"My arithmetic still needs improvement," I said, sliding my report card  across the table to 
her, "but I'd like to think my printing is still worthy of your 'Excellent.' "

Stephanie picked up the card, and as I studied her smile in the candlelight, it occurred to 
me that I was still her student even 10 years later, still eager to please. And that she was 
still absolutely beautiful and the poor woman was on crutches again but looking so good 
going so..

"My goodness... you kept this?" she said.

"It was my last good report card, Stephanie," I joked. "Why wouldn't I keep it?"

The name "Stephanie" sounded strange on my lips. She was, and in many ways would 
forever be, Miss Robinson. She had been my teacher in high school, and she was the first 
woman upon whom I had a hopeless, heart aching crush.

As I watched her study my report card, I thought about many things.

I was still in her classroom.  I could still see her clean plaster cast resting on a chair beside 
her. The crutches resting on the side of her desk. I could still hear the noise made by her 
one heel while moving around the class on her crutches, 

I could remember first walking into Miss Robinson's class that September morning, and 
then feeling dry in the throat when I realized that she had broken her leg and was going to 
look so good for weeks on crutches in that long cast.

"Now that I think about it, Tony, I remember you had trouble concentrating in arithmetic 
class."

Stephanie's voice brought me back from my daydreams, and I smiled at her recollection.

"Thank heaven for calculators, Stephanie," I replied and leg cast I fantasize

We laughed together, and I poured another glass of Beaujolais for us both.

I passed high school and moved on. I saw Stephanie seldom in the years that followed. 
With the attention span of a typical horny teen, there were other things in my life. She was 
soon just a signature on a report card.

But through the years, I've often thought about her in that long cast. So desirable on 
crutches. 

And now, here we were, in the elegant dining room of a downtown hotel, 10 years after I 
left her class. I am looking at her, and surely she sees it in my eyes: I still have a crush on 
this lovely woman. A damp-palmed, short-of-breath, butterflies-in-the-stomach crush.

It's almost incredible how we have reconnected. No longer was I 16 years old. I was 26. 
She was 36.

 I met Stephanie in the lobby, and my heart nearly stopped when I saw her drift toward me 
on her crutches, the cotton dress of muted pastels billowing gently around her summer-
bare leg and her casted right lower leg that was pulled back off the floor. She was every 
bit as graceful as I remembered her from high school. 

I kissed her on both cheeks and hugged her tight. Gone were her  horn-rimmed glasses in 
my pictures. I loved how she looked. Her hair was shoulder-length.

So many years, so much water under the bridge. We were tucked away in a cozy corner of 
the restaurant as I had requested, in flickering candlelight, and we sipped our wine and ate 
our meals almost in slow motion. It was over coffee and dessert that I showed Stephanie 
my report card.

She was touched that it has meant so much to me over the years, and when she slid it back 
across to me, our fingers met, and she placed hers over mine, patting them.

"How wonderful to find you again after all these years," she said, not removing her hand, 
and the fire I felt was my blushing or the wine or a returning crush that was was nearly 
overcoming me.

All through dinner, I kept trying to push the impure thoughts out of my mind. This was a 
quiet, casual meeting, and it was a beautiful coincidence that we had found each other. 

Now we were in the hotel bar, sipping our second cognac, sitting on a small sofa, and 
none of that mattered.

I had been trying to find the words to tell her what this evening meant to me. But when the 
words wouldn't come, I reached out and took her hand in both of mine. Stephanie looked 
at me and said nothing. But she smiled, and she returned my squeeze.

"So Stephanie you didn't tell me how you broke your ankle. I remember when you wee 
teaching me you were also in a cast?" I asked, feeling curious, protective and so excited.

She laughed.

"It's a long story Tony. My ankle is fine. I have this…fetish where I love to go public in a 
leg cast using crutches" she said looking at me straight in my eyes

I cleared my throat, swirled my snifter in my hand, took another sip and shifted to face 
her, every ounce of courage in my body needed for what I did next. Sliding my hand over 
her cast and rubbing her toes.

"Stephanie ... I've had that fetish ever since high school Ever since you were in that long 
plaster cast"

She blinked wordlessly, and the few seconds of silence between us felt like a lifetime. 
Then:

"Tony," she said steadily, still holding my hand, "My…ankle is sore, hummm do you want 
to go to your place."

I leaned in to her and kissed her gently on her cheek, savoring the softness of her skin on 
my lips.
"Come," I said, getting to my feet and grabbing her crutches

I paid the check, tipping him generously for his discretion, and took Stephanie by the hand 
to help her up on her good leg to grab her crutches.

In the quiet lobby, there was one female clerk behind the check-in counter, the only noise 
being her heel and the crutches on the marble floor. I checked us in to a room on the 22nd 
floor.

She let go her crutches and I took her in my arms in the elevator and hugged her, then 
reached up and held her face in my hands. She was so careful not to step on her cast. 
There was something quite wonderful about how she looked and acted about her injury.


Part 2 to come