Skating
 

It was bitterly cold. The past week had been cold enough but now temperatures had dropped to the single numbers and a strong Northwest wind made it even worse. One positive side to the frosty climate was the plethora of sweaters and turtlenecks that it produced. In her workplace the entire staff seemed to have found the most exciting turtlenecks and warm soft sweaters to wear. Even her boss who normally wore severe business suits and skirts managed to find a wool turtleneck to wear under her jacket.

The forecast for the weekend, moderating temperatures, sunny and calm led Doug to suggest that they go skating on Saturday. The river had frozen solid with thick, black ice; this was something that happened only rarely. The question was, what to wear? Doug had clearly liked the two turtlenecks.  She wanted to wear the striped one he gave her, and she selected a old navy blue one to go underneath. She was tempted by a warm wool turtleneck to go on top but that would hide the striped shirt. She selected an old Icelandic sweater of her former husbands. It was very thick and warm, normally too much so for usual wear. Long underwear and jeans completed her costume.

She headed out to the park by the river to find Doug waiting for her. He was muffled up to the ears in a down parka so she couldn’t see what else he was wearing. They put on their skates and joined the crowd. The skating was really superlative, the calm of last week and the lack of snow had led to smooth ice. And it stretched as far as the eye could see up stream and down. They headed up river. The ice was clear and thick, the sun was warm and the skating easy. She pointed out the tracks of mink in the dusting of snow on the bank; he showed her cocoons of Promethia moths hanging from spice bushes and cherries along the shore. A blue jay flew over and a few crows were cawing in the distance. It was a gloriously peaceful and warm scene despite the cold. After some miles as they swung around a bend in the river, a fallen tree on the bank in full sun sheltered by some hemlocks offered an irresistible stop. As they sat on the log in the warm sun, they talked: first of small things, the weather, the day, the fun of being out and of exercise. She told him of occasions with her husband, of the feeling of warmth and of security that he radiated. The comfort that she used to feel just being with him. She told him of that dreadful night when the policeman had knocked on the door to give her the news. Of the fiery crash caused by a drunken driver colliding head on. She spoke of the devastation, of the deep emptiness, of the insecurity and above all of the loneliness that had followed. She told him that she still couldn’t really feel or dare to feel even after five years. She simply couldn’t stand another loss like that. Doug said little, but his hand on hers was warm, and in the pause after her confession, she felt his hand on her turtleneck, on her skin,  and he gave her a quick kiss. Electricity flowed through her body and some deep sadness seemed to leave. She looked at Doug’s kindly smile and began to dare to hope.

“How about some lunch and a hot drink?” he asked. They slowly and reluctantly got up, both afraid to break the spell and headed back from whence they came. The trip back was quick, little was said or needed. They found the small café and chose a quiet table near a sunny window. As Doug unwrapped his scarf and shed his coat, she saw that he was wearing a yellow turtleneck under a wool fisherman sweater. She let her hand casually touch the edge of his turtleneck; his warm smile, the response. Hot chocolate tasted heavenly and the warmth and food revived conversation. As she gazed out the window over Doug’s shoulder, she noticed a striking woman coming down the sidewalk. She was wearing a dark, full length coat, a shiny black pocket book hung from one shoulder and she was wearing a striking red turtleneck with the collar pushed high under her chin. Jet-black, thigh-length wool skirt and black boots completed the picture. But it was really her stride that was distinctive. There was an air of confidence, of forcefulness and determination that made one watch her. As she passed the window, she wheeled, turned and entered the café. She came right up behind Doug, put her hand on his shoulder and said, “HI”.

Close up she was even more striking than she had been on the street. You could see the red turtleneck was covered with black stars, even the neck and cuffs. She had a gold heart on a chain just hanging out of the collar in front. The hand on Doug’s shoulder was decorated with gold bangles on the wrist. Doug started and looked around. “Hi, Moira! What brings you to this part of town?” And before she could answer he stood up and introduced her, “Moira this is my friend Jennifer.” I stood up and shook her hand; it was rather cold, clammy and limp. Moira looked at our cups and finally answered Doug’s question, “I was coming down here for some lunch.” Doug immediately asked her to join them.

Looking at this extraordinary women sitting next to me, I felt dowdy and out of place. Here I was in blue jeans and Doug’s old striped turtleneck with hiking boots; she was so well turned out with not a hair out of place. Doug was telling her about the skating on the river and asked politely what she had been doing. She mentioned the opening of an art show and a charity ball. That made me feel even smaller. She turned to me and asked, “what do you do?”  I stammered some reply, but it sounded so inane, even to me, that I felt even more out of place. Doug seemed to be totally absorbed by her personality. As they talked, Moira absentmindedly pushed her turtleneck up over her chin and then, a few minutes later, rolled it back down again. Everything she did seemed designed to captivate Doug’s attention. Lunch came and we ate; two friends of long standing and one stranger. I left and headed home as soon as I could decently escape. My day had clouded, and the cold wind had chilled me both in body and soul. Somehow, I felt a deep sense of loss, sadness and depression.

Home was as welcoming as ever, but the cold and loneliness were almost overwhelming. As she hung up her jacket, stripped off the sweater, even Doug’s wonderful turtleneck seemed to have no appeal. Maybe a hot shower would revive the spirits. She removed jeans and long underwear, her turtleneck and bra when suddenly an idea seized her. She slipped Doug’s striped turtleneck back on, its neck high up under her chin and stepped into the steaming shower. Immediately she felt better. The warmth flowed through her body as the old shirt became wet. She could watch it reflected in the chrome of the fixtures as first the neck began to sag and stretch, and then the body of the turtleneck as it became progressively longer. The navy stripes now almost black in the wet shirt seemed to grow further apart; the turtleneck, long to begin with was now almost a dress.  With her right hand she reached down gathered up a handful of the wet shirt and began to masturbate. In and out she went, the excitement filled her body and not even the ringing of the telephone in the next room could get her to stop. Shudders wracked her body as she came; the wet turtleneck was pulled off and dumped on the floor as she washed herself.

Feeling a deep sense of relief, she dressed and went into the living room. A Mozart symphony on the radio and a fire in the stove began to dissipate some of the cloud. As she picked up a magazine, the telephone rang again. It was Doug. Why hadn’t she answered? He was so sorry about Moira, but she was his boss.

Let’s go to the Rose Inn for a quiet yet formal dinner. She was willing; they would meet at his house and go together. She had not yet told him where she lived, only the unlisted telephone number.

Remembering Moira, she thought long and hard about her costume for the evening. Finally she chose a black wool skirt, a very bright red cashmere turtleneck and a nice dark gray jacket. A simple gold chain would have to do for Moira’s locket and a rather unprepossessing brown purse for her fashionable black bag. Doug was dressed in gray flannels and a white shirt with a conservative red tie under a Harris Tweed jacket. He looked so handsome and distinguished in a soft black overcoat.  He complimented her on her clothes and appearance; “that red turtleneck really brings out your color.”

Dinner was wonderful. Doug explained that Moira was the Vice Chancellor of the university, single and that they had done some things together. She had a regrettable tendency to turn up at awkward moments but there was nothing serious between them. She was quite a domineering woman; a point with which she had to agree. The food was perfect, beautifully presented. The wine was delicious and her glass kept getting filled. By the end of the evening, the hurt had gone to be replaced by a sense of deep contentment. Not happiness exactly, but a feeling of well being.

Afterward they returned to Doug’s house to pick up her car. He invited her in for a final cup of coffee and she accepted. They shed their jackets in the warmth of the house and as he filled the tea kettle, she excused herself to go to the bathroom. Once again she passed through his bedroom. There on his bed was a pair of blue jeans and a maroon and white striped turtleneck. Se went over and picked up the shirt. It was soft and heavy and smelled faintly of Doug. Without even thinking she pulled off her cashmere sweater and bra and slipped into his striped shirt. She was pulling it this way and that over her body reveling in its soft warmth and faint masculine smell when she happened to glance up. There was Doug in his shirtsleeves staring at her from the door. She looked at him in shock. Suddenly she was so scared and ashamed; she had betrayed his trust, her future crumbled before her, head hanging low, she couldn’t even bear to look at him. What had she done? She had felt love for this man, she had admired him and now she had done this. She was desolate, alone and afraid, time, silence and dread seemed to last forever.