When Vivian said nothing for a moment, I found her eyes,
discovering a strange look in them. For seconds, we
simply sat with locked eyes and I found myself wondering
what she could be thinking. “Take off your blouse,” she
said.
I’m sure my mouth hung open. We were sitting in, well,
what certainly was the nicest restaurant either of us had
been to. To our right was what was surely a tourist
couple in their Sunday best. The group on our left, I’d
sensed they were well-to-do. *Very* well-to-do. This
certainly was one of the occasions we’d looked forward to
on this trip. I considered Vivian’s outrageous words.
And with a sinking feeling, I couldn’t escape the
realization that she most definitely meant them.
I recalled what we’d just been talking about, what I’d
been saying. Something about back when we’d shared the
apartment, and my sinking feeling felt confirmed since I’d
obviously put the thought in her mind.
The day. The day our friendship had come so very close to
ending, had ended temporarily, in fact. They’d been
dating a couple of weeks, and she’d been walking on air
the whole time. And *he’d* come over that afternoon,
looking for her I’m sure. And when I’d informed him he’d
missed her, the grin he’d given me as he made a comment he
surely shouldn’t have. He was so god-awful hot. And then
just minutes later when she’d walked in on the two of us.
On our living room floor.
If there ever had been a half-hour I wanted to take back,
to erase from my life, that was certainly it. *He’d* been
out the door in seconds, leaving me to face my best friend
and apartment mate. Still barely covered, speechless with
guilt and shame, I sat there watching her. She wouldn’t
look at me. “I’m horrible,” I’d heard myself say.
When she finally turned to me, I could see a touch of
wetness in her eyes, but her voice was like steel. “I
cannot believe…” she said, but said nothing more.
“I’m so awful, I’m sorry,” I finally said, and then it was
like the dam burst, I couldn’t stop apologizing, “I swear,
I’ll make it up to you,” I finally heard myself saying.
“I’d do *anything*.”
I guess I’d run out of steam, and found our eyes locked as
she stood above me. “You are going to pay,” she said, her
words tight. We looked at each other. “Some day,” she
added, “I’ll come up with something.”
“OK,” I’d said meekly, but practically before the words
were out of my mouth, she’d said “You remember that,” as
she stormed out.
I’d sat there, stricken, a while before I ventured to
stir, finally getting fully dressed. I’d been out of the
apartment within a week.
But amazingly, we had gotten over it, and though we were
no longer roommates, we were back to doing things
together, the only lingering note being a guarded look in
Vivian whenever I was anywhere near anyone she was dating.
And now, three years later, we were finally on this trip
we’d been planning for months.
And as I sat, looking into Vivian’s eyes, I found the very
same looked she’d given me that day. The simple command
she’d just given me echoed through my mind once more.
*Take off our blouse*. Studying her, I could see she was
giving me time to consider, to recall what this was about.
And what I owed her.
I gave another nervous glance to everyone around us. The
waitresses, the other guests. I found myself forming the
word *no*. I had to refuse. It was far too outrageous.
I wondered again at myself for managing to stir up the
topic. Was that indeed what had happened? Or had she
*planned* this? “Vivian,” I said, trying to think of what
to say.
She said nothing, as if she knew there were nothing she
needed to add. *Please!* I begged in my mind. I had to
say it aloud. I saw the resolve in her eyes and knew the
only way out was a flat refusal.
I felt a shudder. I lifted my hands, unbuttoning. For a
moment, I heard nothing, as if Vivian and I were the only
ones in that room, in the whole universe, and nothing else
existed. On I unbuttoned. And I hadn’t worn a bra! Her
eyes never left mine, perfectly steady, as if it didn’t
bother her a single iota to force me to do this. With the
blouse unbuttoned, I paused. Her eyes still never left
mine. Finally, I slipped it off my shoulders, drawing it
out of my skirt and I think it slipped to the floor.
Seconds passed. Our eyes remained locked. *Did I pass
the test? Is it over?* She made not a flicker of a
movement to acknowledge what I’d done.
Murmurs grew. I was afraid to look, to see what sort of
stir I was causing. “Madam,” said a waitress, now next to
me. “Madam, I’m afraid you can’t be like this.”
I felt the embarrassment, but found my eyes still glued to
Vivian’s. As I sat there, I wondered if I were
subconsciously playing the childish game, that by not
looking, it was as if no one could see me. Even as the
waitress accosted me. “Madam, please!” I’d heard a
slightly out-of-place clatter of dinnerware. And the
continued murmuring.
“Madam, I must ask you to leave,” said the waitress,
sounding more vehement. Vivian hadn’t moved a muscle, but
I could no longer quite read her expression. Only that I
was to do what I was doing. It was a nightmare, a
horrible nightmare come true. I was grabbed by my upper
arms. Something was wrapped around the front of me, an
apron I gathered, though it was only held there, rather
than put on me as an apron would. I was pulled to
standing, finally losing Vivian’s gaze. Two men had me,
busboys I took them for. The apron was held so it covered
me. They marched me out, toward the back of the place.
Once through the kitchen doors I faced a woman. She spoke
loudly, in French. She yelled at me, obviously angry.
“What are you doing?” she finally said in accented
English. “In there,” she said, pointing at an office
door. I could see that she was in charge.
I was marched in, and found myself holding the covering
apron myself. I simply stood there after the two of them
left, having no idea what one should do in such a
situation. I heard more murmurs behind me, some clearly
in French, but I didn’t turn. I wondered if my blouse was
still on the restaurant floor.
Finally the door behind me closed. “You!” said the French
woman, as she came into view. “Sit!” she said and I
quickly sat in a chair in front of the desk. “I spend
*years* building the reputation in this restaurant, and
*you* come in and…” She seemed too angry to speak for a
moment.
“What *are* you?” she finally said. I felt so guilty.
She might have been thirty or so, pretty, with dark hair,
stylishly done. She just wanted to run a good restaurant.
“Mon dieu,” she said, following it up with more French. I
felt so awful. “You little *slut*,” she finally said,
returning to English.
I couldn’t look at her face. I knew I had no excuse. She
suddenly reached out, holding my chin up to force me to
look at her. Her eyes were livid.
Then, before I knew what had happened, suddenly she was on
my lap, straddling my thighs. And kissing me on the lips,
my head between her hands. Her tight dress was stretched
to the limit and rode up, her curved body against me. And
the arousal I felt, I didn’t know how it could already be
there since all I’d been feeling was humiliation and
shame. And horrible embarrassment. Her lips left mine
very briefly and whispered in my ear. “You are going to
pay,” she said, before her lips returned to mine.