Jury of One

36

He was nervous. The great trial lawyer, Paul Riley, who had stood with confidence before scores of tribunals, dozens of juries, under the gravest of circumstances, could hardly get his keys into his door. He lived in a high-rise overlooking the lake, an expansive split-level condo with floor-to-ceiling windows, beautiful white furniture, expensive artwork, Persian rugs.

“This is beautiful,” she whispered.

“Had a decorator,” said Paul. “If it were up to me, I’d have college banners all over the walls and one of those old recliners.”

“A sports fan?” Shelly spun around, looking at the furnishings.

“College basketball,” said Paul. “Only pure sport left.” He smiled, shrugged, then looked around, nervously clapped his hands together. “Pro ball’s too controlled.”

Shelly turned to him. Paul blushed and looked away.

“Shot clock’s the problem,” Paul continued.

Shelly walked toward him slowly, watching his eyes as they diverted to the window.

“They don’t call traveling, either.”

“No?” Shelly walked up to Paul, looking up at him.

“Never liked the three-point shot.”

She touched his suit jacket, ran her hand down to the button.

“Course, college ball has the three-pointer, too. But in the pros, they just feed it into the center. There’s no, um-no strategy left.”

She unbuttoned his coat, opened it until it fell off his shoulders.

“Do you, uh, want a drink?”

Shelly looked back up at him. His face had turned a light shade of red. A trickle of sweat ran from his hairline.

“No,” she said. She reached for his tie.

“I”-Paul hiccupped a laugh-“Shelly, I have to confess that I’m a little, uh, out of practice.”

She reached up and kissed him, gently, ran her tongue along his lip, then his teeth, then their mouths locked. She tasted the spice of his food, the oaky cabernet. His cologne, strongest on his neck by his ears. She pulled off his tie without missing a beat, hurling it wherever. He brought his hands to the small of her back, then one cupped her head, massaged her hair. A small humming noise, a quiet groan, left his throat, echoed in her mouth. They moved awkwardly, their faces smashed together, as she removed his clothes, knocked away his hands as he tried to remove hers. There was the magnificent Paul Riley, pants at his ankles, his erection slicing through the opening in his boxers, struggling to keep his balance as he kicked off his shoes, lifted one foot after the other out of his pants.

“I have to warn you,” he said, as their mouths attacked one another. “I’m half Italian, but I’m a hundred percent Irish between my legs.”

She laughed. The things that concerned men. Everything was about measurements, the size of her tits or ass, or his penis. For good measure, not literally speaking, she put her hand on him. She made eye contact with him, though his eyes were hardly open, smiling at him while she gripped his penis like the handle of a slot machine.

“Jesus,” he mumbled. “You do that much longer and we’ll be done.”

She pulled him to the floor and climbed on top, first removing her panties. She ran her fingers over his chest, flattened by gravity, but she could see he took care of himself, a couple of fairly defined pecs between a patch of curly gray hair. His stomach was somewhat rounded but hard, a middle-aged man’s successful fight against time.

She reached for her purse, near the couch, and removed a condom.

“Good idea,” he mumbled, reaching for her.

“I’ll do it.” She removed the condom and unrolled it onto his erection, which stood at an angle in salute. “Irish, my ass,” she said. He smiled, though he was facing the ceiling for the moment. She hiked up her skirt and positioned herself, then fell down on top of him.

He let out a measurable noise, his head lifting off the carpet. “You’re not”-he spoke through a halting breath-“not gonna take off your clothes.” He reached for her sweater, ran his hands over her breasts.

“You have a problem with this, Riley? You have some kind of objection?”

“Hey, whatever”-he thrust upward, held himself in that position-“whatever you kids are doing these days.”

She closed her eyes, arched her back. His hands cupped the small of her back again, pawed at her sweater, as she bobbed on top of him.

“Shelly-I’m warning-you-it’s been awhile.”

Something she could do better than Paul? That would be something. Oh, was she being ridiculous? She hadn’t been with a man for over a year. No, it was more than two years. Why now? With everything swirling around her-why now? She moved slowly on Paul, and the answer came to her in the form of a question.

Why not now?

“You’re gonna give me a heart attack,” he said.

She smiled to herself as she quickened the pace again. Sex was just not the same for men and women-or at least, this particular woman. She’d never had an orgasm and was resigned to the fact that she didn’t know what she was missing. It was something else, not intimacy but some connection between two people, however brief, however casual, a reminder that she was a woman. And there was something with Paul. Something plaintive in his affection, something entirely unaffected about his corny chivalry.

His body shuddered into a spasm. His eyes shut, his mouth opened. He omitted a slow, tortured noise. He held his breath as his body moved uncontrollably. She rested on him and waited for him to open his eyes.

He went still, then smiled, peeked at her. “Sex in the twenty-first century,” he managed.

“Welcome,” she said, climbing off him. He sat up, removed the condom and didn’t seem to know what to do. They sat there a moment, admiring each other, then he motioned to the contents of his hand and went to the garbage. She watched his pale, freckly frame, his bare ass, move out of the room.

She found her panties and put them back on. When Paul returned to the room, he was still naked as a jaybird, but carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. “We drink,” he said.

She waved a hand. “None for me.”

“You mind if I have one?” he said. He placed the bottle and glasses on a side table and threw on his boxers. “I think I need to lower my blood pressure.”

“Really, Riley. You make it sound like you’re a virgin.”

He took a quick sip of wine. “No, far from it. But never-can I be blunt?”

“Have you ever been anything but?”

He smiled. He was at ease now. The pressure, she imagined, had probably been substantial. In her experience, men took their sexual performance very seriously. At least the good ones did.

“Never with anyone like you, Shelly.”

“Oh, God.” She rolled her eyes. “You were supposed to use that line before you had me, Riley, not after.”

He looked at her as if he had missed the joke. Because, she came to see, he had been entirely serious. He laughed it off, anyway, playing the good sport. After all, this had not turned out so badly from his perspective.

“I should go.” She was already dressed, and needed only to throw her purse over her shoulder.

She had caught Paul in midsip of the Merlot. “You’re going?”

“No rest for the criminal defense lawyer.”

“Shelly-” He moved in front of her. “Was it that terrible?”

She patted his chest. “No, Counselor. It was really wonderful. I just have to go. I’d really like to do this again. I really would.”

“Well-” Paul appraised the situation. He was standing in only boxers, holding a glass of wine, his clothes dangled over the couch or strewn across the carpet, while his date for the evening was on her way out. He seemed momentarily at a loss for words, and somewhat confounded by that fact alone. “I would, too?”

“Good answer.” She put her hand on his cheek. “I really, truly enjoyed it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She went to the door and looked back. Paul was searching for his shirt. “And then she left,” he said, loud enough for her to hear but, in Shelly’s mind, more to himself.