Temptation by Henry P. Kramer July 8, 1997

        Ellen was a bright, well organized, and good looking professional woman. She was second in command in the office. I considered myself lucky to have the job, and, of course, tried to show her that I could do superlatively everything that was assigned to me. It was hard.
        As a graduate student, working in the office to supplement my GI Bill allotment and thus to support my wife and two kids, I could not devote full time to the job. Nonetheless, I did pretty well . The job, my graduate studies, and my duties as father and householder kept me going , sometimes from early morning one day until early morning the next. Fortunately, I didn't have many of the distractions that money can buy. It was before the days of TV and we couldn't afford hi-fi , theater, opera or even movies because of the expense of the baby sitter.
        Sometimes, the boss, who was an opera buff, would talk to Ellen of his evening at the San Francisco Opera. While he described his opera pumps , I translated a physics paper from Russian. While he discussed his wife's evening dress, I struggled to verify the solution to a mathematical equation. As he fretted about his white leather gloves, Ellen listened agog. Me, I didn't say anything but at times it made me almost sick to think of the contrast between my constant worry about money for food, rent, and gasoline and his frivolous expenditures.
        At those times, I was envious of his comfortable, easy, cultivated life. But mostly I figured he lived his life the way he wanted to and I lived mine the way I had to. When I didn't think about the contrast I felt pretty good.
Ellen and the boss were the type of superior people who never sweated. To keep fit, I would run up the hill from the campus, and would, in contrast, arrive at my desk dripping. Oh well, I thought bitterly, some people have style, savoir-faire, or whatever and some don't.
        Ellen shared the boss' office. So at first she and I had little to do with each other. But after a while, when the boss wasn't there, Ellen and I would chat about work. Sometimes she would come to my office and we would talk about other things like philosophical generalities about men and women. Looking me in the eyes, Ellen said that she really liked serious, purposeful, clean cut men. On hearing that, I became animated, and even warm. These discussions frequently took place in the late afternoon, when energy lags, and people are thinking of the evening's activities. We would then say good by and go our separate ways. Sometimes, I had a vague feeling that there was something here that was incomplete, perhaps something I should have said and didn't.
        Towards the end of a winter day, when the lights were on early because it was already dark outside, and there was an air of sadness and futility, as if it were not at all certain that the sun would ever shine again, Ellen came to my office and said : "Look, John, on Thursday evenings I have a little group that comes to my house for tea and talk. I would like it very much if you could come sometimes." I was very flattered for being asked to take part in her life that must be so much more civilized and yet carefree than mine, and thanked her for the invitation and said that I would let her know. I was very tempted to join her group if indeed there was such a group and even more if there wasn't. I thought it would be delightful and cozy. I thought all sorts of things.
        I went home to our little house in a working class area, helped my wife cook dinner, care for the children, and did my homework. Next morning , after my duties on campus, I went to the office. Ellen's invitation was much on my mind and inflamed my imagination.
        But there was so much to do. At first, in desperation and then with relief I immersed myself in my work. Ellen never mentioned the invitation again nor did 1. We continued to be friendly but our discussions in the late afternoon became less animated and soon stopped.