The Scented Scarf
I knew she was trouble the first time I saw her. Something in the way she stood reminded me of the others: the way she moved about the room with her hypnotic innocence; the way she looked past, not at me, as though I didn’t exist. My tiny cubicle may as well have been a broom closet on the moon.
Her blonde hair flowed across her shoulders, tangled in a single ray of sunlight that had cheated its way through the slats of the closed blinds. The fist-sized flowers on her dress followed her curves and tricked my eyes into looking more than was proper. A living breathing floral arrangement.
Starting over in a new city was not going to be easy.
I tried to busy myself with the task of transferring the tools of my trade from the cardboard box to their rightful places on and in my new desk. Pens and pencils, notepads, and a tape recorder small enough to fit into my shirt pocket came out of the box first. Reporters, even junior reporters like myself (and at my age, too!), should never be caught without the means to capture a moment. Ah, the moments I’ve captured would make them … her … take notice of me, but, no, I don’t dare.
She turned and lifted a slat in the blinds with her finger and peeked out the window. More sunlight drilled through. For a tiny slice of time the dreary room filled with the hope of sunshine. Hope vanished as her finger withdrew, letting the slat fall back into place. I stared at her back, devouring her with my eyes, invading her privacy without her having the slightest clue. Would she really have worn that dress, and struck such a pose, had she not wanted to be noticed? Twice I looked away, trying to resist those old urges, urges that burned in the pit of my stomach like hot coals in a flour sack. I guessed her height to be just under five-six. I’m very good with measurements. She had full hips, perhaps a little too full for someone of her size, but they added character to an otherwise perfect body. The hem of her dress brushed the delicious bends of her knees. Even the backs of her legs were tan. She turned. I searched her face for the slightest imperfection. Anything that might stop my torture, but it was not to be. Her nose was straight, narrow, and perfectly centered between two greenish-blue eyes. She neither smiled nor frowned. A frown could not possibly exist on such a face. Lips of that delicious hue could not bend downward. Nature would not, could not, allow it. It was as if I had been given a blank canvas and the talent to fill it from my exceptional imagination.
The very thought of approaching her made my palms sweat.
She left the window and disappeared into a cubicle identical to my own. I lifted my dictionary from the box and wiped a layer of dust from the tattered cover. My mother, God rest her soul, bought it for me when I started working for the local newspaper fresh out of high school. It didn’t matter to her that I only worked the mail room. “If you’re going to be a reporter you've got have a good dictionary.” Mother believed in me, but never in front of father. Father didn't allow his son to be coddled.
“Forget her,” a strange voice said, “she’s a cold fish.” I looked up at my uninvited guest. He wore polyester pants and a checkered sweater. A toothpick dangled from his thin lips. He smiled and revealed tobacco-stained teeth. His high cheekbones dominated the shape of his face, reminding me of The Joker in the Batman cartoons I read when I was a kid. His hair looked wet, the kind of wet that never dries. He stroked his pencil-thin mustache as he looked down at me. I detested him immediately.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, snapping my concentration back to my cardboard box.
"Gotta be a dike,” he said. “Hit on her myself a couple of times. A real cold fish.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. Yes, already I hated him.
After lunch I slipped from the safety of my cubicle and hurried down the hall to make some copies for my first assignment. Imagine me having an assignment. The room was small, not much bigger than the walk-in closet in my new apartment, and reeked of toner and fresh paper. In the center of the room stood the copier. I stared at it, wondering how in the world they got it through the doorway. Maybe they built the room around it, I thought, or assembled it on the spot. I sensed her behind me.
My nostrils savored the enchanting fragrance of fresh-cut flowers, not any certain variety of flower, but an entire garden. No single flower could hold such an elegant aroma. She smelled exactly as I imagined she would. My palms began to sweat through the papers in my hand, giving them translucent spots. My breathing became shallow and quick. I prayed for her to go away, to leave me without speaking.
The static whine of the copier masked my pounding heartbeat as I fed the last sheet of paper into the beast and waited for it to spit the reproduction into my trembling hands. Surely she saw them shake. I imagined those soft lips smiling at my embarrassment as her eyes burned against my back. How could she not enjoy an internal chuckle at my expense, seeing me come apart just from being near her. How could she not pity me?
“Are you finished?” Her smooth voice draped my shoulders, like a silk sheet settling on a new mattress. My God, did she have no blemishes at all?
“Yes, yes I am.” I brushed past her with a swift step sideways, avoiding direct eye contact, struggling to maintain my self-control, but as I reached the freedom of the hallway, I stopped and stole a quick glimpse of her face.
“My name is Arnold,” I muttered, barely audible. Immediately I wished I could take it back, but no, it was out there, like a fart in a room full of ladies, out of place, and every bit as offensive.
“Excuse me?” She turned to face me. Her eyes betrayed a trace of amusement.
“Ar-Arnold,” I stuttered, “my name is Arnold. I’m new here.”
“Oh,” she said, “I’m Kate. It’s nice to meet you.” She smiled and stuck out her hand but I couldn’t touch her, not yet, so I stood frozen like an idiot, feeling the heat in my cheeks. She hesitated, constricted her eyes ever so slightly, then withdrew her hand and returned her attention to the copying machine. Just like that our encounter ended.
One by one she fed a small stack of sheets into the machine. I wanted to interrupt her again, to ask her for a date. A simple three-letter word from her could change everything, but it was not to be. I mentally rehearsed every conceivable way of asking, but there could only be one answer. If only I were tall dark and handsome. I was fifteen again and she was Mindy Burch. I walked back to my desk with Mindy Burch’s 'not a chance dork' reverberating inside my head. Dad was right -- I'm a loser. Defective.
“Don’t sweat it, Mack. I told you she was a cold fish. I know a few babes. Let me make a call.” It was him again.
“My name’s not Mack,” I snapped. “It’s Arnold, and I’m not in the mood for conversation right now, okay?”
“Whoa, Mack, don’t take it out on me.” He threw up his hands up in mock surrender. “Name's Derk. Seriously, I can set you up. Might cost you a few bills, but hey, you're used to that, right? What do you want, redhead, blonde? You like blondes. I can tell." He dropped his hands and flashed a used car salesman smile. "Look, you’re new here. Tell you what I’m gonna do.”
“No! I’m not interested in your babes, or chicks, or whatever it is you call your whores. Just leave me alone, okay?” Maybe it was my eyes (I’ve been told my eyes can be fierce at times), I don’t know, but something scared him away. Thank you, God.
I tried to put her out of my mind, to get back to my unfinished article. I didn’t need to miss another first deadline. For the remainder of the day I buried my nose in my computer screen and tried to think of anything but her.
We met at the copier again the next day. Actually, we bumped into each other in the doorway. She was coming out, I was going in. An inch-thick file folder tumbled from her hands and hit the tile floor. Papers fanned out onto the floor like a peacock’s tail.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, and dropped to my knees in a frantic effort to retrieve the papers. She squatted beside me, our faces only inches apart. Her dress slipped above her left knee. I envisioned our lips touching, slowly at first, then with the fury of passion. Oh how we tumbled about the place!
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said, apparently unaware of the fierce lovemaking inside my head.
“Good move, Slick.” Derk again. I shot him a warning glance over my shoulder.
“Get lost Derk,” she said, “it was an accident.”
“Sure, sure, sweet cheeks, I’ve used that accident myself a few times, remember? Romeo’s got a boner for you. He wants to do the belly bop with you. Remember telling me that, slick?”
I dropped the papers I had collected, then scrambled to recover them. My face throbbed.
“Get lost, Derk,” she said, “or I’ll file another sexual harassment complaint against you.” He vanished.
“S-s-orry,” I said.
It took me three days to risk another trip to the copy room. On my way past her desk I overheard the editor, giving her directions to a six-car pileup out on the interstate. I hurried back to my desk, grabbed my jacket, then slipped out a side door which opened directly into the parking garage.
Seconds later I heard the hollow echo of her high heels pecking the sidewalk and ricocheting off the concrete walls. I moved toward the sound and rounded the corner just in time to see her slide into a red sports car and close the door.
“Hey! Wait up!” I trotted toward her car and reached it just as the backup lights flashed. “Wait for me!”
She stopped. I ran to her window and leaned toward her bewildered expression. She cracked the glass an inch.
“The boss told me to tag along,” I said.
“Why?”
“Uh, he said I needed to learn my way around.”
“Sure, why now,” she said. “Get in.”
The door locks thumped. I pulled the back door open and slid into the seat behind her.
“You’re welcome to ride up front.”
"No, I-I’m afraid I get carsick if I ride in the front.” I saw her face wrinkle in the rear-view mirror. My pulse raced. Adrenaline spurted into my bloodstream like nitro into a fuel rail. My face felt hot, like fever.
“Okay,” she said, “but tell me if you start feeling sick and I’ll pull over. I just paid fifty bucks to have this thing detailed.” Her words faded into a drone of background noise. Images of the others clicked past my eyes like film being pulled by hand across a lens.
“Are you okay? You’re not getting sick are you?”
I barely realized she had spoken. My hand fumbled the side pocket of my jacket and found the silk scarf. It was red, and showed signs of wear. I wrapped the ends around my fists and pulled it tight.
“You don’t look well. If you’re getting sick you should get out and get some air before we start.”
I stared into the blonde hair on the back of her head and spotted a single dark root. There! I’d found it – her blemish. She had something to hide after all. Don’t they all? My teeth found my bottom lip and bit down. Blood trickled onto my tongue, filling my mouth with the taste of copper.
“At least lower your window,” she said.
I sprung the trap. My scarf brushed her nose on the way over and down, then found the soft flesh at her throat. Her eyes flew wide with terror as her head pressed into the headrest. I locked onto her gaze. More pressure.
“Why?” Her eyes asked the question. They all ask the same question. Why?
“Because,” I whispered. For a moment I hyperventilated. The interior of the car began to spin, then became a blur. Ultimately the spinning stopped, simultaneous with her struggle. My vision returned to normal. Sweat dotted my forehead as the intense rush began to subside. At last I pulled the scarf from her neck, wadded it into a ball, and pressed it against my nose. For several seconds I dared to savor its mix of perfumes. It was an aroma no single flower could hold, as if all the gardens in the world had morphed into silk and dropped into my hands.
Her blonde hair flowed across her shoulders, tangled in a single ray of sunlight that had cheated its way through the slats of the closed blinds. The fist-sized flowers on her dress followed her curves and tricked my eyes into looking more than was proper. A living breathing floral arrangement.
Starting over in a new city was not going to be easy.
I tried to busy myself with the task of transferring the tools of my trade from the cardboard box to their rightful places on and in my new desk. Pens and pencils, notepads, and a tape recorder small enough to fit into my shirt pocket came out of the box first. Reporters, even junior reporters like myself (and at my age, too!), should never be caught without the means to capture a moment. Ah, the moments I’ve captured would make them … her … take notice of me, but, no, I don’t dare.
She turned and lifted a slat in the blinds with her finger and peeked out the window. More sunlight drilled through. For a tiny slice of time the dreary room filled with the hope of sunshine. Hope vanished as her finger withdrew, letting the slat fall back into place. I stared at her back, devouring her with my eyes, invading her privacy without her having the slightest clue. Would she really have worn that dress, and struck such a pose, had she not wanted to be noticed? Twice I looked away, trying to resist those old urges, urges that burned in the pit of my stomach like hot coals in a flour sack. I guessed her height to be just under five-six. I’m very good with measurements. She had full hips, perhaps a little too full for someone of her size, but they added character to an otherwise perfect body. The hem of her dress brushed the delicious bends of her knees. Even the backs of her legs were tan. She turned. I searched her face for the slightest imperfection. Anything that might stop my torture, but it was not to be. Her nose was straight, narrow, and perfectly centered between two greenish-blue eyes. She neither smiled nor frowned. A frown could not possibly exist on such a face. Lips of that delicious hue could not bend downward. Nature would not, could not, allow it. It was as if I had been given a blank canvas and the talent to fill it from my exceptional imagination.
The very thought of approaching her made my palms sweat.
She left the window and disappeared into a cubicle identical to my own. I lifted my dictionary from the box and wiped a layer of dust from the tattered cover. My mother, God rest her soul, bought it for me when I started working for the local newspaper fresh out of high school. It didn’t matter to her that I only worked the mail room. “If you’re going to be a reporter you've got have a good dictionary.” Mother believed in me, but never in front of father. Father didn't allow his son to be coddled.
“Forget her,” a strange voice said, “she’s a cold fish.” I looked up at my uninvited guest. He wore polyester pants and a checkered sweater. A toothpick dangled from his thin lips. He smiled and revealed tobacco-stained teeth. His high cheekbones dominated the shape of his face, reminding me of The Joker in the Batman cartoons I read when I was a kid. His hair looked wet, the kind of wet that never dries. He stroked his pencil-thin mustache as he looked down at me. I detested him immediately.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, snapping my concentration back to my cardboard box.
"Gotta be a dike,” he said. “Hit on her myself a couple of times. A real cold fish.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. Yes, already I hated him.
After lunch I slipped from the safety of my cubicle and hurried down the hall to make some copies for my first assignment. Imagine me having an assignment. The room was small, not much bigger than the walk-in closet in my new apartment, and reeked of toner and fresh paper. In the center of the room stood the copier. I stared at it, wondering how in the world they got it through the doorway. Maybe they built the room around it, I thought, or assembled it on the spot. I sensed her behind me.
My nostrils savored the enchanting fragrance of fresh-cut flowers, not any certain variety of flower, but an entire garden. No single flower could hold such an elegant aroma. She smelled exactly as I imagined she would. My palms began to sweat through the papers in my hand, giving them translucent spots. My breathing became shallow and quick. I prayed for her to go away, to leave me without speaking.
The static whine of the copier masked my pounding heartbeat as I fed the last sheet of paper into the beast and waited for it to spit the reproduction into my trembling hands. Surely she saw them shake. I imagined those soft lips smiling at my embarrassment as her eyes burned against my back. How could she not enjoy an internal chuckle at my expense, seeing me come apart just from being near her. How could she not pity me?
“Are you finished?” Her smooth voice draped my shoulders, like a silk sheet settling on a new mattress. My God, did she have no blemishes at all?
“Yes, yes I am.” I brushed past her with a swift step sideways, avoiding direct eye contact, struggling to maintain my self-control, but as I reached the freedom of the hallway, I stopped and stole a quick glimpse of her face.
“My name is Arnold,” I muttered, barely audible. Immediately I wished I could take it back, but no, it was out there, like a fart in a room full of ladies, out of place, and every bit as offensive.
“Excuse me?” She turned to face me. Her eyes betrayed a trace of amusement.
“Ar-Arnold,” I stuttered, “my name is Arnold. I’m new here.”
“Oh,” she said, “I’m Kate. It’s nice to meet you.” She smiled and stuck out her hand but I couldn’t touch her, not yet, so I stood frozen like an idiot, feeling the heat in my cheeks. She hesitated, constricted her eyes ever so slightly, then withdrew her hand and returned her attention to the copying machine. Just like that our encounter ended.
One by one she fed a small stack of sheets into the machine. I wanted to interrupt her again, to ask her for a date. A simple three-letter word from her could change everything, but it was not to be. I mentally rehearsed every conceivable way of asking, but there could only be one answer. If only I were tall dark and handsome. I was fifteen again and she was Mindy Burch. I walked back to my desk with Mindy Burch’s 'not a chance dork' reverberating inside my head. Dad was right -- I'm a loser. Defective.
“Don’t sweat it, Mack. I told you she was a cold fish. I know a few babes. Let me make a call.” It was him again.
“My name’s not Mack,” I snapped. “It’s Arnold, and I’m not in the mood for conversation right now, okay?”
“Whoa, Mack, don’t take it out on me.” He threw up his hands up in mock surrender. “Name's Derk. Seriously, I can set you up. Might cost you a few bills, but hey, you're used to that, right? What do you want, redhead, blonde? You like blondes. I can tell." He dropped his hands and flashed a used car salesman smile. "Look, you’re new here. Tell you what I’m gonna do.”
“No! I’m not interested in your babes, or chicks, or whatever it is you call your whores. Just leave me alone, okay?” Maybe it was my eyes (I’ve been told my eyes can be fierce at times), I don’t know, but something scared him away. Thank you, God.
I tried to put her out of my mind, to get back to my unfinished article. I didn’t need to miss another first deadline. For the remainder of the day I buried my nose in my computer screen and tried to think of anything but her.
We met at the copier again the next day. Actually, we bumped into each other in the doorway. She was coming out, I was going in. An inch-thick file folder tumbled from her hands and hit the tile floor. Papers fanned out onto the floor like a peacock’s tail.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, and dropped to my knees in a frantic effort to retrieve the papers. She squatted beside me, our faces only inches apart. Her dress slipped above her left knee. I envisioned our lips touching, slowly at first, then with the fury of passion. Oh how we tumbled about the place!
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said, apparently unaware of the fierce lovemaking inside my head.
“Good move, Slick.” Derk again. I shot him a warning glance over my shoulder.
“Get lost Derk,” she said, “it was an accident.”
“Sure, sure, sweet cheeks, I’ve used that accident myself a few times, remember? Romeo’s got a boner for you. He wants to do the belly bop with you. Remember telling me that, slick?”
I dropped the papers I had collected, then scrambled to recover them. My face throbbed.
“Get lost, Derk,” she said, “or I’ll file another sexual harassment complaint against you.” He vanished.
“S-s-orry,” I said.
It took me three days to risk another trip to the copy room. On my way past her desk I overheard the editor, giving her directions to a six-car pileup out on the interstate. I hurried back to my desk, grabbed my jacket, then slipped out a side door which opened directly into the parking garage.
Seconds later I heard the hollow echo of her high heels pecking the sidewalk and ricocheting off the concrete walls. I moved toward the sound and rounded the corner just in time to see her slide into a red sports car and close the door.
“Hey! Wait up!” I trotted toward her car and reached it just as the backup lights flashed. “Wait for me!”
She stopped. I ran to her window and leaned toward her bewildered expression. She cracked the glass an inch.
“The boss told me to tag along,” I said.
“Why?”
“Uh, he said I needed to learn my way around.”
“Sure, why now,” she said. “Get in.”
The door locks thumped. I pulled the back door open and slid into the seat behind her.
“You’re welcome to ride up front.”
"No, I-I’m afraid I get carsick if I ride in the front.” I saw her face wrinkle in the rear-view mirror. My pulse raced. Adrenaline spurted into my bloodstream like nitro into a fuel rail. My face felt hot, like fever.
“Okay,” she said, “but tell me if you start feeling sick and I’ll pull over. I just paid fifty bucks to have this thing detailed.” Her words faded into a drone of background noise. Images of the others clicked past my eyes like film being pulled by hand across a lens.
“Are you okay? You’re not getting sick are you?”
I barely realized she had spoken. My hand fumbled the side pocket of my jacket and found the silk scarf. It was red, and showed signs of wear. I wrapped the ends around my fists and pulled it tight.
“You don’t look well. If you’re getting sick you should get out and get some air before we start.”
I stared into the blonde hair on the back of her head and spotted a single dark root. There! I’d found it – her blemish. She had something to hide after all. Don’t they all? My teeth found my bottom lip and bit down. Blood trickled onto my tongue, filling my mouth with the taste of copper.
“At least lower your window,” she said.
I sprung the trap. My scarf brushed her nose on the way over and down, then found the soft flesh at her throat. Her eyes flew wide with terror as her head pressed into the headrest. I locked onto her gaze. More pressure.
“Why?” Her eyes asked the question. They all ask the same question. Why?
“Because,” I whispered. For a moment I hyperventilated. The interior of the car began to spin, then became a blur. Ultimately the spinning stopped, simultaneous with her struggle. My vision returned to normal. Sweat dotted my forehead as the intense rush began to subside. At last I pulled the scarf from her neck, wadded it into a ball, and pressed it against my nose. For several seconds I dared to savor its mix of perfumes. It was an aroma no single flower could hold, as if all the gardens in the world had morphed into silk and dropped into my hands.
