Death and Professor Longfellow

Chapter 3: The Hole in Recent Recollection

 Longfellow had a strange sensation of floating, even though both of his feet were firmly planted on the ground on the crossed road of the train tracks. In the distance, the professor observed a woman smoking on a bench. He couldn’t entirely make out who she was, but something was very familiar about her. He felt drawn to her by some force stronger than his paltry human will.

The glowing tip of the cigarette burnt slowly, consumed by flames. She tapped the ashes off the tip. The smoke encircled her head like a wreath. Her hair was fiery red, flowing with body. It coiled around her heart-shaped face and over her exposed shoulders. Her skin was slightly tan and seemed to almost glow under the yellow street lamp. In fact her skin seemed perfect. She didn’t have a mole, zit, or freckle anywhere. Any bacteria that would have caused an irritation died before afflicting her. This woman’s body was curved and voluptuous with shapely features, as though she was perfectly carved from bronze. She wore a slinky black dress that left little to the imagination, yet maintained a sense of style and class. The burning light on her cigarette went out, even though there was plenty of tobacco left to smoke.

“Do you have a light?” she asked. Her voice was deep, yet unmistakably feminine. It had an amazingly sexy quality that invigorated even a sexless old man like Longfellow.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he whispered, “but I don’t smoke.”

“Very well, these things are devilishly bad for you anyway.” She smiled at him.

“So tell me, my lamb, where are you headed this lovely evening?”

“To bed, I suppose,” he assumed, without energy or vigor.

“Really, that’s awfully presumptuous of you. You could at least buy a girl dinner first.” The mysterious redhead winked at him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything by that. Not that you’re…I mean…I mean to say that I’m just very tired.” He stumbled over his words, the color of his cheeks matching her hair. Such a wicked double entendre was unbefitting of the stately intellectual that the good professor prided himself as being.

“Relax, Robbie. I was only toying with you, you delightful old fool. If you are waiting for the train, it’ll be an eternity before it comes. Let me give you a ride.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t accept.” Although in great need of transportation, the good professor feared making a “delightful old fool” of himself again. He couldn’t impose on this lovely stranger.

“I really must insist, Robbie, my lamb.” Seductively she held her hand out to him.

“So, you’ll take me home?” Longfellow asked, just to reassure himself that he could accept this generous woman’s offer. He didn’t want any impropriety, but couldn’t bring himself to say no to her.

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

He didn’t know her but inexplicably felt safe with her. Longfellow took the woman in black’s hand and helped the mysterious beauty to her feet. Her skin was smooth and soft, like velvet or silk, and was warm to the touch. Her grasp almost seemed to caress his wrinkled hand. Their fingers intertwined. She gently guided him into the night.

The alarm on her car chirped. It was a cherry-red convertible. Red: the color of the moon, the color of her hair, and the color of the large stain on his shirt. Where did that come from? Longfellow wondered if the students who spent their time on automobiles, rather than their studies, would have approved of this car. It seemed like they would. He paused for a moment, unsure if he wanted to get in. His contrasting comfort and uneasiness with this situation was so beguiling. Who was this strange woman and why was she so interested in him? Old men don’t get pretty women fawning over them. The questions didn’t matter because within a heartbeat’s span, Professor Robert Longfellow was in the passenger seat. A crimson flash streaked through the road, weaving around the slow-moving cars at speeds that would cause a reckless teenager to wet himself with both joy and fear. The red convertible sped with its top down, causing the driver’s long hair to dance like an orange flame. She was the image of freedom, wearing sunglasses at night, not caring that she had already tripled the speed limit. Her passenger was not. Professor Longfellow was wringing the seatbelt in his hands. The thin, balding man looked for anything to grab onto to give him some vague sense of security.