Quinn by Sally Mandel

modesty, high IQ,
    To love’s sweet challenge like the sun will rise;
    With hands persuading, soft words (maybe haiku)
    He’ll coax his maid’s bright laughter, giggles,
sighs.
    And, soul inspired, lean body tightly sprung,
    He’ll sate love’s prime demand—and make it fun.
    Van stared at Quinn in silence for a moment. “Who?” she asked finally.
    â€œWill Ingraham.”
    Van’s eyes widened. “Uh oh.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œServes you right.”
    â€œIt’s even iambic pentameter, the bastard.” Quinn looked at Van’s smiling face. “Don’t smirk at me, you … postnasal drip.”
    Van reached for a Kleenex and tried to blow her nose with ladylike discretion. After several unproductive sniffs into the tissue, Quinn said impatiently, “Damn it, just blow, will you? I won’t listen.” Quinn stared vacantly at the elegant Bachrach portrait of the Huntingtons that stood on Van’s desk.
    â€œAll right, then,” Van said. “Why don’t you just tell him he’s too late?”
    â€œIt’s a winner.”
    â€œBut he wasn’t invited.”
    Quinn fell silent, then got up and switched off the light. “Thanks for listening. You’d better get some rest.”
    Van smiled into the darkness. “Sleep tight.”
    Quinn heard the delight in her friend’s voice. “Oh, shut up,” she said, and closed the door behind her.
    Quinn was delayed in the garage on Saturday and had to hurry in order to pick up her mail before kitchen duty. Racing across the campus, she suddenly spotted Will ahead of her. He was walking with a girl—a pretty sophomore Quinn recognized from the cafeteria line. They were taking their time despite the frosty air. Quinn stopped short, intending to make a quick detour, but instead found herself staring curiously as Will bowed his head to better hear his companion. Then he laughed, threw his arm around her shoulders, and gave her a squeeze. What could that dark-eyed little underclassman have possibly said to elicit such appreciation from the cool Will Ingraham? She wrenched her eyes away from the couple and trailed behind them, determinedly forcing her feet to a slower pace. Finally they disappeared into Lenox Hall. She broke into a trot until the cold air whipped the image of Will and the girl out of her mind.
    On Sunday, Van and Quinn sat in the dining room lingering over their desserts. It was Quinn’s day off from her cafeteria job, and usually she enjoyed relaxing through her lunch. But today she felt impatient. Van’s mealtime ritual had begun to grate on her. Each slice of turkey got carved into morsels of identical size to be transported to Van’s mouth, one piece at a time, with the same compact gesture. She chewed each bite carefully, jaws meeting in a slow, relentless rhythm. After every two swallows she took a sip of milk. By the time she had finished her meat and started to subdivide the beets, Quinn had already cleaned her plate. She tried not to watch as the second of two forkfuls of beets disappeared down Van’s throat. When Van reached for her glass, Quinn felt a shriek bulging under her larynx. She forced herself to stare out the window until the lump dissolved, but her foot was rapping out a tarantella under the table.
    After she had gulped down the last spoonful of chocolate ice cream, Quinn wailed, “Oh, no. I forgot to taste that. I was looking forward to it all the way through the turkey and I don’t remember any of it.” She craned her neck around the sunny dining room, hoping to spy an untouched abandoned dessert.
    Van disrupted her ritual to ask, “Something on your mind, dear?”
    Quinn shot her a venomous look.
    â€œMy thought is that you really want to do this thing,” Van declared.
    â€œWhat thing?” Quinn asked. The tapping foot