Learning To Walk - A Soldier's Story by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 17

On the last day of training, we were all awarded a certificate of graduation from tech school. I was officially a U.S. Army Cavalry Scout. It wasn’t a Master’s Degree but it was something to be equally proud of, if not more so. I would go home for ten days but I’d also received orders to return to Fort Benning for assignment to the 316th Cavalry Brigade. I was also provided with something unexpected - a top secret security clearance. I guess I really wasn’t all that surprised. After all, I was going to be working as a human conduit for classified military information. If I were to be captured, I would either fight my way out or die trying. Later, I would learn things that could never be revealed to anyone - ally or enemy, military or civilian. The only exception was the person authorized to receive that information.

I called my parents that day to tell them that I’d be flying back to Bangor for leave. My mother was ecstatic. I changed flights in Boston with a short stopover in Portland. I’m not sure how indoctrinated I’d become but I chose to travel in uniform and had actually become quite proud of wearing it. I told my parents when my flight would arrive. They were at the gate, right on time. Most likely, they arrived early. My mother stood trembling with excitement - another side of her I’d never seen. My father, always the patient one, stood next to her emotionally unmoved. Appearances, however, can be deceiving and as he walked up to me, his face broke into a broad smile and as he reached out to shake my hand told me how glad he was to see me. But my mother, having rushed in ahead of him threw her arms around me with tears streaming down her face.

It had been raining for three straight days from Boston all the way up the coast. I had forgotten about ‘mud season’ and as I planted my recently polished boots in it, I'd also forgotten how I hadn’t really missed it. But if there had been an Army base in Maine, I would have jumped at the chance for an assignment. By the time we got home, I’d been sitting just long enough to realize how tired I was and after putting my duffle bag down in the living room, I sat in one of two leather recliners and promptly fell asleep. It seemed as though it had been only a few minutes but after my mother woke me for dinner, I realized that I’d been asleep for the last two hours. It’s amazing how exhausted a person can become simply by sitting in the seat of a commercial jet.

As usual, my mother had prepared a flawless dinner and as usual, my stomach found it a bit too rich. Truthfully, I had grown accustomed to mess hall food and ready to eat meals but with all the hard work she put into her cooking, I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her. After dinner, we sat in the living room. My father had retrieved his best bottle of brandy and three large snifters. By this time, I’d changed out of my uniform and into street clothes. Without the uniform, I felt like a fish out of water. I’d also realized that without the sensation of wearing my sidearm I suddenly began to feel naked. My father began asking questions about what I had been trained for. “It doesn’t seem like a month would be enough time to be trained for anything that intense,” he said. I explained that training for the Army was eight hours a day almost every day and with forty hours of training every week, a person could actually learn quite a bit. My mother seemed rather comfortable with what I’d be doing. I told them that a large part of the job would be gathering information. Perhaps, this left her with the impression that I wouldn’t be doing any actual fighting. I thought it was best to let her believe that.

The next day, I found my father tinkering with a shortwave radio. He had purchased it about the time I left for basic training thinking that listening to foreign radio stations might broaden his perspective of the world. Apparently, he spent more than a little time listening to the BBC. I walked into the living room as he was dialing through one of the shortwave bands. Near the end of the band, we heard what sounded like Morse code. It was almost buried in background noise but it was definitely Morse code. He leaned an ear toward the radio as I sat down.

“Hey, Clarence, what’s this?” he asked. As a reconnaissance specialist, I’d been trained in Morse code. I had become so proficient that I could translate it in my head. I listened to it carefully. It was quick and constant, with no pauses or breaks. It was very likely an automated transmission.

“They’re number strings,” I answered. “It’s from a ‘numbers station’, probably in or near Russia.” Numbers stations were set up to transmit encrypted number strings. Sometimes it was Morse code, while other stations transmitted automated voice loops that broadcast ‘spoken’ single digits.

“What does it mean?” my father asked. He seemed truly fascinated by his new discovery of covert communications. Unfortunately, I wasn’t trained in cryptography. Even if I could have decrypted it, chances are it would have been ‘eyes only’ information. “To me, they’re just numbers,” I began. “The signal’s probably being intercepted by people who can make sense of it. Cryptography isn’t something I’m trained for.” Numbers stations can be hidden anywhere - in someone’s cellar, out in the middle of nowhere, even underground. All they need to function is power and a generator can easily supply that. Some people, both military and civilians, spend years trying to understand what these transmissions mean - trying to crack the code. The military had a legitimate need for this information but honestly, if you’re a civilian and spending a significant amount of time on this, you should probably get a life.

It was at that point, my mother walked in and announced we’d be attending a dinner party.

“Great,” I thought. “A dinner party.”

I really didn’t like going to those things - the food was rich, the people thought a bit too highly of themselves and there were too many of them. It would be the same tired high-brow bullshit. The party was being hosted by Gloria’s family. Now, I’d have a chance to, again, be snubbed by one of the most beautiful women I’d ever met. So, I guess the circus was back in town for a one night only show. My mother wanted me to wear a tux. Clearly, her intent was to show me off. I hated even the idea of wearing a tux and always believe that it said something about me that wasn’t true. there was only one suit I was comfortable wearing - my dress uniform. I insisted to my mother that I would be wearing this. Naturally, she resisted but after what appeared to be a sinister pause for thought, she agreed. I have to admit, I found that one moment to be a bit disturbing. Certainly, she would not have agreed without some ulterior motive. Perhaps, instead of showing off her handsome son, she chose to show off her soldier son. This would almost certainly make her the center of attention and likely drag me into the spotlight as well. I was not looking forward to this event. The dinner party was set for the following night. I got up that morning at 0500 as usual. I wasn’t in training anymore but I felt it necessary to maintain a schedule as well as my physical condition. So, I mapped out a five-mile course through Bangor. This was not a looped course and I began running ten miles a day. I returned home and started organizing my uniforms. I had tried to pack my duffle bag carefully. But, as I began to hang them up I realized that everything was in desperate need of ironing. Here at home, any clothes that were to be pressed were taken to a dry cleaner. That would take too long and the dinner party was that night. Thankfully, I had my own iron as well as a small ironing board. It was just big enough to press all my uniforms.

I decided to visit the university and spent a couple of hours just walking around. It was spring break and the campus was deserted. The buildings took on an eerie appearance beneath a sullen sky as the continuing rain stained the concrete a darker shade of gray. I found the visit bittersweet. I had a new sense of purpose but still heard the faint call of academia. I caught the city bus and headed downtown. Walking around downtown Bangor, I went directly to the nearest bookstore. After nine weeks of military training, I was in literary withdrawal and half an hour later, I walked out with a plastic shopping bag filled almost to its breaking point. I had taken an interest in some of history’s greatest military leaders - Napoleon, Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan and General Patton. But, I hadn’t forgotten about philosophy and picked up a copy of ‘The Tibetan Book of The Dead’ as well as ‘The Fountainhead’ by Ayn Rand. At the last moment, I bought an English version of The Koran. This may have seemed like an odd choice for an American in the military but if I was on my way to Afghanistan, I thought it might be helpful to learn something about their beliefs. It was the first book I read upon returning home and I wasn’t planning on taking it back to Fort Benning. The last thing I needed was for small-minded people to label me as a sympathizer - especially in the military. Over the next eight or nine days, I read it from cover to cover with a clear understanding of the Muslim ideas of peace as opposed to the writings of ‘Holy War’ or ‘Jihad’.

The dinner party was at seven o’clock and my mother would, once again, be in her element. She wasn’t pretentious by any means but she did enjoy the social limelight. My father, however, simply put on a smile and pretended to enjoy himself. It had become obvious to me that he’d rather be at home reading or involved in his new hobby. In fact, he had found a website that allowed him to not only listen to shortwave radio but record the transmissions as well and was now looking for software that would translate the Morse code. I suppose everyone needs a hobby.

We arrived at the dinner party at about quarter after seven. Yes, we arrived ‘fashionably late’ as per my mother’s insistence - always the socialite. The hosts hired the usual help. Most likely, they were paid minimum wage. The coat checker relieved my parents of their coats. Between my build and the uniform, he took one look at me and decided not to ask for my jacket, while in the same moment referred to me as ‘sir’. I wasn’t trying to be intimidating but it’s very possible that my expression conveyed how much I didn’t want to be there. As we walked into the main room, I immediately noticed that it was filled with the usual suspects. These were the people who made it a point to be on the list of every dinner party and it seemed to me that they either had a need for attention or that they made a hobby out of attending social events. Probably a little of both.

As usual, the hostess received the most attention, until we walked in. I’ve never felt so self-conscious in my life as everyone’s heads turned almost at the same time. It was as though a wave of energy had surged through the room. My mother was quickly approached by the hostess, who obviously felt threatened by the fact that she was no longer in the spotlight.

“Katheryn,” she began. “You never mentioned your son was in the military.”

"Well,” my mother replied. “After all those people were killed in New York last year, Clarence decided to stand up and do the right thing.”

“Oh, I see,” the hostess said.

The claws were out, and like two cats in the wild, they appeared to be sizing each other up - each trying to anticipate the others next remark. “Yes,” my mother said, “And we’re certain that he’ll be going to Afghanistan to defend all those people from terrorists.”

As she spoke, others wandered over to listen. My mother was very much aware that she clearly had the upper hand.

It was at this point that the host approached me and shaking my hand, gently pulled me away from the fray. “So, Clarence is it?” he asked.

His name was Steven and he was Gloria’s father. “Yes, sir,” I answered.

He turned toward me with a kind face. “You don’t have to be formal with me, son,” he said. “In fact, it seems to me that I should be calling you ‘sir’.” I found this very surprising, considering the company he kept.

“I’ve always had great respect for people who are willing to put themselves in harm’s way and I think it’s a very noble thing you’re doing.”

“Uh, thank you,” I replied.

I was at a loss for words. I guess I’d mistakenly assumed that most, if not all, people of wealth had a tendency to look down on those in military service as they seemed to look down on everyone else. A tense moment went by as I struggled for something to say.

“This is a very nice dinner party you’ve put on,” I said. “I would go so far as to say that you’ve outdone yourself.”

He grinned broadly as he glanced down at the floor. “Oh, come on now Clarence,” he replied. “I saw your face when you walked in. You really don’t want to be here, do you?”

His perception was extremely acute and I quickly felt my face flush with embarrassment.

“Oh, it’s alright,” he continued. “To be honest, I can’t stand these things - bunch of pretentious pricks running around all full of themselves. Actually, I probably wouldn’t do this at all if it weren’t for my wife.”

He nudged me a bit with his elbow. “You know what they say - when the wife’s not happy, nobody’s happy."

I fully understood what he meant and grinned in acknowledgment.

“Besides, you looked as though you needed rescuing.” We glanced over at my mother and Steven’s wife. They were still slugging it out in a civilized battle of wits, where the prize of victory was momentary social dominance. Shakespeare once wrote that upon returning from a victorious battle, Caesar’s chariot driver spoke these words into his ear: ‘Glory is fleeting’. That would certainly be the case here.

My mother always chose to outsmart her adversaries instead of displaying a temper. She believed that winning an argument through reason and logic was a strong sign of intelligence and it wasn’t long before the hostess excused herself from the conversation. Victory had been won as the hostess retreated from the field, leaving my mother to mingle while displaying her social supremacy. If the description of this brief exchange seems dramatic, it’s only because these particular women tend to be dramatic, at least in social situations.

Turning away from this aristocratic carnage, I discovered that Gloria had appeared out of the crowd and was standing only a few feet in front of us.

“Oh, Gloria,” he said. “Have you met Clarence? Clarence, this is my daughter Gloria”.

“I think we met briefly around New Years’,” I replied. She was a striking image of feminine beauty, wearing a shimmering black cocktail dress that hung to the middle of her thighs - her shoulders adorned with spaghetti straps. The dark locks of her hair fell down between the middle of her back as though by some divine intent. She stepped towards me as her father excused himself. I barely comprehended her first words as she spoke with such beautiful eloquence and gentleness. Certainly, this was not the same woman who snubbed me three and a half months ago. She smiled and extended her hand. That moment of physical contact seemed eternal. Her hand was warm and her skin was soft beyond description. My reaction was respectful and controlled. If I were prone to using ‘pick up lines’ I might have said something like ‘it seems that Mount Olympus has lost one of its goddesses’. But this woman, as with all women, deserved more respect than that.

As she closed the distance between us, I could see her face beginning to flush. It was flawlessly beautiful and her makeup was perfect to a fault. It was obvious that she had acquired her mothers’ Greek beauty. “Clarence,” she began. “I remember you from New Year’s.”

“Yes, we did meet briefly,” I replied, as I did my best to politely play the fool.

She looked at me rather quizzically.

“Something’s different about you,” she said. “Maybe it’s just the uniform,” I replied. She took a couple of small steps back while quickly examining me.

“Well, she continued. “The uniform is very handsome but it’s something else.”

The tone of her voice had gone from polite to intimate in a very short period of time. Another man might have attempted to sound the charge and move in for the kill. As for myself, I was not only enjoying her wonderful presence but I was also enjoying the game.

I engaged Gloria in a bit of small talk by asking about her law career. As it turns out, she had landed a very well-paying job in a bankruptcy firm. Either she gave in to her father’s ‘suggestion’ or she reached the conclusion that it made more economic sense to work in that particular field. Either way, she still had plenty of time to find her direction. “I’m sorry,” she began. “I’m being terribly rude. Can I show you the rest of the house?”

As Sherlock Holmes was known to say: ‘the game is afoot’. “Of course,” I answered. “Am I getting a personal tour?” She looked up at me with a playful grin while taking my arm. We casually made our way out of the dining room while she gave me a quick tour of the house. I knew what she wanted and the anticipation was killing me. “Would you like to see the guest house?” she asked as she blushed again.

I had no doubt that she would, one day, make a very good lawyer. But, what she really needed to work on was how to conceal her emotions. Gloria’s behavior and responses spoke volumes and I could almost read her thoughts. “You have a guest house?” I asked almost naively. “I’d love to see it.”

No, I wasn’t being naïve. I was simply enjoying the game. I opened the back door for her while gently placing a hand on the middle of her back. I could feel the firm inward curve of her spine through the cocktail dress she was wearing. The air became noticeably warmer as my heart began pounding in my ears. The rain had let up to a slight sprinkle as we walked to the guest house. I opened the unlocked door for her and after stepping through, she commented on how warm it was. Stepped in after her and closing the door I noticed that it wasn’t warm at all. She turned around, fanning herself with her purse. “So,” she began. “Are all you Army guys such gentlemen?” she asked.

Removing my cap, I responded, “I hope so”. Smiling again, she reached out and grabbed my hand. “Come on, let me show you around,” she said. She now spoke in a way that was far more casual and any formalities disappeared the moment she took my hand as she led me through a small foyer and up the stairs. “I want to show you something,” she continued. The guest house wasn’t exactly a sprawling mansion but it was big enough for a family of four to be comfortable. “You’re going to love this!”

Once upstairs, she led me into the master bedroom. Everything was made of wood. The bed frame, dressers, and writing desk were made of hand carved mahogany. “This is beautiful!” I said.

Gloria stepped in close and put a hand on my shoulder, looking up at me with a still flushed face. “That’s why I brought you here.” I turned towards her and slowly wove my fingers through her black curls. She responded by craning her neck up, reaching out to me with her lips and as we embraced each other, I kissed her gently as the warm feeling of arousal took control over us. She slowly pulled the spaghetti straps of her cocktail dress down over her shoulders, letting it slide down to the carpeted floor. Her body was firm, yet her skin was as soft as a thinly oiled pane of glass. We embraced again and as I ran my fingertips down the middle of her back, she took a brief gasp of arousal.

She pulled me over to the bed and began removing my uniform. Our bodies continued in their entanglement as we slipped between the beds white satin sheets. “What about the door?” I whispered. Gloria giggled as she wrapped her arms around me. “I locked the front door when you weren’t looking,” she said.

There was something strange about making love while leaving the door open. It felt as though anyone, at any time, could walk past the doorway, catching us - literally - with our pants down. My arousal was beginning to get the better of me.

“Slow down,” she whispered. “There’s plenty of time.” As I kissed her open mouth, we reached towards each other with the tips of our tongues as I slowly brushed the back of my fingers down her right breast, discovering how sensitive she was as she arched her neck back and took in a breath of arousal. Her body shivered beneath me as her breasts became overwhelmed with goosebumps. Giving me a playful grin, she began to sit up while wrapping her arms around my neck. We rolled over together like a well-choreographed dance until she sat astride my hips.

I reached up to her shoulders and gently moved down her arms until our fingers became interwoven. leaning over toward me she kissed me on the mouth while sliding her body up towards me. I turned my head, letting my lips brush over one of her warm, supple breasts. Reaching down with some careful manipulation, we both contributed to the joining of our bodies as together we took an abrupt gasp of passion. A sudden glistening of sweat erupted from her skin as she began rolling her hips back and forth while I held her hips firmly and repeatedly locked our bodies together. Some would say that nothing lasts forever. I would disagree. We had both become lost in each other as our moment of passion raced out of control as Gloria curled her fingers into my chest, leaving claw marks on my skin.

As I lay on my back, staring into her eyes, I witnessed in her a release as though a wild animal had escaped from her soul. Now, my arousal peaked as we both achieved release together. Her body arched back as she let out a deep breath, letting her hair hang down to the small of her back. A thin ribbon of sweat slowly made its way down between her breasts towards her navel as though it knew the way. She lowered her body down onto me and shifting her hips, slid over next to me and laid her head on my chest. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she began. “I dug my nails into your chest.”

I looked down as the nail marks slowly filled themselves in with blood.

“That’s okay,” I replied. “I’ve been through worse.” She looked up into my eyes.

“What you’re going to be doing in the Army, will it be dangerous?” she asked.

Her question raised other questions that I didn’t dare ask. Was Gloria developing feelings for me? Did she actually care or was she just curious?

“No more dangerous than crossing the street,” I answered. “C’mon,” she replied. “You know what I mean.”

I understood her question completely but I wanted to know exactly how she felt. Would this be just a brief encounter or was there something more - something deeper. Certainly, there is a difference between lust and passion and if it’s one thing I value, its honesty. But, I didn’t want to ask her directly. The last thing I wanted was to appear as a love-struck puppy. I’ve always believed that ‘love at first sight’ was unrealistic and misleading. I just wanted to know if she saw me as just a sexual playground or as someone she might see as becoming part of her life. I told her that the majority of my job would be gathering information, reconnaissance. This seemed to satisfy her question - be it concern or curiosity. Not that I was being misleading, I just didn’t see the point of going into detail.

We lay in each other’s arms for only a few minutes when she slid out from between the sheets and quickly picked up her clothes from the floor she walked to the bathroom. “Be right back soldier boy,” she said. ‘Soldier Boy'.

I wondered if this was Gloria’s idea of a pet name or if she was just teasing. I got up and began putting on my uniform. I was still a bit confused but within the next few minutes, the answer would be as plain as day. Whatever Gloria was doing didn’t take long. She walked out a confident, yet slightly casual step wearing not only the cocktail dress but a pair of black pumps that I hadn’t noticed before. I guess I was preoccupied with other things. Seeing them on her now left me believing that they were the sexiest shoes I’d ever seen.

“I have to get back,” she said.

Making her way to the door, she hesitated and slowly walked over to me. Her lips fell open slightly as she looked up into my eyes. Reached up, she straightened my tie as a slight look of concern washed over her face. Gloria took a deep breath as though carefully gathering her words. “Look, Clarence,” she said.

She had answered my question with two simple words. Anything more would have only created tension. I put my hands on her shoulders.

“Gloria,” I began. “I get it. You just started your career and you don’t want any attachments. It’s okay.” She tightly wrapped her arms around me. “Thank you,” she said. “Thanks for understanding.” She stepped back and turned toward the door. “You’re right, you know,” she replied. “I’m not looking - yet.”

She blew me a kiss and winked before quietly disappearing from the room. I smiled to myself knowing that there was, in fact, something underneath what seemed to be just a roll in the sack. Gloria had made it obvious that there was indeed small glitter of a spark, in spite of her initial attempt to let me down easy. Eventually, it would need to be fanned into a raging fire but not yet. A relationship was a bad idea for both of us. She had a new career as an attorney and I was about to go to war. It didn't feel wrong, it just wasn't the right time for either of us. I suppose it could have been worse. She could've just ridden me like a mechanical bull and walked out, maybe even thanking me on the way but Gloria had a heart. Not that I would describe her as being completely innocent, certainly not after today. But, she did care. She just didn't want to show it until she felt safe, at a time when she’d be less likely to get hurt.

I walked back to the main house. It was raining again - just my luck. Upon entering, I found that the guests had been seated in the dining room with the usual minimum wage servants waiting on them hand and foot. Naturally, the hostess was getting most of the attention, as though she was the Queen of England. At least, she seemed to think she was. Then, I was struck by an oddly humorous thought. I walked in resenting people like her for seeing the less fortunate as the bottom feeders of society. Then, I slept with her daughter. I'm not proud of this but at that moment I saw it as a twisted form of poetic justice. It was a feeling that might be best expressed with the words 'fuck you'. Either way, it was just an afterthought that had nothing to do with Gloria. My father approached me. He was very good at reading people.

"You and Gloria go out for a walk?" he asked. He knew exactly what had happened. "Yeah," I began. "She wanted to show me around."

"Uh huh," my father replied. "Did you see anything that particularly caught your eye?"

A pause went by as we both stood watching people being seated.

"More than I ever imagined," I answered with a slight grin. "So, when you're here on leave, I guess you'll be attending more of these dinner parties, huh?" he asked. He knew I couldn't stand dinner parties and he knew why. Now, he felt that I'd be a bit more motivated to attend them in the future.

"Without a doubt," I said quietly. From the moment Gloria left my side, I was unable to take my eyes off her and after she sat down, she looked at me with a slight grin.

"I think someone wants your attention," my father said. He didn't miss a thing.

I walked over and sat in the chair next to her. It was obvious that she was holding it for me. A servant pushed my chair in as I sat down. I wasn't used to being waited on by servants and found it to be very uncomfortable. As usual, the food was decadent and, as usual, my stomach didn't agree with it. Conversation began as dinner was being served. Immediately, I noticed that Gloria's demeanor had returned to its previous degree of formality. At some point during dinner, a tuxedo-clad middle-aged man got my attention from across the table.

"So, young man," he started. "What do you make of your military career thus far?"

"Well," I replied. "It's very challenging." He looked at me with a slight nod. "Really," he replied. "And what do you find most challenging about it?"

Obviously, he had never served. All the same, it was a difficult question to answer.

With Gloria sitting next to me, I chose to refrain from any discussion about the night fire incident or gas chamber training. Some stories just shouldn't be told. "I think that would be survival training," I answered. "It was a good exercise in resourcefulness." He paused dramatically while picking up his wine glass. "Yes," he said. "I imagine it would be." I dealt with this brief exchange in a friendly, respectful manner. But in my mind, the words 'pretentious asshole' played several times. He then began talking about how his father fought at Normandy Beach and lived to tell about it. "How did he survive?" I asked.

He paused in a dramatic moment. "If I remember correctly..."

His wife suddenly interrupted.

"Oh Geoffrey," she said. "These lovely young people don't want to hear about such terrible things."

I honestly did want to hear it but she was right. It wasn't really appropriate dinner conversation. "Now, Gloria," she continued.

She changed the conversation to what could only be called 'girl talk' - leaving her husband quietly grumbling. "As a woman, don't you find a man in uniform to be the most handsome thing you've ever seen?" She looked at Gloria with a knowing expression, as though she had seen everything.

Gloria did not cower from the question, nor the way in which it was asked.

"Well," she began.

She put an elbow on the table and leaned in slightly. Her other hand went directly to my knee. I tried to contain my reaction as the woman's husband grinned faintly. He knew exactly what had just happened.

"As a matter of fact, I only recently discovered my appreciation for our servicemen. It seems there's a great deal more than just the uniform."

Her response stopped the woman cold as her hand made its way up the inside of my thigh. I'm sure that my blushing face lit up the entire room as my forehead broke out into a hot sweat. The entire experience could have easily qualified as an act of torture and while I was able to retain my self-control, I was not able to control what my body was doing. Gloria's touch brought on a physical reaction that I can only describe as furious, one that completely consumed me. I reached my hand down to pull my chair in another two or three inches and immediately moved Gloria's hand back to my knee. It wasn't that I minded her touching my leg - in fact, I deeply craved it. But in a crowded dining room, I found it both teasing as well as arousing.

But, Gloria wasn't quite finished playing as she gently ran her nails across the inside of my knee. The women continued talking as every hair on my body stood on end and now that we were more than a bit familiar with each other, I decided that participation in 'this' game was absolutely necessary and I reached down to adjust my chair again and moved my hand over, deftly stroking her knee with a single touch. Withdrawing my hand just as quickly, I felt her grip tighten as she shivered slightly and squirmed a bit in her chair. The gentleman across the table gave me a quick wink and a slight nod. He obviously remembered what it was like to be young and we both knew what the other was thinking.

The dinner concluded without any further teasing from either of us. But in all honesty, I wish there had been more. The gentleman across the table finally got the chance to tell his story about how his father survived the invasion of Normandy Beach. His wife wasn't nearly as impressed as I was and she had to have heard it at least a thousand times. Gloria disappeared about fifteen minutes before we left, missing the chance to say good night. As my parents retrieved their coats, she walked up behind me. Even before I saw her, I caught a whiff of her perfume. The aroma was an intoxicating blend of the splendor of Paris and the soft, flawlessness of her skin. I felt myself becoming slightly dizzy and warm as she put a hand on my arm. "My parents' dinner parties can be quite boring," she began. "But I hope you enjoyed yourself." I looked into her eyes and leaned towards her ear. "You have no idea," I whispered. She stepped in closer and took my hand. "Actually, I do," she replied.

Gloria retreated back into the crowded dining room, glancing back over her shoulder with a smile. She left in my hand a folded piece of paper. Without opening it, I slipped it into the inside pocket of my jacket. Whatever was written on it was certainly something personal and I would read it another time. This was definitely 'eyes only' information.