bet you haven’t eaten yet.”
“Don’t evade the question.”
“I’ll make some coffee,” Hugo decided. Garda followed him into the tiny brick walled kitchen to watch him grind some beans with a hand grinder.
“Hugo, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about why I came over,” she said firmly.
“Oh, I know why you came over,” he rejoined.
“What I mean is, I know you’re interested in me. But, haircut not withstanding, I must inform you that my affections are otherwise engaged.”
“I see,” Hugo murmured, unable to conceal his disappointment. “A long standing relationship?”
“Not a relationship as yet, but it might develop into one, in time.”
“Oh!” Hugo brightened. “Anyone I know?”
“Yes, it is someone you know,” Garda revealed, coloring.
Hugo mentally reviewed the rest of the museum staff with whom she might have come into contact and rapidly fallen in love, for she had only been in her position a few weeks herself when he had been hired. “Can’t think of anyone who seems like a match off hand,” he speculated, spooning coffee into his percolator. “Milk and sugar?”
“Uh huh.”
Hugo cut some bread, cheese and fruit and served it with the coffee in the parlor. While she cuddled the kittens and nibbled at the food he studied her after work look, not sure if he liked or hated it. She’d changed from her delicately printed shift into a pair of black pegged jeans, shiny black ankle collared work shoes, a plain white cotton tee (beneath which her small, perky bosom appeared unfettered) and a green and blue plaid flannel shirt knotted around her slender waist. Her straight, shoulder length hair had been drawn back in a ponytail, her earrings were two dots of black onyx and her mouth was an exciting dark, red slash.
“I just can’t think of anyone worthy of your notice,” Hugo finally concluded.
“It’s Van,” she revealed.
“Van? Are you serious?”
“Why? He’s a darling man!”
“Garda, you do know that Van’s gay?”
“What?”
“You didn’t know, did you?”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.”
“How can you be so sure of a thing like that? Did he tell you that?”
“No, not exactly. But it’s true.”
“Oh, I don’t believe you. You’re just saying that because you want me for yourself.”
“If you don’t believe me, ask him yourself.”
Garda sat silently smoking, stroking the kittens and trying not to sob out loud. Finally she sprung up. “So, can I buy something now?”
“Here,” Hugo handed her a small wrapped parcel.
“How much is it?”
“I don’t know. Just take it.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. It’s a present.”
Garda unwrapped what looked to be at least a quarter ounce of something green, heavily resinous and very pretty. “I can’t take this from you.”
“Not even to assuage your disappointment?”
“First of all, I’m not convinced that you’re right, so I’m not entirely disappointed as yet. Secondly, if I take all this weed I’ll owe you.”
“So owe me.”
“Damn it, why won’t you let me pay you for this?”
“Just take it as a present.”
“You’re not giving me all your weed, are you?”
“No.”
“Why do I think you’re lying?”
“Hey, Garda, on a different subject, was that you I saw in the audience of A Man With A Maid last week?”
Garda’s color deepened, which more than cancelled out the work boots in restoring her delicate femininity. “You mean that movie in Back Bay?”
“Yes. I thought I saw you in the audience.”
Garda reentered the kitchen, poured herself a second cup of coffee and looked in the refrigerator for milk. “Hugo, what’s this?” She came back with a tiny glassine envelope containing a small square of paper on which was imprinted a pink dot.
“That’s the stuff that dreams are made of,” he replied.
“Acid?”
“You bet.”
“Good?”
“I don’t know. Someone said you could regress to childhood on it. Someone else said past lives. I’m sure it’s speedy as hell.”
“So, you just have the one hit, huh?”
“You can have it if you want.”
“Seriously?”
“If I can be with you when you do it.”
“Oh, right! You just want to be with me when at I’m at my most trusting and vulnerable so you can fuck me with the minimum of resistance, if any!”
“No, I want to be with you when you regress to childhood, so I can spank you.”
“Look, I have to go now. I have to tie myself in knots over what you told me about Van,” Garda protested.
“Can I walk you home?”
“I suppose that would be wise,” she sighed.
Hugo and Garda climbed slowly up narrow, cobbled Myrtle Street, past a tiny playground, a small grocery, a laundromat and many close set thin, brick walk-ups.
“You never answered my question about whether you were at A Man With A Maid,” Hugo asked, as she preceded him up the three, tall, narrow flights of stairs to her top floor flat. From this angle he could appreciate the girlish contours of her bottom and thighs as never before. The snug jeans molded to her lithe form delightfully.
Garda let him into her obsessively neat and tiny one bedroom apartment. Her own two Siamese cats came in off the roof through the bedroom window and rushed into the parlor to greet her. She showed him around in a minute, ending with the rooftop access, from
