before she could even say thank you for the ride.
Somehow she made it to her room and found herself leaning against the now closed door and staring into the dark. The heat of the room was not nearly as intense as the burning she felt. It was as though she had been hit by a kind of stroke. Quickly she opened the window and tried to catch her breath. No man had ever affected her the way Bill McNeil had. She probably would have fainted if he had kissed her goodnight or even if he had shaken hands. What in the world had happened to her tonight? And what was wrong with her … acting this way? She’d had her share of dating since she’d arrived in New York, but no one had really excited her. In fact, quite the opposite. Sooner or later, and usually sooner, they all got around to the same old line. You’re gorgeous … simply gorgeous. Love to see it without the draperies. Which was usually followed with … my place or yours? The propositions were so constant and so predictable, and the men so utterly lacking in desire to know anything about her beyond what met the eye, that she had felt almost inhuman. She began to find them repugnant, and she was exhausted by her efforts to fend them off tactfully. Finally she had given up the lovely apartment she had eventually taken and furnished to her taste and had moved to the Barbizon, a hotel for women only. She wasn’t a prude and even in Kansas girls knew about sex. But the opportunities that had been offered her could have made her the most underpaid, overworked bed partner in Manhattan, and so far she had never made love with a man. She’d saved the experience for someone very special, and somehow she had the feeling that that someone might be Bill McNeil. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t come on strong like all the others. For that matter, she reminded herself, he hadn’t even noticed her, much less made a pass or asked her out. But somehow she knew that he would. He had to. The more she thought of him, the more her feelings went into turmoil. At the moment, at least, nothing for them except a very cold shower.
After a sleepless night she looked at the bedside clock. It was only six in the morning, and another empty Sunday lay ahead of her. Well, one thing was sure. She couldn’t lie here any longer fantasizing about what it would be like going to bed with Bill McNeil. She had run the gamut on that one since two this morning. Quickly she got out of bed, went to the bathroom and took another shower. With the towel wrapped around her hair, she went back to the bedroom and dressed in a pair of plaid wool slacks, a cashmere turtleneck sweater and boots. Replacing the towel with a knit cap, she then buttoned her navy blue jacket, flung a muffler around her neck and grabbed up coin purse and keys as she left the room.
It was an extraordinarily mild and invigorating day for February, not a cloud in the sky nor a threat of rain on the horizon.
Finding a coffee shop a few blocks away, she ordered tea and toast. No butter, thank you … had to keep those pelvic bones showing. Munching on the dry toast, she tried reading the Sunday paper but found that she could read no further than, “It has been rumored that before Joseph Stalin’s death last year, he …” when her mind wandered back to Bill McNeil. She visualized him as he lay in bed, his thick chestnut-brown hair in disarray, the deep brown eyes shut in repose, and his long, nude body sprawled under the sheets. In her fantasy she saw him getting out of bed, stretching away the last vestiges of sleep as he yawned … Now he was doing a dozen push-ups … now dashing quickly into the shower, letting the spray pelt against his lean and muscular body. Wiping the steam from the mirror, he lathered his face, took up his Schick razor and shaved. No, wait a minute, that’s what my father uses. Bill probably uses an electric. Refreshed and still nude, he went to the kitchen, measured the coffee grains into the Silex. Waited until
Somehow she made it to her room and found herself leaning against the now closed door and staring into the dark. The heat of the room was not nearly as intense as the burning she felt. It was as though she had been hit by a kind of stroke. Quickly she opened the window and tried to catch her breath. No man had ever affected her the way Bill McNeil had. She probably would have fainted if he had kissed her goodnight or even if he had shaken hands. What in the world had happened to her tonight? And what was wrong with her … acting this way? She’d had her share of dating since she’d arrived in New York, but no one had really excited her. In fact, quite the opposite. Sooner or later, and usually sooner, they all got around to the same old line. You’re gorgeous … simply gorgeous. Love to see it without the draperies. Which was usually followed with … my place or yours? The propositions were so constant and so predictable, and the men so utterly lacking in desire to know anything about her beyond what met the eye, that she had felt almost inhuman. She began to find them repugnant, and she was exhausted by her efforts to fend them off tactfully. Finally she had given up the lovely apartment she had eventually taken and furnished to her taste and had moved to the Barbizon, a hotel for women only. She wasn’t a prude and even in Kansas girls knew about sex. But the opportunities that had been offered her could have made her the most underpaid, overworked bed partner in Manhattan, and so far she had never made love with a man. She’d saved the experience for someone very special, and somehow she had the feeling that that someone might be Bill McNeil. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t come on strong like all the others. For that matter, she reminded herself, he hadn’t even noticed her, much less made a pass or asked her out. But somehow she knew that he would. He had to. The more she thought of him, the more her feelings went into turmoil. At the moment, at least, nothing for them except a very cold shower.
After a sleepless night she looked at the bedside clock. It was only six in the morning, and another empty Sunday lay ahead of her. Well, one thing was sure. She couldn’t lie here any longer fantasizing about what it would be like going to bed with Bill McNeil. She had run the gamut on that one since two this morning. Quickly she got out of bed, went to the bathroom and took another shower. With the towel wrapped around her hair, she went back to the bedroom and dressed in a pair of plaid wool slacks, a cashmere turtleneck sweater and boots. Replacing the towel with a knit cap, she then buttoned her navy blue jacket, flung a muffler around her neck and grabbed up coin purse and keys as she left the room.
It was an extraordinarily mild and invigorating day for February, not a cloud in the sky nor a threat of rain on the horizon.
Finding a coffee shop a few blocks away, she ordered tea and toast. No butter, thank you … had to keep those pelvic bones showing. Munching on the dry toast, she tried reading the Sunday paper but found that she could read no further than, “It has been rumored that before Joseph Stalin’s death last year, he …” when her mind wandered back to Bill McNeil. She visualized him as he lay in bed, his thick chestnut-brown hair in disarray, the deep brown eyes shut in repose, and his long, nude body sprawled under the sheets. In her fantasy she saw him getting out of bed, stretching away the last vestiges of sleep as he yawned … Now he was doing a dozen push-ups … now dashing quickly into the shower, letting the spray pelt against his lean and muscular body. Wiping the steam from the mirror, he lathered his face, took up his Schick razor and shaved. No, wait a minute, that’s what my father uses. Bill probably uses an electric. Refreshed and still nude, he went to the kitchen, measured the coffee grains into the Silex. Waited until
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