When Connie first met Vincent, she believed he was a man who was going places. By that time, everyone considered Connie a spinster. Twenty-five, without even a prospect of a husband. Twenty-five and a virgin. The only men who asked her out were older, widowers or bachelors with odd habits.
Then Vincent walked into the office where Connie worked in the secretarial pool with his case of Royal typewriters and Connie felt something she had never felt before. An almost unpleasant tug in her groin. It made her squirm in her seat. Vincent—dark-olive skin and green eyes that bulged like a bullfrog’s; stiff, shoe-polish-black hair that she would learn only after they were married was a toupee that sat on a mannequin head at night; short, just her height, and round like a barrel—Vincent sat across from her waiting to see the procurer of office supplies and Connie squirmed. She wished she’d curled her hair, freshened her lipstick, worn the sweater with the pearl buttons that looked so flattering.
He smiled at her, showing a row of white teeth as small as baby’s teeth.
“How do you like that Remington?” he said, his voice smooth and silky, a voice you wanted to touch.
Connie cleared her throat. “My what?” she asked.
He pointed his chin in the direction of her typewriter. “The Remington,” he said.
She realized her fingers, which had been busily typing when he appeared, had sunk into the keys like melted wax.
“It’s a fine typewriter,” she managed to say. Then she blurted, “I graduated from Katherine Gibbs, top in my class.”
Vincent nodded approvingly. “Very impressive,” he said. “Did you learn on a Remington?”
That tug in her groin. It was all she could focus on. An image of the rows of girls—Katie Gibbs girls—in their business-smart clothes, fingers sailing across the keys: the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.
“I’m a Royal man,” Vincent said, leaning closer to her.
She caught a whiff of cologne, strong and spicy.
“Yes,” Connie said, putting her hands in her lap as if that might subdue the tugging. She noticed his hat resting on one of his knees, black with a small red feather in the ribbon.
“Just got promoted to manager at the factory over in Connecticut,” he said proudly.
His boasting, his confidence, only made the tug stronger. She found herself leaning toward him too.
He winked at her. “I’m on my way,” he said, pointing his forefinger upward.
Every cell in her body was shouting, Take me with you! She wished he could read her mind.
The procurer’s door opened. He beckoned Vincent Palazzo in.
Connie watched Vincent Palazzo walk away without looking back. She thought she might cry when the procurer closed his office door. Taking deep breaths, she went into the ladies’ room, grateful to find it empty. Inside a stall, she leaned with her back against the door, wondering what would become of her. She imagined a life with her mother, the two of them crocheting at night, sipping an apricot brandy before bed. She imagined never feeling that tug again, that elusive something that her sister Angie seemed to feel all the time. Angie, who came home with smeared lipstick and a bruised mouth, smelling briny. Younger than Connie by seven years, she’d already broken off three engagements.
Connie knew she should wash her face, apply powder and lipstick, comb her hair. But instead, almost cautiously, she lifted her skirt and rubbed herself, lightly, over her girdle. That tugging, that yearning, would not go away. When she closed her eyes, the image of Vincent Palazzo filled her mind and she could almost smell his cologne again. She rubbed a bit harder, surprised at the way her hips lifted toward her hand. Damn girdle, Connie thought, gripped unexpectedly by the desire to push her hand against her flesh. For an instant, she thought she had urinated on herself. She was wet, and breathing in short gasps.
Somehow she managed to squeeze one hand down her girdle, her fingers reaching, reaching, and then rubbing and rubbing, her eyes closed so that she could picture Vincent Palazzo, and then her breath quickening until something happened, something like falling off a rooftop. Something Connie had never felt before, or even considered feeling.
On wobbly legs she managed to get back to her desk.
Vincent Palazzo stood there, twirling his hat on one finger and whistling “Sentimental Journey.”
“There you are!” he said. “I almost gave up hope.”
Connie tried to smile. Could he tell what she had been doing by the way she looked? She would have to go to confession, right after work, she decided. Surely she had broken a commandment. But which one?
“You like Chinese?” he was saying.
She nodded.
“I like the chicken wings at the Ming Garden. And the chow mein. You like chow mein?”
Vincent Palazzo was asking her out, Connie realized. On a date.
She stood straighter. “Yes, Mr. Palazzo, I do like chow mein. And pork fried rice.”
He grinned. “Good then. I’ll see you Friday at six.”
He walked off, whistling “Sentimental Journey” again.