Her Melting Point

On Her Turf

The next morning she opened her eyes, as it seemed, a few minutes before her alarm went off; and stared into the darkness of her room. Jackie had always been a poor sleeper, but this night had been particularly restless. She'd kept floating in and out of worrisome dreams, mixed with memories, and some unrealistic scenarios of 'could've' and 'shouldn't have.' And then she'd recalled the sensation of his scorching massive hands groping her backside, and she'd jolt out of her half-slumber.

The day before Alexander had said, "I'm looking forward to working with you," and had left. If anything, she'd been grateful. Any more information would've tripped out some circuits in her noggin. She needed to get her mind straight - except, she hadn't managed. 

At the end, she wouldn't be able to say what she thought of her 'interaction' with him, mostly because she was having trouble believing that it had even happened. And then she'd suddenly remember how he'd pressed her hips down, as if her own - rather significant - weight wasn't creating enough friction between their 'naughty bits.'

She came down to breakfast groggy and dishevelled; and she didn't check her Inbox until she was done with her second cup of coffee. It had been a mistake. It turned out that she had a meeting at the school - and she still didn't know what time the lorry with her furniture was coming to her new home. She sighed, hurriedly hoovered up two croissants, and rushed back into her room.

The shirt, of course, was wrinkled; and there was some sort of a powdery stain on her jacket. Rubbing it with a paper tissue was a mistake, which she followed up with a wash and thorough patting with a hotel towel, which in turn made it look like she spilled coffee on her lapel. Jackie groaned, gave up, and rushed out. The cab, of course, was already waiting for her.

In the cab, she kept lamenting that she should've worn a belt. The trousers were sitting oddly on her hips and gathering in appalling folds around her crotch. She could never understand for whom they made clothes anyroad. She had the most ordinary body one could expect on a forty-something old Gaelic female: a sizeable sturdy backside, stout hips, a bit of a flabby stomach - and a waist, nothing mad, no hour-glass figure, obviously. Somehow, she always ended up in one of two predicaments: either she couldn't zip up; or her trousers would stick out on her lower back, push her top, and give her a weird hunch. She was too self-conscious for tight clothing, and too embarrassed of her former runner's calves for a dress. It was a good thing that no one gave a toss about what she looked like these days, she kept reminding herself. She wasn't married to a gorgeous Texan with the body of a competitive swimmer anymore.

She entered the Fleckney Comprehensive and stopped in the familiar foyer with its original parquet flooring and doors with port-hole windows. Jackie hadn't paid much attention when she'd had her cursory interview with Mrs. Guthrie, but she could see now that the school hadn't changed much in the last ten years; except perhaps for careful and considerate touch-ups. The school was a Grade II listed building, initially, in 1869, of red brick with sandstone dressings and clay tile roof; with an addition of two wings in 1938, of the same brick but with concrete and ashlar dressings. Jackie loved everything about it, especially the sort of an ecclesiastic vibe that its renown architect was famous for.

Knowing her lack of sense of direction and her general scatteredness, she'd downloaded the school's floorplan to her phone. She decided to give herself a moment before she attempted to navigate it, lifted her eyes to the ceiling, and took a calming breath in.

"Mrs. Mair!" a voice rang through the entrance lobby.

Jackie turned towards the person. They were young, dressed in a colourful garment that was either a very short dress, or a long shirt; tights with a geometric pattern; and stylish bright red loafers.