“You’ve got a tail.”
I turned around to see the prettiest girl
smiling at me. She had bouncy blond hair and
impish green eyes, and I hadn’t a clue what
she was talking about. For a moment I
thought she meant she was the tail – that
she’d followed me out of the little gift
shop, which in fact she had. “Behind you,”
she said.
I peered over my shoulder. I didn’t see
anything out of the ordinary. Just the
little gift shop on a quiet street at the
edge of the college campus.
“A tail tail,” she said. “On your behind.”
She reached around me, holding my eyes with
hers. We were almost close enough to kiss.
I felt the faintest pressure of her hand on
the bottom of my bluejeans, and then
nothing. She’d stepped back. She had a piece
of string in her hands. Ordinary string
tangled in a ball. She spent a moment
straightening it out. It stretched two feet,
maybe a little more.
Her eyes twinkled. “Were you fishing for
something?”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Were you fishing for me?”
Now I really didn’t know what to say.
She looped the string around my neck, and
while knotting it, she said, “I wouldn’t
want you to lose your tail. I know all about
string theory.”
“String theory?” I replied stupidly.
“Yeah, you know. Quarks, hadron anomalies,
glueballs. Solves all the problems of the
universe. All the physical problems, anyway.
Come with me.”
She tugged on the string, then let me free,
and I followed her across campus. We didn’t
speak. A few late winter snowflakes hung in
the air. She led me into an apartment
building and up the steps.
At the door, she dug a key out of her jeans.
“Do you even know who I am?” I said.
“Sure I do,” she answered. The door clicked
open. We stepped inside.
“You’re Professor Baker. Assistant Professor
Baker. My roomie has you for romantic
poetry. Says you’re really good. Says you’re
cute, too. Just a little underfed. I’m going
to make you dinner. Grilled cheese okay?”
I watched her work at the stove. She toasted
bread in a buttered iron skillet. “Is your
roommate as …” I trailed off.
“Beautiful and impetuous as me?” She
laughed. She shredded cheese and sprinkled
it on the pieces of bread. She adjusted the
flame, pressed bare bread slices on top of
the two already in the skillet, and after a
few moments, she flipped both sandwiches
with a spatula. I could see the melting
cheese begin to ooze out the sides. Deftly
she took the sandwiches from the skillet and
put them onto a wide, white dinner plate.
We sat at the small kitchen table, the
perfectly browned grilled cheese sandwiches
between us.
“Go ahead, take a bite.”
I did. Delicious.
“And you just happened to see me with the
string?” I asked.
“You caught me,” she said. “It was my string
all along. I palmed it. Are you mad at me?”
I took another bite of the sandwich. Truly
excellent. The best I’d ever tasted.
“Want some beer to go with?” she said. “I’ve
got Guinness and plenty of it. Ice cold. In
honor of St. Patrick’s Day.”
“Okay,” I said.
She poured us each a glass. Above the dark
brew, the foam rose up thick and tan. We sat
there smiling at each other, and then I took
another bite. She watched me eat. “Aren’t
you having any?” I asked. “Shouldn’t we
share and share alike?”
“I want you to have mine,” she said. “Go on,
gobble it up like a growing boy.”
I couldn’t resist. The sandwiches were so
good. The beer, too. She poured us each
another glass.
“Tell me about poetry,” she said. “Tell me
about quatrains and iambs and onomatopoeias,
and I’ll tell you about quarks and hadrons
and glueballs.”
We talked. I talked. Basic lecture stuff,
but she seemed so pleased to be listening.
We’d moved to the living room, and she sat
on the sofa with her beautiful legs curled
under her and her chin in her palm and her
eyes on mine. Sometimes she’d take a sip of
beer, and from time to time she’d fetch
fresh bottles. All afternoon I recited
Shakespeare, Wordsworth, and Keats. Outside
her windows, the snow fell harder. The
darkness started to come. The snow in the
silver glow of streetlamps was like the
silent rain of a million tiny moths.
Abruptly I switched to Yeats.
Others because you did not keep
That deep-sworn vow have been friends of
mine;
Yet always when I look death in the face,
When I clamber to the heights of sleep,
Or when I grow excited with wine,
Suddenly I meet your face.
“That’s beautiful,” she said. “Show me what
you got at the gift store.”
“Didn’t you see?”
“Show me.”
From my pocket I withdrew the small packet.
I opened it, and into her palm I shook the
pin-a small shamrock with petals of pale
jade.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “Is it for
someone special?”
I nodded.
“Someone very special?”
I shrugged.
Her smile slipped momentarily into a frown.
“Did you get a chain for it?”
“Oh. I didn’t even think of that.”
Her fingers went to my throat. I’d forgotten
about my string. She unknotted it and
slipped an end through the eyelet at the
clover’s stem. Then she retied the knot.
She grinned at me. “How’s that?”
“Why don’t you try it on?” I removed the
makeshift necklace and set it over her head.
She did something with her hair, and the
necklace fell into place.
“How does it look?” she asked.
I grinned at her.
“But really it should go inside,” she said,
and in a twinkling she’d dropped the jade
shamrock inside her sweater. “Mm,” she
said, “I think your special honey is going
to like the way it tickles.”
While I was trying to think of the right
thing to say, she walked to the window.
“Wow! It’s really coming down. Practically a
blizzard.”
I stood beside her. “I guess I’d better be
going before it’s too late.”
“It’s already too late.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, don’t go. It’s early.”
“But I …”
“You can sleep over! The couch is very
comfy. You can tell me some more poems. You
can have some more beer. Besides, I haven’t
explained string theory to you yet.”
“You mean like quarks, and um hard-um.”
“Yes, quarks and hardons and blueballs,” she
said. She laughed and tugged me down onto
the couch next to her. “Quarks and hardons
and blueballs,” she repeated. “The basic
forces of nature.” She kissed me.
We kissed and kissed, and outside snow
buried the world, and inside, kisses were
the world.
But when I made a move for her body, she
stopped me. “Naughty, naughty, Professor,”
she said. “Just kisses, no touching.
Otherwise I’ll have to tie you up.”
“But I …” I backed away.
“Don’t be sad,” she said. “You can kiss me.
Just kiss me. Think of your sweetie, and
kiss me.”
I just kissed her, and I didn’t think of
anyone but her. I didn’t think of anything
but those kisses – in truth, I didn’t think of
anything – until at last she pulled away, and
sighed deeply, and said, “Are you happy?”
“I don’t want now to ever end,” I said.
“You’re sweet,” she said. “Tell me one more
poem, and then I’ll tuck you in.”
“I might be all poemed out.”
“Please.”
It wasn’t fair. She had her hand on the
front of my pants. The material stretched
and strained against my want. Her fingers
stroked slow, making the fabric or what was
below tremble and quiver. She looked deep
into my eyes. “One more poem and then beddy-
bye-baby,” she said. Soft as snowfall her
fingertips whispered to the material and
what was beneath it. “Make it last,” she
said. “Make it last, and make it something
sad and beautiful and true.” Her fingers
continued to stroke, but slower now, ever
slower, until at last I managed to croak:
With a most masterful voice,
That made the body seem as it were a string
Under a bow, he cried: “What happiness
Can lovers have that know their happiness
Must end at the dumb stone?
“That was nice,” she said. She covered me up
with a puffy quilt. “Sleep tight.” She drew
the shades, and the room was utterly dark.
I dreamed of snow. The drifts covered me
until I couldn’t move. I opened my eyes, but
I couldn’t see. I tried to lift my legs, but
a hopeless tangle prevented me. A soft rope
wrapped my wrists. Immobile, I lay on my
back, in the dark, in the cold, waiting.
I felt her hair first. At first I thought it
was her hair. The tip of it whispered to my
thigh. It brushed back and forth, swaying
lightly as it lightly sawed my skin – in the
utter dark, in the utter quiet of the quiet
night, the touch, too firm for hair,
continued its play. Her nipple, I thought.
How sweet. But not a nipple, I knew – it was
the jade shamrock. And only then, once the
thing was known, did I realize her lips were
touching my stem. Warm and moist, they
caressed my stalk on this side and that,
around and around, kissing and nipping and
nuzzling until the column rose silo huge,
and the tongue traced a path around the
upper rim and lapped the tender wedge and
tickled the slippery slit. And then her
whole mouth had me, had me deep and full,
and while her mouth fucked my cock, in
counterpoint the jade petals of the shamrock
patted my inner thigh, tickling and prodding
and poking me to the edge of an unbearable
ecstasy. And over! I came quickly,
violently, filling her mouth with hot juice,
and still she sucked, slurping and
swallowing, and still the jade shamrock
rocked itself, now against the base of my
balls, at once comforting and exciting. In a
moment I was hard again, and in another
moment I was coming again, jerking like a
puppet on a string, shooting torrents of
creamy spew into her hot mouth. When at last
I was drained and calm, the little pendant
dawdled a few moments more, then drew up my
naked phallus and kissed it goodnight. The
final twitch sent me shivering into an ocean
of sweet oblivion.
I awoke to an empty apartment. I dressed
quickly. I’d have to hurry to make my ten
o’clock class. A blanket of snow covered the
sidewalks, but the streets were clear.
Careful of cars and buses, I made my way to
campus, and I arrived at my classroom with a
minute to spare. The students were still
chatting. Some of them had yet to take their
seats. One, a ruggedly handsome guy named
Sean Cooper, strode up to me.
“Professor,” he said.
I nodded. And I noticed, in the wide vee of
his plain white shirt, attached to a simple
string, the pale jade shamrock.
“Share and share alike, right, Professor?”
He plucked the string, and the shamrock
shivered. He grinned an infectious grin.
“Deirdre says hi.”
