She was running twenty minutes late.
Not enough time for a martini at the Campbell Apartment, not enough time for some Kumamotos at the Oyster Bar, and not really enough time to get my boots shined. But it was enough time to wander the halls of Grand Central looking for things I had never seen before: a broken tile in the mosaic, a chandelier high above, or a passageway someone forgot to block off from the public. The old train station is a maze that I’m always too busy to notice.
I walked down the long sloping ramp and peeked through the window at diners drinking cocktails and eating mollusks before I stopped beneath the arch in front of the Oyster Bar. There’s a spot in each corner where you can hear a whisper from the far wall if you stand with your back to the hall. I was alone, but there’s something moving about hearing your voice and knowing it’s sliding along the stone ceiling to one exact spot on the other side.
“Can you hear me?” came a whisper as I pressed my nose against the cold surface.
“Yes, can you hear me?” I asked, surprised and charmed to find someone playing the same game I was.
“Don’t turn around,” she said, stopping me as I was about to do just that. “It’s more fun this way.”
“I can do that,” I said, as amused as anything else. “Can anyone else hear us? You sound so clear.”
“It’s just us,” she said, more quietly this time. There was a long pause as I struggled to think of something smart to say. But then she continued. “I have a secret.”
“Do you want to share it?” I asked, curiosity hitting me like an unexpected kiss in the dark.
“You won’t think nicely of me,” she said, her voice trembling. “But I have to tell someone. Are you a good person?”
“I have no idea,” I said, pressing my forehead against the wall. “I suppose I try to be…”
“I did something this morning that I’m not proud of. But even still, I feel so alive I can hardly stand it. I hate that things like this make me feel so good and so horrible at the same time, but it’s the truth.”
“Tell me,” I whispered, holding my breath.
“I had an interview this morning. It was going perfectly well, and while I want to tell you that it was all his idea, it’s just not true. I don’t know why, but right in the middle, I suddenly want to push and see what would happen. I took off my sweater, claiming I was warm, and I lifted my skirt just enough for him to see my stockings. But then I couldn’t stop it. And to make it worse, I didn’t want to.”
“What happened?” I asked, my breath tight in my chest as I pictured this woman I didn’t know flirting in a nameless office with a stranger.
“It was quick,” she said. “He locked the door and kissed me without asking. I pretended to be taken aback, but even then my hand moved to touch him until he was hard beneath my fingers. We didn’t talk at all. He lifted my skirt, fingered me just long enough to get me wet, and then pushed me to the ground in front of his desk. I didn’t even look up as I sucked his cock, and I’m not even sure I could tell you what he looks like.
“He grew even harder, but there was no waiting for anything. He didn’t have to pull me up or tell me what to do. I stood on my own, I lifted my skirt once more all by myself, and I bent over his desk and opened my legs just like that. As much as I wanted to pretend that he was pushing me, it excited me more to do it on my own.”
“Maybe it’s easier with a stranger,” I whispered, unsure if I meant him or me.
“I don’t think we even fucked for five minutes. He just grabbed my hips, pushed into me in one thrust, and then screwed me right there on his desk. I rubbed my clit, I moaned a name I hoped was his, and I pushed back just as hard as he did. He came almost as soon as it started, but he fucked me even after he was done, pulling me back against him over and over again.
“When he finally pulled out, I just straightened my skirt and walked to the door. I couldn’t think straight, I could hardly walk, and I almost forgot why I was there. I kept imagining what my boyfriend would think if he knew, and I was trembling. Just as I opened the door, he told me he would call. And that he would put in a good word. He said the department would be lucky to have me.”
“Jesus, that’s intense,” I said, as turned on as I was desperate for more.
There was a pause, and I couldn’t tell if I could still hear a voice, throaty and breathy, sliding over the cool tiles of the wall. Just when I thought she might have left, she whispered “Count to ten for me.”
“Please, let me just turn around for a moment,” I begged. I craved even the smallest hint of who she was. A glimpse of those stockings, a flash of her lips, anything to hold in my mind’s eye so later I might remember.
“Count,” she said again. I sighed and did as she said, knowing just what would happen, but hoping she might surprise me. The second I finished I turned in a rush, looking up and down the empty hallway for a glimpse of who she might be. A few couples wandered up and down, and an old man sat on the stairs to the food court with a paper bag in one hand holding a bottle.
Seconds later my phone buzzed, and I fished it from my pocket. I closed my eyes for just a moment before walking back up the sloping hall to find her. Was it true, and if not, why would someone bother to make it up? And who tells a stranger a story under the whispering arch of Grand Central Station at three in the afternoon?
As I made my way back to find my date, every woman I passed was a voice whispering in the dim light of the station.
-gny
(You can find and support more of my writing here: Guy New York)