Death of an Optimist

By Charles Schwarz

This outrageous, politically incorrect, humorous noir mystery is singular in contemporary fiction. Without vampires and aliens attacking the world it remains a fast paced, exciting satirical attack on American social mores and is not for the faint hearted. A rocky road for the Pollyanna personality as optimism is roughly treated and is certainly a dangerous read for innocent ivy league co-eds. Populated with friends who are not friends, blacks who are not black, intellectuals who are not intelligent, lovers who do not love, conspiracy freaks without conspiracies, and five attempted murders without a murderer, this unique novel will have you laughing as it shocks your social sensibilities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Schwarz
• Release date: Jul 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310239243

Book preview

Chapter 1. Keeping Pessimism at Bay

Ed always questioned himself: am I a pessimist? I certainly hope not.

Believing he was less pessimistic than the average twenty-seven-year-old educated man, still it was hard to keep a cheerful view of his future, if someone tried to kill him. Could he be a cynic? Ed definitely hoped not.

Similar to his fellow Americans, Ed believed he possessed bedrock ideals, still it was hard to be idealistic if someone tried to kill him a second time. But Ed persisted in holding his ideals, vague and misty as they were: all basically good, with the caveat not all; all trustworthy, with the caveat not all; all intelligent, with the caveat not all; all rational, yet some were not.

With such a nebulous belief about people who impinge on your everyday life, it must follow that any government of the people, for the people, by the people, should reflect the same attributes as the people: goodness, trustworthiness, intelligence, and rationality. Did that make Ed a liberal progressive? He felt certain queasiness at such a position.

With such a faith in government, Ed had difficulty in believing his government, and in particular the government’s Sociological and Educational Advancement in Research (SEAR) Department would authorize a research grant to the wrong person, for the wrong amount, for the wrong purpose, and adamantly refuse, not only to correct their error, but stubbornly refuse to admit there were errors made by the SEAR’s Department. The Department was so inflexible; it made legal threats at Ed if he persisted in his attempts to correct the situation.

Under his last name Smithe, Ed requested a modest grant of a hundred thousand to evaluate pupils’ progress at The Harvard Charter School in Massachusetts, against a nearby public school’s students’ achievements. Due to his stringent finances, he had to utilize the hunt-and-peck method on his typewriter in filling out the government request forms. His first error, an inadvertent space between the ‘h’ and the ‘e’ in his last name, resulted in Smith e. To compound his error, Ed accidentally typed a nine for a zero in his social security number. Finally, after laboriously typing Harvard Charter School on over twenty-seven pages of the government forms, on the last page he just lazily typed Harvard, in the belief that with the preceding references to the Harvard Charter School, the omission would cause no confusion.

Alas, his errors were neither overlooked nor correctly interpreted in context by the SEAR supervisor, Jan Hilloric. The result, Ed was awarded a grant of a million dollars to evaluate Harvard’s School of Education and Sociology. Somewhere within those twenty-seven pages an additional zero materialized at the end of the one hundred thousand, the detached ‘e’ evaporated making his name Ed Smith without the e, and as Ed left the box indicating race empty, Ms. Hilloric filled it in as American Indian. Ed could only rationalize the cause of this particular error was due to his return address, a cabin he rented for the summer at the Watsome Indian reservation.

Being of optimistic nature, having an abiding faith in his government, Ed attempted to point out the errors to SEAR’s Hilloric. The grant was for the Harvard Charter School, not Harvard University; the amount was for one hundred thousand, not a million; the name was Smithe with an e, not Smith without it; the correct social security number; and finally his race was Caucasian, not Native American of the Watsome tribe.

If anything, Ms, Hilloric and the SEAR Department was a self-constructed brick wall of infallibility. Ed’s initial letter, a polite respectful request for the appropriate corrections to be made was answered by a curt e-mail of two lines: after a thorough review of his application, no errors were discovered. If he expected favorable treatment by claiming to be Caucasian rather than a member of the Watsome tribe, his despicable nefarious criminal attempts were rejected with prejudice. The e-mail was unsigned save for announcing it was from the SEAR Division of Higher Educational Research. The infusion of the word criminal in the second sentence worried him, but he persisted, sending another e-mail to SEAR, enumerating the errors, giving a reasonable explanation for their miscommunication, and asking for corrections to be made.

In return he received a postal letter on SEAR letterhead, explaining after exhaustive investigation of his complaint, SEAR found no error, and he had to accept his grant as worded.

He couldn’t let the matter rest. It was a nine hundred-thousand-dollar error, and what the hell is he expected to do at the Harvard School of Sociology and Education? And finally, there must be someone floating in the ether called Smith, whose social security number he mistakenly used.

Ed’s greatest concern was the money. What will happen when the mistake is uncovered and accusations of fraud surface? He decided his only recourse was to refuse the grant, giving it up as a bad deal.

Ed was astounded when his written offer to officially refuse the million-dollar grant, and also to rescind his modest hundred-thousand-dollar grant, was refused in a letter signed by Ms. Hilloric, SEAR’s Executive Senior Officer. The letter stated there was no mechanism in place for grant recipients to refuse government grants, save in the case of the recipient’s death. As he was in communication with SEAR, that exception was not applicable. He must therefore accept the grant and fulfill the grant’s purpose, along with the submission of a full report including a complete accounting of expenses.

There seemed to be a mischievous imp standing between them. Changing his refusal to what he thought SEAR expected Ed felt he had to persist to overcome the imp’s effects and achieve real communication. To that end he resubmitted his initial grant request, free of typo errors. In a cold formal reply from the SEAR Executive Assistant Administrator, Ed was told he qualified for only one grant. If he wanted a second grant, he must resubmit his proposal next year.

Ed let his optimism stray from his ideals, and wrote an irate letter directly to Ms. Hilloric, sarcastically recapitulating the ongoing comedy of errors committed by him and SEAR, and demanded the situation be corrected, the two separate government grants be allocated to their true authors. In all honesty his words were strong and substantively truthful, yet when a situation passes from the ridiculous and enters the room of irrationality, it must be exposed.

Did Ed expect an apology? No. But he did expect the correction of errors, particularly since in his last correspondence he meticulously detailed all the errors made by both parties. Being an optimist with a bedrock faith in a rational world, he expected that eventually all would come out right.

What he did receive shook his faith in a government for, by, and of the people. A letter from the Executive Assistant to the Chief Legal Administrator of SEAR’s Legal Department accused him of attempting to defraud the government of thousands of dollars, and if he didn’t desist forthwith from his criminal attempt at mail fraud. SEAR’s Legal Department will turn his thick folder of correspondence to the FBI for investigation for possible prosecution, and the IRS will be summarily alerted of possible tax fraud. In the strongest terms, the anonymous executive assistant for the unnamed chief of SEAR’s Legal Department advised Ed to cease and desist in his attempts to receive two grants in the same fiscal year. His best and only course was to accept the million-dollar grant and fulfill the grant’s stated goals. If he didn’t, the FBI, the IRS, and various other government departments will be notified of his noncompliance.

Reading this last letter caused Ed to experience a month of constipation and a feeling of emasculation that threatened to become permanent. To forestall dire consequences, he succumbed to the grant of a million and decided to travel to Harvard University to do what he knew not, at the University’s Sociology and Education Departments.

There occurs during one’s life when one finds himself standing at the edge of a precipice, peering down into a dark abyss and saying, Screw it all. I don’t give a shit anymore and jumps head first into the unknown. Sure of one thing, it will turn out to be a disaster: a rehabilitated drunk in front of a cocktail lounge knows this feeling as he enters; the woman who says yes to the married man; the gambler throwing rent money across the casino’s table; the student slamming his text book before an important test to turn on the TV; the –. Well you can add examples from your life where you say, screw it, and do something irrational.

If Ms. Hilloric and the entire SEAR government apparatus wants him to go to Harvard with a million, and do who knows what, he was going to do just that and screw it all. In such a live for today for tomorrow we die attitude, Ed threw a party, a celebratory going away party for his friends so they can know of his luck, good or bad, to be determined. If you’re pessimistic, you know it’s not going to end well; if optimistic, you expect it to end with Ed being promoted, winning the good will of all, and marrying the beautiful innocent girl. Continue to the next page, which will suggest the outcome. As a hint, Ed’s first decision with the million was to hire Monde Weaks, a young college secretary Ed enjoyed eyeing and fantasizing over while having trivial conversation with her.

Chapter 2. Dancing with Descartes

Whether it was the sense of freedom in Ed’s acquiescent to the government’s threats and demands he accept the unsought grant, or the thought of working with the delectable assistant, twenty-year-old Monde Weaks, or being the host of a catered party at his apartment, he didn’t know, but he experienced an unexpected surge of energy.

The meticulously cleaned apartment, by Ed, and sporting the caterer’s party decorations and streamers, created a friendly festive air in his rooms. Along a living room wall was a long banquet table shrouded in white linen, holding party food.

The caterers had left two hours before the guests were expected to arrive, allowing Ed time for a leisure inspection of the buffet, and the apartment in general. Rarely was Ed’s apartment this clean, and as this was his first experience having a catered private party, a sense of affluent sophistication gripped him. He moved slowly down the buffet table, as a general reviewing his troops. The heaping mounds of potato, coleslaw, macaroni and egg salads, barely contained in their aluminum platters were threatening to pour over the rims and ravish the white table cloth. The sliced roast beef, the corned beef, the pork, and ham, along with the sliced turkey and chicken, neither tough nor fatty but risky tender, all tightly rolled, were lying in close order formation line after line. There were compact circles of peeled shrimp, in name but not in size, in tight formation, dressed in pink and white, slyly with head down, in shaved ice, gathered around a bowl of red sauce, looking as if ready to dive into the red sea;

The salad ingredients made up in color for what they lacked in martial discipline: lettuce, fluffy, light, running the gauntlet of all shades of green; deep red tomatoes, soft, moist, thin sliced, spread out like a fanned deck of cards; shredded carrots, sliced onions, and various races of olives segregated by color: green, black, brown, with pits extracted, neutered. To their left were tiny white onions swimming in cream. To their right, ripe baby tomatoes, while the peppers, sliced and diced, guarded the pimentos. At the end of the salad line were five salad dressings in bowls, each armed with a wooden spoon.

Gazing at this martial array, Ed felt proud and powerful, able to order this expansive colorful assembly for his guests to inspect and devour.

Though the party was to start at eight, Rena Descartes, a woman of plus or minus two years of thirty (her female acquaintances definitely leaned to the positive) using the prerogatives that accrue to being a steady girlfriend of six months, (five and a half months on an intimate sexual basis) arrived at seven, gaily announcing that she was ready to help with any of the preparations. Ed correctly interpreted her tone and words suggesting a readiness to assist with vacuuming, dish washing, bed making, cooking, window cleaning, or any other work needing to be done, as already done, was so much air.

In the past, when she slept over, Ed spent numerous weekend mornings working hard to get her out of the apartment, and keep her clothes from accumulating. His usual ploy was to go for breakfast at a nearby restaurant, where he could naturally get her out the door.

On the reverse, he had just as much trouble extracting his personal items from her place. Whether she moved in with him, or he with her, was a constant area of contention. He knew if they comingled their clothing, she’d soon expect him to attach her to his life, a step he definitely was not ready to take.

From the time spent at his place, he was able to observe her reluctance to stereotype herself as a house frau, showing a proclivity to be seen as a strong woman who does no housework, cooks no meals.

Tonight, her dress, deep purple, low at the bust, tight at the waist and wide at the thighs, ending short of the knees was held up by internal stays allowing errant spaghetti straps, so thin, weak and loose to continuously fall off her shoulder at the slightest provocation. All said emphatically that sitting and standing, dancing and posing, eating and talking, kissing and petting were to be the dress’ only function for the night...

Besides, she was in the apartment earlier in the morning when there was a desperate need for serious housecleaning, and her sole contribution was to point out Ed needed a woman to keep his bachelor apartment clean. Authoritatively she pointed out to Ed what must be cleaned, how it was to be done, and he wasn’t doing it correctly. In retrospect, her significant contribution was leaving to get ready for the night’s festivities. She escaped with a series of light asexual kisses, saying If you want to be proud of your little girl tonight, you have to give me time to get ready.

Ed mused over the little girl bit: 5’7", 140 pounds, thighs of a pro-football running back. He suspected few people thought of her in little girl terms, save doting parents who had her late in life.

With a flutter of an eyelash, a slight itsy-bitsy wiggle of fingertips, a gentle pout of the lips, a merest hint of a blown kiss, she left Ed up to his knees in dirty laundry, his elbows in dirty dishes, his behind in a dirty bedroom, his shoulders deep in garbage and grease, and above his head a growing canopy of trailing wisps of spider webs.

Now at 7 o’clock, Rena’s brown eyes were peering out from black caverns of eyelash liner, searched the room for possible areas of criticism. Finding none, with girlish glee she squealed in delight at the metamorphosis the apartment had undergone. Fluttering to the buffet table, she just had to take one shrimp from the platter’s center, destroying its aesthetic symmetry. (Think Freud.)

Ed dearest, she purred two inches from his nose, with arms locked around the back of his neck, I’ve a little confession to make. I’m early because we have to talk.

Ed had surmised it was not to put rubber gloves on and Lysol the toilet. He was vaguely nervous, that skittish nervousness every man feels when his bedmate of several months, states two inches from his nose, with arms around his neck, they have to talk.

Attempting to deflect the oncoming, the review, the analysis, and future planning of their relationship, Ed tried to give her an affectionate kiss with the affection being somewhere between a father’s’ and a brother’s. She tried to transform his kiss of platonic affection into one of wild passionate togetherness that she felt would lead to a commitment.

Feeling uncomfortable about the situation, Ed was desperate to extricate himself from her plans, but not her bed. Twisting out of her head lock grip, he retreated precipitously to the buffet area in order to gain space in which to maneuver.

Sensing his lack of responsive passion, Rena came at him, lip attacking him again. With his stiffness of body and lips, she pulled his head down, pushing her lips hard up against his. She tried to tongue pry her way into his mouth while pressing her body hard against his, in a desperate urgent demand that he respond with sexual arousal to her calculated simulated passion.

Physically reaching back and wrenching apart her hands from his neck, he almost fell into the buffet table, cursing that all the furniture had been pushed back against the wall giving him nothing to serve as a buffer between them.

Her initial surprise attack had failed, and the defender was now alerted to his danger. In the last few months Ed experienced many hints, innuendos, subtle suggestions, flirtatious denials, tangential comments, and obscure remarks to know that marriage was now threatening him in his living room.

With Rena approaching the age of 30, he knew their affair was at the stage where it was propose to me or it’s goodbye to you and hello to someone else. In fact, Ed had suspicions that a hello to Mr. Next had already been said.

To put off the inevitable goodbye to sex, Ed desperately tried to forestall her direct assaults, and avoid the distastefulness of the ensuing dramatic scenes, which every woman feels her due to act out when rejected. At Rena’s age women don’t admit defeat easily, nor with good grace are they willing to go quietly into the night. In this type of battle there are no good losers, just a woman unmarried at thirty plus or minus.

Darling, she moved closer to him. (These sexual wars are almost always fought hand to hand.) What’s the matter? Is something bothering you? Her hand with 3 gaudy gold rings and purple polished nails rested gently on his forearm. If there is anything bothering you, I want to you to share it with me and let me help you. Please don’t shut me out of your life.

Desperate to deflect this new albeit gentler gambit, Ed swore that nothing was worrying him, save his guests will soon be at the door. This weak parry was easily deflected with Rena’s comment that it would be a half hour before anyone arrives.

She pressed him with her continued oblique attack on his lack of passion, asking, What’s worrying you darling? With sympathetic soft eyes too close to ignore, and lips within striking range, with both hands now resting gently on his coat lapels, one stroking the material up and down, she again asked what was worrying him. She knew she could help him.Counteracting, he took her hands tenderly in his own and with all the sincerity he could muster, looking straight into her eyes, lied, Rena, my love, there’s nothing bothering me. (She was the bother.)

She didn’t believe him and he knew it. Her only problem was to decide was he annoyed with her, or with something else. She suspected the former, hoped for the last. Is it the government grant? All that initial confusion has ended, and finally you can get started on a grant worth a million, which, if successful, will make your career, and that could make anyone nervous.

True, he had deep doubts about the legality of what he was preparing to do, as well as his ability to accomplish it, but those doubts only surfaced late at night when alone, tired, and sleepless. What was irritating him was her suggestive and persistent demand for future commitment. There’s nothing the matter, he replied. With her dropping her hands, he retreated to the kitchen alcove, where he had set up a bar. Mixing himself a Canadian Club and ginger ale, medium strength, he felt annoyed at her, focusing on her future and not his, and was perplexed as how to handle her so his immediate bed plans would remain intact without a future walking down the aisle.

Standing at the buffet and holding a rolled slice of roast beef as if it was a candy cigar, she destroyed the beef’s symmetry and its artistic appeal. (There must be a chapter in Freud in this imagery.) She yelled out for Ed to get her some red wine.

Damn, he thought, she’s more work than she’s worth, though there’s always the bed. You had to judicially weigh your pleasures against their cost in annoyance.

As he poured her wine, he asked her about her day. The silence behind his back was eerie.

When he returned to the living room she glided to his side and renewed her attack. Ed, we simply have to talk. Now that you’ve gotten this wonderful grant I feel you’re finally on your way to a brilliant future. With money and prestige, your career will explode, and there will be more and more grants, a full professorship, paid lectures across the country, consulting fees, and darling dearest, I want to be with you, helping you achieve it all.

To escape her insincere hook, he had to deny the enticing dangling bait. Rena, let’s not go overboard on this grant business. The government made a mistake, and I’m taking a great risk in accepting it. There is a chance it may turn out to be nothing, and at this stage it would be foolish for us to make any definite plans based on the grant. He even threw out the bachelor’s trite lie, It’s dangerous to plan too far ahead with the present still precarious.

Marching right through that smoke, she now definitely realized he was not just reluctant to talk about commitment, but obdurate over the topic. She pressed him, Darling, that’s why we make such a marvelous team. Your lack of confidence in your great ability, your modesty for your accomplishments sometimes injures your career’s future. My confidence in your ability, my deep love for you can counter your unfounded self-doubt and inspire your work, and together we can achieve great things.

With one hand holding the wine and the other resting on his shoulder, Ed knew, if he stayed put, she’d put her wine down and she’d have two hands free to grip him about the neck, a strangling hold.

Moving to the wall unit holding the obligatory receiver, amplifiers and speakers, he asked. What music should we play? as if he really wanted to know. He added the inclusive we to take the sting from his moving away from her. He suggested easy listening background music on low volume, so if everyone suddenly stopped talking, there wouldn’t be dead silence in the room.

Knowing he was putting her off, Rena moved to the couch, a territory favorable for her where she’d have the advantage in this ongoing scrimmage. She decided tonight, come what may, she was going to force the issue. Either he’d make a definite declaration or she’d know the reason why.

Forget about the music. It’s not important. Come sit by me. She patted the couch cushion next to her, and with a little girl pout, which despite her 30 years and its obvious artificiality, still held an appealing cuteness for Ed, she murmured, You’re scaring me with your elusiveness. I don’t think you want to be near your little Rena. Please don’t frighten me. Come over and sit next to me and talk to me. She continuously patted the seat cushion as if she was a furniture tester being paid by the pat.

Ed couldn’t for the life of him think of a reason not to sit next to her, at least no reason which wouldn’t create more problems. At all cost he wanted to avoid a battle fought with explicit words, with definite questions that commanded yes and no answers, and with demands that must either be met or denied, a battle which could easily sever their love-making, definitely for the night, more likely for good. Also he didn’t want to get involved in an emotional brawl just before his grand party, and his planned night’s grand bedroom finale.

Finishing his drink and awkwardly excusing himself from couch, he ran to the kitchen to make another drink, and given the evolving situation, he made it a little stronger.

Returning to the living room, he noticed Rena moved to the center cushion, commanding both left and right cushions. Definitely wary of her, forced by social politeness to sit rather than stand, and forced by her strategic position, he was determined to defend himself from the dangers of close hand to hand combat. He sat, barricading himself behind his drink, holding it high, crossing his legs, blocking her hips from encroaching any closer, while leaning firmly against the couch’s arm with his head tilted to her to deny his body language.

He attacked, Rena darling, you should never think that I don’t love you and don’t always want you close to me. A sip of his drink then, You’re all that I want. You’re never, never to doubt the love we share. Another sip of his drink told him, it and his reassuring speech might both be too strong.

She continued her aggressive verbal strategy by making a tactical retreat into disbelief, attempting to entice him into foolishly advancing, Sometimes you scare me, especially now, you seem so distant. It’s as if you want to break up, and I’m annoying you when I show you how very, very much you mean to me.

He cautiously advanced, Sweetheart, never, please, never doubt the depth of my love, the extent of my caring, my all-encompassing need for us to be together. (He almost said always together, which he knew would have been a blunder of the first magnitude.)

Inspired by his strong drink and her deep cleavage, he waxed poetically, The happiness your love and presence gives me, the pleasure your beauty affords my senses, the soothing warmth and erotic excitement when we sleep together, all bind me to you.

Basking with author’s pride in his words of love, Ed was caught unaware when she revealed that her retreat into insecurity was just a brilliant stratagem to lure him into the dangerous areas of reassuring her with professions of love.

Having him where he had to talk about their love, she returned with a cannon shot. My darling, it’s so true we share a love for each other which is deep and forever.

At the word forever Ed was stung out of his sentimentality created by his two drinks, her closeness, her cleavage, and the consciousness of her hand resting on his thigh six inches from his crotch and closing fast.

There was no room for maneuvering, no more skirmishing. They were joined in mortal combat. If he lost he’d be engaged and the party would turn into their engagement party. No doubt it was one of the reasons she picked this place and this time for the moment of truth, marriage, yes or no. Without the party he could offer some semblance of commitment, but she knew secret engagements are not half as binding as those publicly announced.

Finishing his drink, he attempted to rise and escape to the bar and renew his courage in a fresh drink. With a deft well-executed movement, Rena pushed him back down before his rump was an inch off the cushion, and taking the glass from his hand said, Dearest, you just sit there and think about us while I make you a drink. I just love to wait hand and foot on you. Who cares what Cosmopolitan or Vogue say, I just love to wait on the man I love.

She returned with a drink that reflected the color of deep rich topsoil. With one sip Ed knew she was trying to render him pliable, a flaccid idiot who, in the heat of a sexual atmosphere would fall in with any course of action she wanted.

Knowing the danger, still he drank deep, needing all the sustenance he could get. It was obvious this was to be an all-out determined assault, easily leading to a permanent end to their love affair, a love affair which he enjoyed and took pleasure in all its accompanying amenities. It was its legalization that terrorized him.

The best defense is an offense, so he attacked. This grant will mean a hell of a lot of travelling. My first trip will be to Harvard. There will be numerous obstacles to our being together and –.

Rena interrupted. She was in no mood to let his talk about obstacles in his work become obstacles to her work. Dearest, that’s just my point. I know I can help you. You don’t have to go to Harvard or any other place alone. We can go together. There is nothing to keep me here. Taking a leave of absence from work, I could work on the grant as your assistant.

And sharing grant money, and goodbye Monde Weaks, Ed thought.

She went on, Wouldn’t it be wonderful, working together, traveling together, and living together.

With fear he reflected, and married together.

Being together I could take care of my precious man and give him all the love he can handle.

Yes, Ed thought, having sampled the love she gives out, and gives out freely and easily, without any boundaries modesty should erect, boundaries crossed by numerous prior immigrants, but occasionally erected for me in her feeble attempt to establish her semblance of innocence.

Ed was in an extremely precarious position. The wrong word now could lead to either marriage, or one hell of a fight right before his party. Resorting to a typical masculine maneuver to gain time and hopefully inspiration, he took another deep drink from the dark brown well.

Now annoyed by the alcohol barrier, Rena effortlessly breached it by the simple expedient of a direct approach. Dearest, I can’t talk to you with your drink between us. Please finish it.

With the gentle but firm motion a mother might employ in giving her baby a bottle, she grasped his hand and semi-forced the rest of the drink down his throat. She made it look like a loving, nurturing act. The empty glass was quickly removed from his defense perimeter and placed on the carpet behind her feet.

Bending over and lightly kissing his now unemployed fingers, she moved as close to him as his crossed legs would allow. With her hand absentmindedly resting ever so gently high on his thigh, mysteriously a scant three inches from his crotch, she whispered, We could be so happy together. She purred these words between moist submissive soft pecks at his fingers. Leaning over forward, balancing herself with an increasingly strong grip on his thigh and with the other hand holding his hand as firmly as her kisses were gentle, she revealed more and more cleavage. It was like seeing two soft tanks coming with purpose right at him.

Don’t you see that in getting the grant it was a sign that we should get married? (The first time the word was explicitly uttered.) So I can be there for you, in any capacity. (The thigh hand moved up another inch.) As a helper, I could relieve your mind of all the petty details your grant will entail, like the travel arrangements, hotel accommodations, finding typists, keeping track of your notes, assisting you in your research, helping with the interviews, writing up your results. (Good bye twenty-year-old Monde Weaks.) She ended on such an enthusiastic note, Ed could almost see them flying off into the sunset, arm in arm.

The drinks, the pressure on his thigh, the finger kisses, the elaborate show of submissiveness, her enthusiasm, all caught him in a haze of sexual, optimistic wellbeing. Good warm feelings emanating from deep within him (possibly near his crotch) radiated out to encompass this beautiful woman who obviously loves and worships him as a god.

Darling, he murmured, putting his leg down and taking her cheeks between his hands, he gave her a gently kiss, a definite prologue to more ardent activity.

Deciding to take the kiss as a proposal, Rena pushed for additional verbal verification before allowing their activities to get out of hand. Besides, she planned for these sexual activities to be the romantic terminus after their engagement party, not before. Before could put an end to her engagement party. In addition, she had dressed with meticulous care and with not small expense for her engagement party. Styling her hair cost her couple of hundred, which would look like fifty cents once Ed got his hands on and in it.

She decided Ed must be gently slowed to a stop, but his motor must be kept running at idle. Ed my most precious love, she murmured as she pulled back from his mouth for an inch or two of speaking space, I’m the luckiest, happiest girl, and it’s because of you. It’s so exciting to think that we’re going to be married. The die had been cast. If she could get over the next few minutes, they’ll be married.

Hoping to forestall any negative look, word or action from Ed, she threw her arms about his neck, pressed her body tight against him, all the while gently blowing in his ear, I love you so very, very much. We’ll be so happy together. I’ll make you so very happy. She then proceeded to ear nibble with the experience and gusto of a starving gourmet.

It was hard for Ed to think: with her gripping him in a body vice so hard it made breathing difficult; with her pushing a mass of lacquered hair into his face made seeing difficult; with her working so industriously on his ear, he was moments away from getting his ear detailed. Yet the word marriage, that sobering word he had no intention of uttering, and he had been fighting against, had been mentioned. Certainly he had no intention of marrying her and would drop her unceremoniously here and now if she pushed it on him, and the hell with the bed.

He wasn’t any inexperienced idealist teenage kid who could be cuddled and snuggled into a lifetime commitment. Taking Rena by the shoulders, breaking her grasp and pushing her away, he said sternly and quietly, There can be no talk of marriage between us. We’ve been dating only six months and need more time to see if this wonderful thing we share can last before making a lifetime commitment.

He hoped giving out with some positive hope, in a misty future, there could be a marriage commitment between them, only later, much later. Hopefully he could salvage their affair and maintain the sexual status quo. Despite his hopes for Monde Weaks, actually there were no girlfriend replacements in sight, so he would hate to lose Rena at this time. If he could placate her without any commitment, he could gain time to find someone better to make the transition considerably less painful. Needing time, he had his heart set on a little love-making after the party as the end to a perfect evening. It would diminish the evening if, after having a great catered party everyone left, leaving him alone, and who wants to be alone, having just yourself as a companion. Shit, talk about boring, sterile company.

Determined to find out exactly how things stood between them, Rena had no intention of being put off one night, never mind another six months. Either she’d end this evening engaged or know the reason why. She was too old to invest so much time in stalking her prey not to see a concrete engagement proposal, an engagement ring, and a definite date. No more bullshit about needing more time. She heard that all too often.

Shifting her attack position, Rena dropped to the floor between Ed’s legs. Again pinned, losing all freedom of action, his escape could only be accomplished by climbing over her. The sensual and submissive posture continued to exert a powerful barrier of attraction as well as a physical barrier, still not sufficient to hinder the sobering effect of escaping an unwanted engagement. Now he was thoroughly on guard and scared, scared almost to sobriety...

Edward, my love, I just can’t wait any longer, having to sleep alone, not being close to you, not being able to share your joy, not to be able to ease your troubles, not being able to make cozy little dinners on winter’s night... Tears, real tears began to flow, though Rena shed them either from the frustration that her prize fish, despite all the money, energy, time and carefully constructed fake lures, was escaping. Or from the demeaning thought, as a woman she was good enough to sleep with but not good enough to marry. For whatever reason, she cried, copiously clutching both his thighs with her hands, gasping between tears, words of undying love pleading, if only they’d marry she’d devote her life to making him happy.

Embarrassed and very uncomfortable, if he responded in kind to the love she expressed, if he took her up in his arms to exchange kisses for her words as his manly nature prompted, he’d be engaged to a woman he liked but didn’t love.

She served many purposes in his life, foremost sexual, and to lesser extent companionship, but marriage no. There were reasons why she was 30 and unmarried, reasons that any man of experience, who had his wits about him, recognized. The one that came to his mind as she now hugged his waist was that she liked to view her life as a series of melodramatic acts; If there were a supper, it must be candle light and French cuisine; if they went to a play together, they became actors playing at being first nighters, with the actual actors as mere props. If they heard a comic act, no matter how trite the jokes, it was a hilarious experience of a lifetime. If they went to a faculty party, the attendees were the smartest, and fabulously dressed. It was all so exhausting and so shallow. Fearing her reality was mundane, she continually tried to create new, exciting fabulous realities with forced enthusiasm, exaggeration, and imagination...

In addition, the constant mental strain of deflecting all her protestations of love, while maintaining the pretense of love was wearing him down. The game was getting tiresome and she was starting to change the rules, at