at me contemptuously and said in a low voice, "I don't go after married women, they're another man's scraps."

It just bounced off me. I knew he was reacting out of the hurt, so I forgave him instantly.

"Chotto matte kudasai!" I spoke. "Namae wa?"

That got him to stop, as I anticipated. "I can't speak your rubbish."

"Well, I can speak yours, and I'm sorry. But I just wanted you to know... how things stand. I am sorry."

He just stood there with his hand on the door handle.

"I will accompany you back to Missus Chubby's," I said, going to him and taking hold of his left arm. He froze.

"What is it?"

"I–I don't know," he said, sounding bewildered. "When you touched me—" he said it as though I had given him a blessing by clasping him "—when you touched me I felt a spark go up my arm."

"Static electricity," I explained easily. He looked dubious and shrugged.

"What was it you just said?"

At least he wasn't so angry now. "I was asking for your name," I said. "You tell me yours and I'll tell you mine."

"My name is Alan."

I told him mine, and he repeated it, testing its sound, rolling it around on his tongue. "That's a strange-sounding name."

"It isn't where I live." And I won't bother to tell you anymore that it was rude, the way you didn't tell me your name before. "Do you feel like walking back? I can carry you, if you don't feel like it."

"What? No, I'm walking back, of course!" He opened the door.

"Then place one foot in front of the other. That's a good boy. We'll soon have you safely home."

-oOo-

Nobody I knew could stand my slow pace, so I hurried my walk, and by the time I got to the middle of the beach I had to stop and catch my breath, whereupon she tsked and bore me up behind her. I began to protest, but she told me to shut up—those were the very words she used—and began to walk the rest of the way with me on her back. She instructed me to put my arms around her, so I did, encircling her neck. She smelled quite nice; it reminded me of jasmine, somehow. At one point she stumbled on a portion of uneven ground, and my hands flopped up and down and gave her breasts a good patting. I apologized very loudly and instantly removed them from her. She stopped, had me get off her back, and grabbed my hands and placed them on her shoulders, telling me to keep them there; then she lifted me up again, and we went on our way. It was a wonder to me that she didn't get any more ticked off. Maybe that was her way of telling me I was a nonsexual entity to her, that she didn't feel at all threatened by me. I remember being totally depressed at the thought.

She deposited me in front of the front door. "You should be safe enough here," she said as she turned to go.

"Thank you for the breakfast," I called lamely as she went down the stairs. She didn't answer, didn't even look my way, so I dejectedly turned and reached for the doorknob.

-oOo-

"Alan," I said as I stopped on the stairs.

He looked back.

"I will expect you tomorrow morning."

A smile appeared on his pale lips. "Okay." It turned into an all-out grin, which he smothered, but not very quickly or completely.

I walked away. My conscience was berating me. Tough and mean, it said. Won't string him along. Oh, sure. I told it to pipe down. After all, he knew where he stood with me now, and that was bound to keep things nice and safe. I liked having a not-puppy dog around.

-oOo-

I was in high spirits as I watched her leave. She was nice enough to me, despite my little gaffes, and had actually said she wanted me back tomorrow! Joy, as it flies in the light of the sun, could never have been brighter than at that moment. I hobbled to my room and spent the rest of the day hugging my pillows. Maybe she'd still like to borrow the synthesizer? Anything, anything, to make the angel of St. Mary—whose name I now knew—happy.