I. Back in the Day

The Nature of Systems 1989

It had been years since a man had touched her like that. Strong hands molded her body, her hips and soft shoulders, reminding Kay of dear Macheath Tree, dead these twenty-one years. The past two decades had been hard on the woman. All she wanted now was a respectable end, maybe a nice luncheon, a kind word from the vice president. The folks from Georgetown could even send down an assistant chair to deliver a few unfelt sentiments. Today we honor . . . the usual bullshit. She'd heard it all before, starting at Harvard, where the youngsters from Biological Sciences had worked hard to destroy her husband's program (and what an entire department couldn't accomplish with all its collective ill will, a shattered glass stamen managed quite nicely in the spring of '68).

Yes, a kind word from the veep. Not this new guy, though. It wasn't that the poor fellow was such a simp, or that he'd fudged on his military background. But they should've known not to pick an extremist. The right-wingers belonged here, in this building. Let's keep the centrists in the White House, where they can't do any harm.

From where she now stood–head down, watching her reflection in the bright marble floor–Kay could see all the way up her dress, the pleated fringe spreading wide around her sneakers. The floors in these federal buildings were too damn shiny. Still, it excited her to watch the dress sway every time those hands pressed into her sides, fingers hot and firm against her thick cotton underwear, his knees touching hers, forcing her legs apart, so controlled, yes, we will not miss a single step, Mrs. Tree, we will execute the steps in the proper order.

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