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There was a woman named Alison, I was assisting her in some research, and she had come by my office several times, for some useful discussions. She was friendly and charming, but always stopped short of being flirtatious. She may have seen my wedding ring, which was hard to miss. But none the less, I did indulge in a little private speculation about her. She seemed like she could be hot in a librarian-sexy sort of way -- tightly laced, repressed sexuality that might suddenly boil over without warning. That evening she showed up unannounced, just around the time everyone else was leaving. She was wearing fishnet stockings. They seemed very out of place; she cultivated sort of a scruffy liberal image, studious looking, short hair that was a bit messy. But she was wearing fishnet stockings tonight. I put it out of my mind, and engaged her in a serious intellectual discussion. But the thought came back -- why the stockings? Was she trying to get me interested? She knew I was married, and I knew that she was engaged. We kept talking. Her skirt was too short. She kept adjusting her legs, moving them around. I was determined to keep focussed, because she was asking intelligent, important questions. Her legs were moving. Her outfit was so plain; the stockings seemed out of place. We kept talking, until at a certain point she just stopped, and stared at me with a slightly goofy smile on her face. "You know," she said, "I have a confession to make." I looked at her expectantly, and she blushed. But then she bravely soldiered on. "I don't know what it is about you, but you make me feel very naughty." "I do?" I replied. I was genuinely surprised, because I had been a perfect gentleman. "What did I do?" "Oh, you didn't do anything," she ...
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