Change of Heart by Sally Mandel

apartment.”
    The air was sharp and cold, and he held her tightly against him as they walked. She watched the other night people approach and pass in the street, steam billowing rhythmically from each mouth—dozens of colorful locomotives chugging purposefully along invisible tracks. Little engines that could, she thought, remembering her father’s all-time favorite children’s story. He had read it to her regularly, all admiration for that simpering blue engine with the positive attitude: I think I can, I think I can. Well, they can, all these bustling Third Avenue engine-people with their pink cheeks and healthy turbine bodies. But what about me? Tell me what I’m supposed to do now, Daddy, with this gorgeous young man hauling me up to his apartment to see his etchings or his law journals or his whatever.
    I cannot, I cannot, I cannot. I cannot seem to say no.
    Brian propelled her into his building, nodding at the doorman, who leered suggestively, Sharlie thought, as they passed through the glass doors. In the elevator Brian pressed the button for 8, and still he didn’t release her. He held her next to him, Siamese twins joined at the hip, and when they walked down the hall toward his apartment, his thigh moved against hers through all the layers of skirts and pants and coats. She glanced up at him. She had already learned enough about his face to detect the mischief there—a slight tension around his mouth, two or three tiny crinkles by the eyes. She thought, he’s enjoying this, the rat fink.
    Inside the apartment he snapped on a closet light, its indirect glow soothing after the glaring fluorescence of the hallway. He shrugged off his coat, then unbuttoned hers, slipping it off her shoulders. She felt as though he were undressing her.
    Except for a few quick public kisses in the ticket line and some rather imaginative hand holding inside the theater, their physical contact had been negligible and always muffled by heavy winter clothing. Now, with his hands moving down her arms, which were covered only by a thin cashmere cardigan, it was as if he were caressing her skin just beneath its surface. She must have made a sound, because suddenly Brian stopped and took a close look at her.
    â€œBad idea.”
    Sharlie stared up at him, dazed.
    â€œWhat?”
    He put his hands just above her hips, holding her away from him.
    â€œI have no business doing this.”
    Sharlie was thinking about how he could easily encircle her waist with his fingers, and she had to fight hard to understand the remark. Finally it occurred to her that he was expressing concern for her health.
    â€œOh, that,” she said, a little drunkenly. “Hey, Brian, really, I know my own heart.”
    Then she giggled, listening to her own words.
    â€œI mean …”
    He smiled.
    â€œI’ve got this built-in stethoscope,” she stammered, “and really, so far, so good. It’s my knees. They’ve gone all … insubstantial.”
    He led her to the couch, but he sat very still, his hands on his thighs. Sensing the tension in his body, Sharlie put her arms around his neck and held him, her head nestled in the space between his shoulder and his ear. She sighed.
    â€œIt’s nice without all the insulation.”
    Then she shifted her body, facing him so that more of her met more of him. She felt his shoulder relax, and soon his hands began to move up and down her back, gently, molding her to the hard contours of his body. Her heart clattered noisily, but the voice in her head responded with a defiant I don’t care!
    She imagined she was being dropped from a plane into a free fall, and while she speculated momentarily about the parachute, mainly there was the sky rushing past and the conviction that death doesn’t mean a thing in the face of such exhilaration.
    She lifted her head so that she could study his face—the strong cheekbones softened by slightly rounded padding.