Free Quinn by Sally Mandel Page A

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    â€œI’ve just been grumpled!” she shouted. Then she peered at him. “You made that up,” she accused. He grinned.
    Quinn dragged on his arm, bringing him to a halt. “Look.” She pointed at the footsteps trailing off behind them. “Are there people who analyze footprints? You know, like handwriting?”
    â€œSure,” Will said. “Pedographists. My aunt was one.” Quinn looked up at him, fascinated. He returned her gaze sideways through half-open eyes.
    The light dawned. “You turkey,” she said. “I think I’ll just trip you up.” She poked her foot out in front of him.
    â€œI wouldn’t be at all surprised,” Will said.
    Lou’s was an oasis of warmth. Faces glowed in the soft light of the jukebox while Diana Ross’s smoky Motown sound undulated and throbbed.
Baby, baby, where did our love go?
The booths were crammed with students drinking beer, consuming hamburgers the size of grapefruit and Lou Rizzo’s heavily embellished pizzas. Quinn and Will squeezed their way to the bar, ordered cheeseburgers, fries, and a pitcher of beer. Will began to talk about Professor Buxby.
    â€œThe man’s a true pedant,” Will was saying. Quinn reached out a finger and ran it along the line of his nose, across his lips, and down under his chin. “Don’t accuse
me
of not paying attention,” Will complained.
    â€œI am. Our Buxby, a true pedographist. You’re craggy.”
    Will shook his head. Quinn’s neighbor at the bar got up and headed for the jukebox, leaving an empty stool.
    â€œThank God,” she murmured. “I have to cross my legs.” After a moment she looked up at him plaintively. “It doesn’t help.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIn your experience,” Quinn said, “have you ever encountered a nymphomaniac?”
    â€œNadine Kowalsky in seventh grade.”
    â€œHow did you know?”
    â€œMy brother told me.” Will’s eyes were half-mast again.
    â€œI think I’m one.”
    â€œThe Catholic kind are always the worst.”
    â€œI wish we were back there in your bed.” She stuffed three french fries into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
    â€œYou just got started late.”
    She offered him the catsup bottle. “You gonna help me ketchup?”
    He leaned over to give her a kiss. He smelled deliciously of beer and salty potatoes. “Don’t do that,” Quinn cried, pressing her knees together hard.
    On their way out they met Stanley and Van at the door. Will held the door for them as everyone said hurried hellos. Then Quinn ducked out under Will’s arm, turning to catch Van staring at her through the steamy glass pane. Her face was pursed with obstructed curiosity. Quinn flashed her a quick goofy grin. A debauched grin, Van told Stanley later over her whiskey sour.
    Quinn lay in bed that night, trying to assess the evening. She had expected to feel changed, as if something momentous had happened. She wasn’t disappointed. At first it had been quite painful with him inside her. He seemed much too big. There was a burning, stretching sensation. But Will was gentle. He eased himself in and out of her slowly, carefully, until the time came when she only wanted that particular pain to go on and on, until her body arched toward his and her legs wrapped around his hips, urging him into her again and again. She didn’t think she had had an orgasm. She was confident that she would recognize one when it occurred, but in the meantime, the excitement of Will’s naked body against her naked body and of part of him buried so deep inside her, well, it hardly made sleep come easily. She smiled into the darkness. There was a scuff mark on the ceiling directly above her pillow, put there by a high-flying Statistics textbook in a moment of midterm exasperation. The splotch was invisible in the dark, of course, but she often imagined it there