The Moonlit Manifestation

The gentle scent of apple wine spread from the main house into the patio outside caught on drafts that spread outwards from the commotion indoors. It was well past midnight by the point that Sandra began to become worried of the absence of her date, a man whose capriciousness was well-known to anyone other than herself. She nervously and quietly sipped down some wine and partook of some chips sitting in ceramic bowls that lined the beautiful marble countertops, reflecting the mahogany cabinetry overhead. Her guests continued to become increasingly riled-up, much like what one would expect out of a high school party that had smuggled in their first keg of beer. Sandra eyed the situation and at quarter past one decided that her quests best go home and with the same great confidence that she exudes at work with great ease, she sent them homeward. At a personal level, this strength had come to her much more slowly. The only real reason that she held such parties at her house was a way of illustrating her willingness to be a ‘team player’ at work and as so, she continually hosted.

Once the guests had all left through their various modes of transportation, drunk or sober, it didn’t matter much to Sandra, she sighed in relief that her house remained intact through another one of her boss’ impromptu parties. She picked up the trash, the bottles of beer and wine, chips, and the stray cigarette buds—specifically forbidden in her home—on her prized countertops, throwing it all to outsized black trash bags. Though well past three in the morning, she scrubbed the countertops and vacuumed, then mopped, the granite tiled floors in the kitchen and the great room adjacent where her guests had traversed the most. The moon hung brightly in the night’s sky, illuminating the patches of snow that clung in the shady regions under trees and beside buildings and clearly denoting the white paint of the house across the street. Although that house—owned by the well-to-do Richards boy, son of bank guru Robert Richards—was supposedly worth almost one hundred and fifty thousand dollars more than her own, she was skeptical. That house, she always thought, was a hideous mimicry of a contemporary-styled colonial home with its bright green shutters and red door, combined to be quite reminiscent of Christmastime. Now collapsed on her front patio designer chair, she attempted to breath in the ambience of a late-winter night in the suburbs of Hartford, but was distracted by the sounds of hounds carrying on in the distance and the smell of spilt beer.

She awoke in her patio chair to find the sun meeting her gaze almost parallel the house, charming her out of a hideous sleep that harangued her mind with anxiety that she could not quite understand. It stood like an endless inner disquietude within her, beckoning her to edge into her queen sized bed to sleep for perpetuities. However, her newest project at work could not wait, and although a Saturday, she must go on and meet with her boss—whom Sandra had recalled as being quite inebriated the night before—and her client. Upon amassing a sense of awareness, she noticed that though snow lingered mercifully to spots around her yard, the air had a tepid sense about it—the crispness of winter lost to vague warmth. The drive from Bristol to Hartford was often a scrupulous task involving careful driving around an eclectic mix of traffic jams and fender-benders as far as the eye dare see. The seemingly perilous trek lasted nearly a half hour, not a terribly long commute by any means, but an undesired one that propelled Sandra into researching posh apartments in and around downtown Hartford. She also would not miss the family-oriented aura of her present neighborhood—the children running around on their bikes and skates on the street in front of her home irritated her deeply.

The image of the submissive housewife invariably, however conflictingly, befuddled Sandra at some level of her mind that she could not discern. Why relinquish one’s freedom and independence for a collection of bratty, snot-covered little people and a falsely domineering man that attempts to control all aspects of one’s life in order to attain a perverted sense of self-actualization? Though not a feminist per se, Sandra was a woman who desired nothing more than her own accomplishments and sense of self in order to develop her internal psyche. She did not necessitate the actions and values of others in developing herself into what she considered a reputable person. Thus, Sandra spent virtually all of her out-of-work time alone in her beautiful, however ostentatious, new dwelling. Though her career as an advertisement specialist was in the visual arts, she found herself developing a strong affinity for the written word when she was alone. She had a particularly strong kinship for the works of Kate Chopin due to the beauty and truth in her ideas of independent thought being an anthem to Sandra’s own ideals and principles.

The drive into work was as monotonous, albeit delicate, as planned—busy streets and the occasional accident on interstate 84 made for a slow ride into a town that was full of festivities on this given Saturday in accordance with ‘Spring into Hartford’. This festival, held annually before spring actually comes to fruition, is completed with music, food, and the very thing that irritates Sandra about driving the most—blocked roads. This dilemma coerced her into parking five blocks from her office building on North Street, a hammer into her already aching head due to the fact that she could possibly be running late. Her attire was nothing less than professional as she was outfitted in a black skirt with a fitted white dress shirt and black coat. To an outside observer, she was rather beautiful, ravishing almost if not for her somewhat haughty appearance. At age twenty-nine she was still youthful with an observably clear and olive skin tone, soft angular facial features, and a body that was proof of her allegiance to the gym. Her light brown hair, though usually kept up, was mainly forgotten in the rush of the morning and now danced around with the wind, turning heads from men across the street at the bagel vendor as she trotted toward her office on North.

The sky which had been clear earlier was now metamorphosing into grey with a stiff north wind that stung Sandra’s face as she entered the twenty-story office building. The ride to the twentieth floor—the ‘penthouse suite’ as everyone in Brussels’ Advertisement denoted it—was often as perilous as the drive from Bristol. This particular building also served as a medical complex with various doctors offices specializing in anything from radiology to gynecology. On one excursion upwards to the penthouse, a middle-aged woman boarded from the seventeenth floor and proceeded to scream at the top of her lungs in the presence of a mortified Sandra who did not know what to do. Only later did Sandra realize that this floor happened to be the oncology office’s location and the woman was likely a patient who had just been given the frightening news of having cancer. On other journeys upwards through the elevator services, Sandra encountered sneezing and coughing patients of general practitioners who obviously never learned what Sandra’s sister in law with a medical degree called ‘sickness etiquette’. A known germaphobe, Sandra despised such improper displays of sickness, especially coming from snot-nosed children.

The only good thing about coming into work on a Saturday was that all the doctor’s offices were closed and she would obtain overtime. Her salary was impressive, due in large part to the fifty to sixty hour weeks she managed to squeeze in, and the fact that year after year she received promotions. Her current title was Vice President of Creative Affairs—a job Sandra had been lusting over since her inception into the business six years earlier. This job gave her the ability to express her imaginative side by reviewing and, in some cases, producing innovative advertisements while her boss conducted most of the business facets of the trade. Sandra’s current project was a monumental task as she and her team had to create an entire ‘look’ for Silky-Smooth paper company, an up-and-coming company that had recently outgrown its manufacturing service that specialized in domestic paper products. She had finally put everything together for the client, and was rather proud of its daring, however serene, image and was sure that her client would be thankful.

The elevator had finally arrived to the penthouse and she inserted her ID key into the machine and the door made a popping sound, allowing her to make her entrance into the mostly dark office. The office itself was quite large, utilizing the entire penthouse and holding within it sixty-five or so permanent employees, though Brussels’ also hired part time freelance artists from time to time. This day, the only lights turned on were the emergency exit lights, the buzzing screen of a forgotten computer, and light emanating from beneath the door of the presentation room. Sandra stood at the dark grey door before hearing the sounds of two distinct voices, one being her boss, the other having an accent that she could not place. She knocked on the door and heard her boss exclaim “and here must be our chief designer, Sandra Dorsky” as he opened the door to let her inside.

“Come on, get in here, Sandra. Meet Mr. Dewitt,” her boss said as if he were boasting over a fine jewel he had collected. Sandra automatically knew that this meant that the client was happy and was, therefore, willing to pay big money for the designs.   

“Hello, my name is Sandra Dorsky and I am VP of designs,” she said calmly as she shook Mr. Dewitt’s hand, lacking much of the enthusiasm that her boss exuded but still carrying a certain charm. Mr. Dewitt was quite notable to look at, though he suddenly looked somewhat more nervous upon shaking Sandra’s hand. He had dark brown hair and was moderately tanned with grey, piercing eyes while his smile was careless and created a certain level of joviality and youth on his sculpted face.

“Hi, my name is Jean Dewitt,” he said with a warm smile that actually seemed genuine, a feat that was not often apparent in men in Sandra’s life. His accent, she discovered, was inarguably French in origin, as was his obvious name. The accent was not as pronounced as many, instead of being choppy English it was more Americanized, as though he grew up in America to French parents.

“Sandra, Mr. Dewitt, here, is President and CEO of Silky-Smooth,” her boss casually implanted into the conversation, as if threatened to not be the center of attention any longer. “Let’s get Sandra to go over the designs in detail, shall we?”

The visual effects were all in the presentation room ready to be unveiled as Sandra’s laborious month-long venture would soon be scrutinized by the client himself. This prospect always made her blood pump somewhat more quickly as she loved the excitement of not knowing whether or not her work would be liked or dismissed. However, this time she was sure the client would accept the company’s—her—work because her boss’ excitement over Mr. Dewitt viewing the rough sketches of the designs.

         “I am very excited for you to see these, Mr. Dewitt,” Sandra said with a greater sense of enthusiasm.

         “Oh, please, call me Jean, or John as a will at times go by,” Jean chuckled.

Sandra and her boss both displayed an immediate laugh that was more intended to please the client than to actually be good-humored. Sandra then replied “alright, Jean, let’s look at these little pieces of artwork, a labor of love I can assure you.”

Sandra unveiled the figures that lined the wall below the windows that housed a splendid view of North Hartford, presenting a stunning array of colors and symbols. Jean carefully examined each figure with a smile that became much broader as he went on through the frames while excitement grew within Sandra.

“Great…just great…” Jean slowly spoke as he examined the last figure. “I like this a lot and I can assure you the rest of my employees will as well. You can also be rest-assured that we will be using you a great deal over the next several years.” Jean’s continued warm smile attested to his pleased nature.

Sandra’s boss left the room to obtain the legal documents needed to be signed by Jean leading to small talk between Jean and Sandra that quickly escalated to flirtation. Sandra had never been very receptive to banter before, but Jean’s persistent nature caught her eye. After several moments elapsed, her boss returned with the required documentation and it was time for the three to part ways. Sandra was somewhat sad that this intriguing man was to leave so soon.

“Thank you Mike and Sandra, you guys really know your stuff.” Jean said cheerfully as the three exited the presentation room. Sandra and her boss quickly acknowledged his thanksgiving. 

Jean and Sandra exited the building together while they discussed the building’s architecture and what all the building enclosed. There were several points in the conversation when there would be awkward pauses, but one of them would try to recover by saying something witty or existential. When they finally reached the exit of the high-rise, they shook hands awkwardly.

“Well, I hope we meet again, Jean,” said Sandra tentatively.

“I will make sure we do,” extolled Jean with the same warm smile Sandra had come to fancy.

On her ride home, Sandra thought about Jean and how she felt about men in general, causing her to berate herself for getting even the least bit involved with a man considering her position on relationships with men. She viewed men as unnecessary beings in a woman’s life—a crutch that women sought after due to their own insecurities surrounding their abilities and independence. She never could quite understand why a woman would go for a man if it was not for obtaining money, fame, or other levels of fortune. Yet, Jean somehow seemed different, somehow more concerned and passionate. Still, Sandra did not want to be tied to any man for she could not, and will not, become Chopin’s ‘Mother-Woman’. After arriving to highway six, she started to realize how insignificant her encounter was with Jean and even laughed to herself for her stupidity. What made her believe that he was in any position, had any desire, to be with her in the first place? When she finally arrived to her unblemished home, thanks to an all night cleaning performance after the party, she blocked Jean from her mind and made a sandwich and, to celebrate her success with Silky-Smooth, drank some apple wine before taking a nap in her bedroom. 

She awoke to find the mild winter morning had turned white with stabbing winds and darkening skies as snow had already accumulated to about two inches. Sandra looked at the clock which read five forty-three in the afternoon. She arrived home from her office at about two o’clock and, thus, her ‘cat-nap’ had altered into a three hour occasion. The snow had always fascinated Sandra, as it was one of the reasons she moved from her parent’s home in Georgia to Connecticut. She enjoyed the suddenness of snowfall, such as the snow on this day when conditions were mild and almost spring-like before quickly becoming the heart of winter. Snow had forever had a consoling effect as one could watch the occurrence of snow flakes’ placid descent into oblivion. The whiteness of snow had the power to expunge all of man’s sallow conception with its limpidness and innocence, returning the planet to the age of innocence itself.  Sandra remembered the first snow she experienced as a child in Columbus, GA when all the sordid blackness in the world was obliterated and replaced by a coating of innocent white. To the childhood version of Sandra, snow was in itself God, protecting his world from the deviousness of mankind by erasing their revolting creation.

With the pallor of the snow on the roads gone mucky and grey, Hartford began to awaken in the decaying ruins of a potent nor’easter that slammed the region. After bunking down for the weekend and enjoying the downpour of snow, Sandra was off to her drive into the city to meet with her coworkers and no doubt celebrate their multi-million dollar deal with Silky Smooth. When she arrived to work, at exactly nine o’clock on the dot, she was flooded with accolades from her subordinates while she reassured them that this was their victory. Amongst the clatter of the office Sandra also saw her supposed date to the party at her house the Friday before. Tim made obvious moves not to get to near Sandra as he, indeed, celebrated with the other employees of Brussels’ while Sandra inched towards her office across the way of the cubicles. When she creaked open the door she was immediately sent affright as the likeness of Jean Dewitt came to fruition.

Unbeknownst to Sandra, Jean had called for a meeting between him and her concerning the evolution of the image of Silky-Smooth in the market years to come. Sandra’s boss was no where to be found and as so the lone image of Jean sat to the right side of her desk opposite the computer. He was smiling—of course—and appeared as though he was finishing up thumbing through a TIME magazine concerning, most notably, the life of the newly-elected president. Sandra noticed his golden brown hair glistening in the sunshine that filtered in through the expansive window to his right. His coy appearance and initial mannerisms were a surprise to Sandra’s rationalization about his demeanor on Saturday.

“Why hello Ms. Dorsky, good to see you again…and didn’t I say we would meet again?” He said with a light chuckle that seamlessly rolled out from his mouth.

“Well, yes, but I didn’t think it would be so soon and, well, surprising,” she said with revelation still in her voice.

“And why I would be in your office unattended?” Jean questioned.

“Actually that was one of my initial thoughts,” she, unknowingly to herself, jeered.

“Well I think it’s obvious that I am here to study for the SAT’s,” he mocked.

Sandra let out a sincere laugh, a rarity in her own experiences, and became more professional again by articulating “Well what is on your mind? Is there something the matter with our designs? I hope you don’t let all of our employees down in their celebrations—do they, or my boss, even know you’re here?”

“Who do you think let me in?” Jean said with a sly grin and continued cheerfully “Mike let me in this morning and told me to just wait for you in your office.”

Sandra appeared stumped for a reason se could not place a finger on and thought to her self how and why this was was a matter that only she, and not her boss, could resolve. 

“OK…OK... I’ll be serious now,” laughed Jean, “I came here asking if you if you would do something special for me and my, uh, company.”

“Alright, what did you have in mind, though I am a little scared to ask,” Sandra said with a smile that she could not, even with conscious thought, get rid of for more than a moment.

“It’s pretty simple. You see, there is a formal going on this weekend for the employees of Silky-Smooth,” Jean casually prepositioned while Sandra looked on skeptically, “and I wanted to see if you would like to join me because you created the face of my company.”

Sandra slowly asked “so I’m your date, basically. I don’t think—”

“No, no, not at all,” Jean interrupted.

Sandra looked at him with humored skepticism as if rolling in hysterics inside deep within her before muttering “uh-huh”.

With a face of defeat, Jean answered “OK, so it’s like a date.” He regained his usual smile and overt confidence and asked “so will you do it?”

Sandra taunted him with a long pause as she thought about how she felt about men, Jean, and everything else ailing her mind at that moment. Men are deceitful power-probing creatures who deserved no ounce of respect unless painfully garnered through solid and laborious effort they were most often unlikely to do. They readily bring women downward beneath their potential and away from personal prospective and are, therefore, to be avoided. However, something peculiar about what she felt about Jean pervaded her mind, as if his continual affectionate smile had infected her senses making her suppose that this one could be different if given the chance.

Sandra exited her surreal state and deemed her first real date with a man since her early twenties would possibly be well fit to Jean and replied to his awaiting face saying “yes, I’ll be glad to go with you.”

“Excellent!” Jean said with great fervor. “Where do you live so that I can pick you up?”

“Oh don’t worry about that, I live in Bristol so it’s pointless for you to drive all the way out there.” She said with some regret starting to pile in her mind.

“That works out perfectly, then. I live in Terryville. You are right on my way into town,” He said eagerly.

“Alright, I suppose that won’t be a problem. I will e-mail you my address,” she retorted plaintively.

“Well that sounds great, I will see you Friday night,” he said with less gusto in reverence to her lamenting tone. He did not quite know how to react to her response and contemplated her despondency as he said his farewells and ambled out the ostentatious office door. 

On her drive towards her residence in Bristol after work the five o’clock sun reflected off the snow that still hung over the landscape and nearly blinded her. The snow still managed to adhere to the branches and sides of trees as well as the sides of buildings in the face of the sun and the time that had elapsed from the time when the blizzard occurred. While exiting the city limits of Hartford, Sandra began to reminisce about her childhood in Columbus, GA after her thoughts landed on the idea of Jean. She had always lived in terror ever since she was a young girl of maybe three or four when she would watch, and silently cry, from under her parent’s bed as her father beat her mother. After he discovered Sandra underneath the bed he would pursue a few slaps across her face as well but the real pain occurred the next morning.

During the subsequent mornings she would watch her mother attempt, to little avail, to cover the bruises over her face and arms with make-up and whatever else, though she never witnessed her mother’s tears. Instead, her mother would say a prayer with Sandra before taking her to school and departing for work. After her mother divorced Sandra’s father after being found guilty of domestic abuse when he broke Sandra’s younger brother’s arm, she gave her entire savings to Sandra to go to any school she wanted in the nation. Despite the interpersonal turmoil within her family and collecting few friends during her childhood and adolescence, Sandra attained stellar grades and decided to attend Connecticut College. Her decision was heavily dependant on her distance from her abusive father, her distance from bad memories, and of course the all-consuming desire for snowfall’s virtue.

After Monday, the work week was an absolute blur of driving to and fro work and consummating edits on the Silky-Smooth drafts while being plagued with convictions about Jean, men, and her former life in Georgia. Like many companies in Hartford, Brussels’ Advertisement furloughed at noon on Fridays, usually allowing Sandra to seize a bite to eat downtown somewhere. However, she felt an urgent need to prepare for the night’s festivities at Jean’s formal by being extremely presentable in dress and exhibiting a great amount of savoir faire as she was extremely competitive in everything she pursued. Once she arrived home, she gathered the stray newspapers and coffee mugs that were negligently left around the house in order to guarantee that the house was immaculate. The final thing that Sandra had to guarantee that she was preeminent and incomparable in was her comprehensive appearance. She meticulously and ornately pulled her hair upwards and back and dressed in a simple all-black gown that Audrey Hepburn would have commended. With her hair out of the way of her face, Sandra’s admirable high cheekbones were on explicit exhibition which augmented the circularity and vibrancy in her green eyes. 

         In their e-mail correspondence, Jean had instructed Sandra to be ready to be picked up at five-thirty so that they could ‘grab a bite to eat’ somewhere downtown. This was sounding increasingly like a proper date and she did not quite know how to reconcile this thought within her head due to her conflicting initial thoughts about Jean Dewitt. He was most naturally a man which made him liable to be someone who is domineering, controlling, and abusive. However, she did not know this man who appeared to be docile and genuine. This fashioned a large duality in such an insignificant man who had virtually no interpersonal attachment for her; one strong emotion grinding against one transitory sentiment creating a fraction within her mind. This idea in itself intrigued her and left her wanting more of this now-captivating man whom she knew little about and would normally not pay attention. It is in the frustration of incomprehension that seemingly controlled her actions, compelling her to move closer and closer to what she would ordinarily deem worthless.

         Jean arrived promptly at five-twenty-eight on the tail of a freezing breeze that rolled off of the snow that still populated the ground leading right past her sprawling mahogany front door. He was dressed very charmingly, of course, with a fitted Armani black suit with a traditional black tie, a perceptibly tailor-made leather jacket, and sleek-black Paciotti moccasins while his hair was set free and gelled. He was quite obviously, almost inordinately, attractive with his tanned skin supplementing his light grey eyes all of which adorning atop a moderately pronounced musculature. His smile was as engaging and charismatic as ever, plastered to his face as if a sign nailed to a tree whilst inviting her to sail into the evening with him. Even though he looked every bit as charming and refined as something from a dream, she could not get past the thought of Jean simply being a manipulative, authoritarian, contemptible man.

         “Why hello there Ms. Dorsky,” he said while the rush of cold air swept through the doorway before slapping Sandra in the face with its icy grip. “Very good to see you again!”

         “Well, well, well now don’t we look nice in the Armani suit—must have cost you an arm,” Sandra exclaimed flirtatiously without noticing it again. “Then again, you are the big president and CEO of a quickly-growing international company.”

         “Yes soon to be growing all thanks to you,” Jean then noticed a slight discomfort within Sandra upon his flirtatiousness and quickly changed the subject while he and she walked into the foyer and closed the impressively heavy door. “Fancy little abode you have going on here,” he said with a slightly speculative tone, “I mean it’s absolutely gorgeous, and you even have a guest house and poolside cabana, wow. I just don’t know how to describe it,” with his enthusiasm quickly returning.

         “Well I am sure your home is nothing short of spectacular, it would have to be to match those shoes,” Sandra promptly interjected, “where do you live anyway?”

         “I live in a high-rise apartment complex in downtown Hartford right near—“

         “Wait, you said earlier that you lived in Terryville,” she shamelessly interrupted with some level of harshness in her voice. Her blood seemed to be simmering underneath her generally well-composed demeanor as she began to speculate whether or not Jean was, indeed, just the emblematic lying man. 

         “Well that was a tiny, inconsequential lie that you don’t need to worry about. And to be fair, I used to live in Terryville,” Jean gently defended himself against her accusatory eyes while his smile dwindled into nothingness. 

         “OK, so why did you lie to me in the first place and, by the way, I am one to believe that no lie is ‘inconsequential’,” Sandra jabbed at the man who she nearly forgot was almost a complete stranger though keeping most of her placidity. She then realized that she was, again, relying on preconceived notions about men and that these beliefs may be unfounded, especially in someone whose worst known crime was an uncomplicated and negligible white lie. “I’m sorry, Jean, it would appear that I am overreacting to this, forget about it,” she said after the two shared a brief awkward moment that seemed to last an eternity.

         Jean’s complexion and smile both sprung back to life as Sandra snuck by him towards the door while he managed to say, “Stop, I can really explain why I lied to you, even though it is rather, um, silly.”

         “Alright, enlighten me as we head on out to the car,” Sandra more or less ordered Jean before the two trekked across the erratic patches of snow on her stone path to Jean’s high-end black BMW. Jean opened the passenger door for Sandra, exacerbating her current ailment of struggling with the perfidiousness of this man as his actions seemed genuine—which both frightened and engrossed her.

         Jean cranked up the engine and began to explain “You see, this is dumb, but lying to you about my location was the only reasonable way I would get you alone for an hour as well as the opportunity to escort you to dinner, is this not so? I mean, I was lucky to get you to agree to go to the formal, though I thought you might get lured in by the chance to commingle with potential clients.” His tone and affect were flat in the beginning, but gradually returned to his accustomed vivacious optimism as he began to coquet with a now amenable Sandra, a talent that she was wholly adept at not utilizing.

         “Well,” she said with a chuckle, “this is probably a true statement and, for what it’s worth, I am sorry for victimizing you,” she said in a playful manner that, on some level, disgusted her basic ethical beliefs.

         Jean let out a deep sigh and enhanced his accent and said “Oh, I suppose I’ll be alright,” before excreting a momentary mocking cry causing the two to burst into authentic laughter. Sandra quietly wondered when the last time she genuinely laughed like this, all she remembered was making faux laughs in the company of her coworkers, boss, and the occasional date. “So where were you thinking for dinner?”

         Sandra stared blankly ahead for an instant before finally offering “Somewhere not so…how do I say…modern. Like I want something resembling old-world cooking, I get fed up with all these fancy caviar-serving expensive fine dining restaurants. But what about reservations? It’s Friday in Hartford.”

         “Don’t you worry about that, I put in a reservation at Trio’s Italian kitchen an hour ago,” he said with a grin that proved how rewarded he felt, “you’ll definitely like it. Brick oven and everything!”

         “Wow, I am impressed, how did you know that I was going to go for that?” Sandra asked with intrigue plainly in her eyes.

         “I didn’t know…I was just trusting you would say that. You seem like an old soul,” he affirmed with a modest wink in his eye.

         At that moment Sandra’s heart seemed to skip a beat as she could not understand what exactly this wink meant whether it is a joking friendly symbol or something more mysterious, romantic, and dark. A friendly elucidation would be an acceptable act for Jean to enact, but a coy mannerism as it may be would signal outright demoralization for her already abashed sense of who the man really is. For one thing, he seems incredibly legitimate and palpably authentic, but he is not well-known and therefore untrustworthy and conniving in her eyes. At the restaurant they continued their nearly amorous behavior and each time Sandra found herself doing so, she would attempt to restrain herself from becoming too involved with this man. However, every time she fell silent Jean would simply say something witty or piercing that would draw her attention back to him and away from the discord afflicting her chaotic mind. The two adversarial emotions within her mind were increasing as she began not to view him as a transient unimportant being, but as a charming and engaging man.

         Upon arriving at the Connecticut Expo Center, Sandra was amazed at the size of his venue that spanned nearly the length of a football field in both directions. Guests were just beginning to arrive, all looking quite elegant in their black and white tuxedos and evening dresses, not quite the image she had retained about people working with toilet tissue. Though her own office had held numerous formals in the years that she had been working for Brussels’, she had never actually been to a formal, including her high school prom and various college invitations. The lighting was dialed low and there was classical music playing throughout the room setting her aback to the 1700’s when there was truth in that love was real. The sounds of Shubert, Schumann, and Chopin seemed to swirl around the air fancifully chasing the lights that were cast on the walls and ceilings while Jean grabbed the hand of an obviously impressed Sandra and began to waltz. 

         “Whoa you almost gave me a fright,” she said delicately, “you know I am not trained in classical dance so I don’t know what the hell I am doing here.”

         “I am so just follow my lead and you will catch on, it’s simple, really,” Jean said with an intent face.

         Sandra danced around the floor with Jean for what created the impression to be forever as she gracefully learned the steps that Jean was instructing so avidly. When the waltz was completed, Jean acquired some mixed drinks from the bar and the duet sat and cross-examined each other about their past experiences with the opposite gender. Jean’s stories were revealed very easily and included the blunders of anything in dating from situational faux pas to betrayal. Though he led on that he was victimized in all of these relationships with women, Sandra wondered how many of these relationships, which were evanescent in nature to begin with, were ended with his wrong-doing. Details of her love-life were brought to consciousness much more unhurriedly as she resisted the idea of divulging such material and, instead, mocked Jean’s attempts to pry. Her overall conceptualization of Jean was ostensibly metamorphosing from a duality of benevolence and malevolence into an unambiguous picture of wholeness in flawed and ideal traits. No longer was he necessarily wicked simply because that is the nature of man, but he is generally good in the face of adversarial environments.

         The formal lasted only a few hours, but within that time Sandra’s entire angle on men appeared to disintegrate while her ideals on personal independence seemed to have caught up in flames as if burning copies of The Awakening. This revolution in her intrinsic mindset was, of course, ancillary to Jean and his authenticity as a person. On the half hour long drive back to Bristol, Jean picked up Sandra’s hand from her lap and kissed it slowly as he drove down Interstate 84. The moonlight from the full moon infiltrated the passenger’s window, illuminating and revealing the ethereal smile that was embedded on her face. She gingerly placed her head on his shoulder as they rolled onto highway 6 while tension began to mount within her at the realization that she did not know how to handle a goodbye like this. As they pulled into her expansive corpulent entranceway, Sandra importuned that he stay over for a drink as she was in no haste to watch him abscond.

         Jean opened the passenger door and carefully took her hand as she hopped out of the car, causing them to both chuckle. “Like something out of an old movie, wouldn’t you say?” Sandra joked before continuing “so how about that drink, or maybe coffee for you?”

         “You know what, that would be entirely lovely. Plus I get to have an inside look at your magnificent house,” Jean exclaimed while quietly wondering what caused such an interesting change in Sandra’s behavior. He never thought of it as a bad change, rather it was a modification that he did not foresee but somehow appreciated as she was now somehow more pliable and fun-loving. Once inside the mammoth kitchen, Sandra began to brew the coffee which filled the room with the roasted aroma, stirring both of their taste buds.

         “I’ve never had coffee at this time of night, well not since my days of doing research papers in college anyway,” she said with a furtive come-and-get-me grin that enticed Jean’s more primal undertones while he took off his tie and coat.

         Suddenly it all no longer made sense to the analytical Jean as to how and why she had such a dramatic change in behavior towards him and would no longer keep it to himself. As Sandra poured the first cup of coffee, Jean said, louder than he intended, “did you hate me at first or somehow find me repulsive or negligible?”

         Sandra mulled over the question for a moment with obvious distress in her face before muttering “honestly, and technically, yes…but I can explain!”

         For a moment Jean’s jaw dropped a noticeable amount and said with a despondent tone, “well I suppose honesty is worth something.”

         “Listen to me, ok so this is hard to admit sense I have been running away from it for so many years, but I hate, or hated, all men,” she said quickly and with great fervor while Jean leaned against the deep mahogany cabinetry. 

         “Why?” Jean was able to question with curious and concerned eyes.

         “Well, to be honest, when I was a child in Georgia, I lived with a man—my father—who ritualistically beat my mother and I, and later my little brother,” she alleged as her gaze sat on the coffee mug.

         “Oh, I can see why now…Where is your father now?” Jean plaintively questioned with no smile but concerned, if not angry, eyes.

         “He was sentenced to jail, but I suppose he would be out now. I have lost touch with my mother over the years. Seems like sharing a horrific memory can actually lead you further away from someone,” she sadly recollected.

         “And your brother, where is he?” Jean continued to pry, expecting Sandra to close up at any moment.

         “He is doing well in Sacramento. He’s married and has a son, we talk occasionally but I haven’t seen him in years,” she plainly offered.

         “Wow, Sandra, I am so sorry you had to go through all of that,” Jean said as he took her in a deep embrace that nearly withdrew her of breath. 

         “It’s alright,” she pronounced as she quietly removed her white gold jewelry. She was never an aficionado of ordinary mundane gold, or diamonds for that matter, instead she would buy white gold and silver, but never in great quantities. She scarcely even ever wore jewelry for the simple reason that she never had an occasion grand enough to necessitate adornments. The two sat quietly for a moment, sipping on some coffee, before Jean shot a warm and amiable smile toward Sandra, and she reciprocated before lightly snickering.

          “What could possibly be funny?” Jean asked with a brief laugh.

         Sandra paused and looked into Jean’s eyes before saying quietly “I just realized something—it’s true—if you can’t laugh at yourself, life is going to seem a whole lot longer than you want it to.”

         Jean looked puzzled as if mulling over the thought for only a second and began laughing. He managed to expel “I suppose you are right; here to, well, laughter,” and lifted his coffee cup up in a toast, sending Sandra into laughter before duplicating his action.

         After a moment Jean drank down the last of his coffee and rose from his seat before saying “Well it is so late! I must be getting home.”

         Sandra’s smile melted off her face as she whispered “alright, I suppose you are right.” By this point the two were in the foyer once again, with Sandra opening the front door.

Jean then propositioned, facetiously, “will we meet again?” with a serious look to his face.

Sandra, with a gentle smile responded “I’ll make sure we do,” and proceeded to kiss Jean lightly on the lips.

The two stood still in the cold momentarily before Jean kissed Sandra wildly and spoke carefully and seductively with a smile “well, I suppose I don’t have to leave.”