saw into the depths of my soul, or maybe it was just the glare of her eyeglasses under the fluorescent lighting. At least, that’s what I told myself after her bright blue eyes pinned me to the folding chair.
“Yeah, I’m not ready to share,” I’d stated while slouching in my seat. My voice came out rougher than I intended, but I was not used to speaking with others.
“How about at least a name?” she asked, coaxing me like an encouraging schoolteacher. Her smile was warm enough, and it drew my eyes to her lips. Instantly, I wondered what her mouth would feel like against mine. I also had other ideas where she could put those lips on me. She was not my type, though, and I shifted in the cold metal seat to disguise the semi I was sporting, chalking the disturbing reaction up to the fact I hadn’t been with someone in seven years. Yeah, I had that seven-year itch, all right, and I needed to scratch it hard.
“Jake.” When I offered nothing more, she glanced down at a clipboard on her lap like that singular name was enough to recognize me. Certain my parole officer had notified the local authorities of my residency along with the local support groups of my requirements, I surmised this woman had heard of me. She smiled sweetly but also with a knowing eye—I was not going to participate. No sob story would be pouring out of me, nor was I sharing my experience with alcohol. I didn’t have a problem, which is the first thing an alcoholic would say. The truth is, I really didn’t. When I was arrested, I was drunk and fought off the officer, thus adding disorderly conduct, resisting arrest, and intent to harm an officer to my sentence. As I knew Frank Stucco, the charges of belligerence were dropped, but the alcohol consumption increased in jail. I got caught with the contraband. Forget how I got it, it only mattered that I was caught with it. Just like the sentence I served for arson. Forget how it happened. I was the man caught at the scene of the crime with too many connections and no alibi.
After forty-five minutes of a feisty woman wearing red-rimmed eyeglasses glaring at me, the meeting ended, and Rita confronted me.
“I know your type.” The bold directness did nothing to dispel the full hard-on I had by the meeting’s conclusion. I’d tuned out the sad stories and turned on my own imagination about this vixen and what she could do to me wearing only those eyeglasses. Naughty schoolteacher? Dirty librarian? I wasn’t going to be particular in my fantasy. Ironically, nothing else about Rita called her my type. Sandy brown hair with heavy strips of gray. Wrinkles at the corner of her eyes. The mocking set of her mouth when she falsely smiled. Still, she was instantly under my skin, and again, I attributed it to those eyes, blue and bright behind her glasses and a hefty dose of need-to-get-laid.
“And what’s my type?” I sassed back.
“You’re not taking this seriously.” Fisted hands came to her hips which had my gaze falling to them. She was petite with a combination of granola hiker and uptight businesswoman in her appearance. The hiking boots did not go with the fitted skirt and silky blouse she wore.
“Listen, sweetheart, you’ll learn real fast that I don’t take anything seriously anymore.” I didn’t. I couldn’t, but nothing I said surprised her more than one word.
“Sweetheart?” she snorted. Literally, the most unattractive nasal sound honked between us. “I am not your sweetheart.”
I shook my head at her disgruntled tone and did the most unnatural thing for me. With my fingertip, I bopped her on the tip of her pert nose.
“Then if you’d just sign off on this sheet, no one needs to be the wiser, and I can be out of your hair.” It was a risk asking this stranger to place her signature along the ten lines of my required meetings. I could get in big trouble if she tattled, telling my parole officer I tried to cheat the system.
Rita shook her head, adamantly dismissing my request. “No can do, handsome. Maybe you’ll learn something by being here.”
I couldn’t imagine what I’d possibly get out of listening to others tell their tales. I’d heard worse. So much worse inside prison. I didn’t need some bored housewife telling me how she drank in the middle of the afternoon while she watched