His Wife Leaves Him Page 10

  Now this is what he doesn’t understand. Why did he wait so long to call her after their second date? After he first met her at the party, he can understand why he didn’t call so fast. But he went over all that. Nervous about speaking to her. Didn’t want to be rejected. Thought waiting a few days before calling would up his chances of meeting her than calling right away or even in two to three days. How many days was it? He knows. Around a week. But it was mostly just nerves and that he wasn’t used to calling up someone for a date. But after the second date, when they had a good time together and the conversation flowed and so on and she invited him up and it seemed she was beginning to like him a little? They’d probably end up in bed next time they met or get pretty close to it, and then on the fourth date they would. Based on what happened at the end of their second date and something she said—he forgets what it was exactly but something like they shouldn’t rush things too fast, which meant on their second date—he was almost sure of it. Would have been so simple. And he was no longer nervous about calling her. He’d call the next day or day after that, but no longer. She’d agree to see him, but for what? Maybe he’d suggest a movie and then a bite to eat and a drink after. She might say “A movie would be fine—I love movies—but something to eat and drink after, we’ll see. Possibly just some nice place for tea. Anyway, I’d love to go to a movie with you.” Does that sound like her? It sounds like her, and she’d say “I’m free,” and mention the nights she was, and he’d say “I’m free every night this week and next, though let’s not wait till next, so whatever day works best for you is okay with me.” They’d meet, either at the movie theater or her apartment or in her building’s lobby—no, why go to her building? He’d suggest they meet at the theater—he’d have, in preparation for this, the newspaper opened to the listings of movies playing. But that wouldn’t be good for all week, maybe not even the next day, so they’d find out what movie to see and the times it’s playing some other way. Maybe she’d say she’d like to see a certain movie, and he’d look in the newspaper to see where it’s playing and call the theater for the time schedule on the evening they want to see it. Then, after the movie, they’d have a drink or snack or both or tea and pastry in a nice place close to the theater and then he’d go with her to her building and in front of it or in the lobby or during the subway or bus ride or walk to her building she’d say something like “Care to come up again for a nightcap?” Or maybe not. Maybe she’d still have work to do that night for the next day or have to get up early the next day to teach. So they wouldn’t go to bed together that night after the movie, or whatever they’d do on that date. But he’d make sure their next date would be on a Friday or Saturday night so she’d have no urgent work to do later on or a class to teach the next day. Maybe they’d go to a play this time or have dinner out again or he’d pick up Chinese or Indian food on his way to her place and some good beer and a decent wine, or maybe she’d want to make dinner for them in her apartment, and after one of those they’d make love. But he didn’t call her for a week. Again, he doesn’t know why. Thought about it a number of times and could never come up with an explanation that seemed right. He asked her about it sometime later—many months later. By now—actually, from a week or so after they first made love—they were seeing each other four to five times a week. He said “How come I waited so long to call you after our second date?” “Which one was that?” she said, and he said “When we had drinks at the West End and then dinner at the Strauss Cafe, I think it’s called. I walked you home. It was very cold—unusually so for early or mid-December. Early, since I first met you at Pati’s birthday party in late November—that night also turned out to be your parents’ wedding anniversary—waited a week before I called you for our first date—that mostly had to do with nerves on my part—but I called you for our second date the next day. By the way, you had liver and onions and I had an omelet at the restaurant. Because it was so cold out, I wanted to share a soup with you, but you didn’t want one. I think you thought it was too early in our knowing each other to share the same bowl—spoons I could have got two of—so I didn’t order it. You invited me up for a nightcap, you called it—your father’s brandy from Israel. I poured myself one. When you were in the bathroom I secretly poured myself another, a much larger shot—you didn’t know that,” and she said “Because you never told me, but it’s not important. You like your liquor—I know that.” “You mean all alcohol—wine, beer, aperitifs, and such—but never to excess. It’s true, and it’s not something I’m saying I like about myself, and I’m grateful you never made an issue of it, that there haven’t been many evenings in my adult life that I haven’t had a drink or two. We kissed, at the end of our second date, though didn’t fondle. Then you sent me home—out into the cold—but said before I left that you were glad I didn’t put any pressure on you to make love.” “That I remember—the liver and onions and soup I don’t—and I didn’t think it was an act. I was impressed by the respect you showed my wishes and your self-control. And our third date?” and he said “That was the night we first made love.” “After only three dates?” and he said “Two and a half, really. The first was just for coffee and tea and a short stroll, so I don’t know if we should consider it a full date.” “Consider it,” she said. “Otherwise, I come off as being too easy.” “Also, the third wasn’t a date. I called from the street. It was late. Ten. More like eleven. I doubt I would have called you later than that. I think I had a couple of drinks in me, not that I needed them to want to call and be with you. You told me, after I asked if you’d like to meet at the West End for a quick beer, that if I can make it to your apartment fast, then come. If not, call again, but at a more reasonable hour. So maybe it was a little before twelve and I called you later than I thought I should,” and she said “It seems like I never should have let you up. I don’t know what was in my mind. Probably the same as was in yours. But why didn’t you phone me earlier that night?” and he said “I was out, at a party—” and she said “You were at a party? I don’t remember that either. Haven’t we ever talked about this?” and he said “I guess we haven’t. Or we did when I got to your place but it was a very quick conversation, you might have been tired, me too, and we both forgot it. How I got to the party’s a bit complicated. My friend Manny had been invited and asked me to go with him. It was in the Twenties, Chelsea area, off Ninth Avenue. The couple who gave it lived in the entire three-or four-story brownstone and were giving a fundraiser for a new literary magazine that was going to, they said, pay major-magazine fees for fiction, poetry and articles. I don’t know how Manny, not your biggest reader, got invited. Maybe one of the hosts or editors worked at the same company as he—Pfizer—and he thought I’d be interested because of the type of magazine and its fees, and he also didn’t want to go alone.” “What magazine was it?” and he said “No name yet, and it never got off the ground. I suppose the fundraiser was a bust—I know I didn’t contribute any money—or the couple lost interest. But Manny seemed all right there. I was bored. The other guests were business people—lawyers, professionals, financial advisors, a college president…dull. So I left, started home—maybe now it was around eleven—but wanted some fresh air and exercise first, and after about half an hour into my walk uptown I thought of you—oh, I was probably thinking of you the whole walk—but why in hell I haven’t called you, so, quite simply, I called. That’s how I ended up at your place our first love night. Not a date, you see, or even a meeting, really. But a spur-of-the-moment something, or a whim or fancy, and I didn’t want it to be one, that ended up being agreeable to both of us, it seemed, and everything after that turned out to be okay. Well, not everything—we had our big breakup—but almost.” All but the end of that was a lie, and he never told her what really happened. Didn’t think it smart to, even after they’d been married a few years and had kids and their marriage, for the most part, was solid. And he still doesn’t know why he didn’t call her sooner—two days after he last saw her, at the most three,
but best the next day. “Said I’d call. Even if I didn’t, you knew I’d call. Wanted to see you again. So here I am. You busy tonight or tomorrow night, and if not, the day after?” That’s all he had to say. It wasn’t that he was too busy to see her. All he was doing with his time was writing during the day and a little at night, but mostly reading at night, listening to music, seeing his mother at her apartment every other day around five for a drink, and sometimes around eight or nine meeting Manny for beers at O’Neal’s. He could spend his time like that, without holding down a regular job, because he was still living off the advance for his last book and the sale of a story to Harper’s, and was expecting—his agent said it was a sure thing, or maybe by now he already got it; he was never clear about the timing of this—an advance for his next book from the same publisher. Knows he was anxious. Probably about dating a woman he might end up really liking. So it was about getting involved again and all the problems that could possibly bring—the woman suddenly deciding she didn’t want to see him again, etcetera, even after they’d slept together a number of times and said they were in love with each other, etcetera. He just doesn’t know. Something, though, kept him back from calling her. Maybe the same reasons that took him so long—also a week—from calling her for their first date, when they met at the Ansonia drugstore. He forgets what those reasons were. He’s remembered them and would again if he put his head to it, he thinks. Thought about her every day—he’s saying, after their second date. Should he call her today? Should he call her tonight? What’s stopping him from calling? If he does call and they meet, and he’s certain they’ll at least do that, there’s a good chance he’ll sleep with her that night. Sleeping with a beauty. That’s what he wants, right? Or even better: sleeping with a beauty he really likes. What could be wrong with that? And she kissed so well. She’s almost sure to make love well too. A foolish thought, if he thought it, and it’s something at the time he thinks he would have. And it’s been a while, he thought. Let’s face it: he’s been getting horny. But he wouldn’t call her for a third date and the possibility of sleeping with her just because he’s horny. He’d do it because he likes her and wants to be with her, and bed would seem, after what happened at the end of their last date, the natural and maybe inevitable place for them to end up. Oh, that’s enough. By now it seems he’ll never know what took him so long to call, and from the street, when he finally did, and so late. It’s important to know? Now? No. Then give up on it. So what happened that night? In other words, what is it he never told her? He lied. No Manny that night. No party in Chelsea, and so on. He did go to a party at a couple’s single-family brownstone there, but they already had a literary magazine, named after their P.O. box number—Box 523 or something—and that was six to seven years before. A New Year’s Day party. Lit Christmas tree that reached the ceiling. Champagne and a punch bowl and chafing dishes, with Sterno cans underneath, on a long mahogany table. A polished mahogany table. He was invited by a friend, not Manny, and stayed a few hours—there were several attractive women there, married and unmarried, but none of them, when he got to speak to them, interested in him. But that night, the one where he called Gwen from the street and she invited him to her apartment and about a half-hour after he got there they started to make love, he wanted to call her earlier but from home. Same old story. Told himself: tomorrow. Then: that’s what you said last night and the night before. Why don’t you call now? I don’t know, he told himself. That’s also what you said last night and the night before. Just take a walk. Clear your mind, think things out. Try to find out why you’re not calling her when it’s obvious you want to. But dress warmly, because it might be cold. So he took a walk downtown. Put a slim paperback in his back pants pocket first. Walked down Columbus Avenue to Lincoln Center, then down Broadway to Columbus Circle, all on the east side of the street because it was brighter and livelier. Then, for the same reasons, down Broadway on the west side of the street to 43rd or 44th. While he walked, doesn’t think he thought much as to why he wasn’t calling her. Usually doesn’t think about something he specifically goes out for a walk to. Must have been around ten-thirty when he started back uptown, so a lot later than that when he finally did call her that night, since some of the Broadway shows were breaking. Stopped in what used to be called a cheap Irish bar for a Scotch on the rocks, or maybe it was an Irish whiskey. Then another, but he knows he didn’t have a third. Didn’t want to be tipsy so far from home, and he might not be able to get a cab if he thought he couldn’t get home without one. He was feeling a little high when he left the bar. Probably because—two Scotches or whiskeys wouldn’t have done it alone—he’d also had, though he’d walked off some of it, two vodka and grapefruit juice drinks at home to relax him enough to call Gwen from there. He’d walked a block or so north when he suddenly thought, and it did come to him like that—seemingly out of nowhere, though the drinking helped—why not go to a prostitute? Last one he went to was in San Francisco ten years ago. Got her phone number from a man he sat next to at a bar and started up a conversation with, and called her from a pay phone there and went to her the next day. Wanted to go to her that night but she said she was busy modeling for art classes. Tried kissing her while he was on top of her, but she wouldn’t let him. “That you don’t get even if you paid me extra.” She was pretty and young and had a nice body, just like the man had said, but why would he want to kiss her? To make her seem less like a whore to him and more like his girlfriend? Or he thought kissing her while he was inside her would make the sex better. She also seemed fairly bright, by the words she used, and had a sense of humor—when he asked her name—it was probably a line she used a lot—she said “Kitty. That’s not my real one, of course, but my nom de guerre”—that he had a fantasy about coming back weekly, but never did. He bought a copy of Frig magazine at a kiosk on Broadway, didn’t know where to open it—not on the street with so many people passing—so he went into another bar, ordered a beer, went into a bathroom stall, sat on the toilet, pissed, and turned to the section of the magazine that listed and rated whorehouses in New York. He knew it’d be in there because he’d bought the magazine twice the past year, but for the full-page close-up photos of female genitalia, which he masturbated to a few times over a couple of weeks, and then tore up the magazine and threw it away. There was a highly rated house near where he was, between Ninth and Tenth Avenues, open till 1 a.m. “Clean, low-keyed, not pushy and, unusual for a house with budget prices, always ten to twelve eye-filling girls,” it said, or something like it. A “shortie” cost fifteen dollars, “plus the expected $5 tip,” which was cheaper than he thought it’d be. The prostitute ten years ago was ten dollars, and he thinks he gave her a two-dollar tip. Go ahead, he thought. If the neighborhood looks rough or the place is a dump and none of the women is anywhere near to being attractive, he’ll leave without going with one, even if he paid his fifteen dollars at the door to get in. When he got about a block from the place, he thought You really going to a whorehouse, risking getting who knows what there? Why even think about it when you could be sleeping with Gwen the next week or so if everything goes all right with her? He doesn’t want to wait. Besides, what’s the guarantee anything will work out with her? Two dates, some big kisses, a good, he thought, rapport?…he’s been wrong on that score plenty of times, and if the place he’s going to does have ten to twelve women, he’d have a wide choice. There’s got to be at least one who’s young and attractive and doesn’t look cheap. And he’ll make this the last time he’ll go to a prostitute, and he’ll wear a bag, which he’s sure she’ll have and even insist he put on. “Stardust”—that’s what the place was called. It occupied an entire brownstone and had banners hanging from its third-floor windowsills that said “Girls! Girls! Girls!” A man was standing in front of the long stoop that led to the entrance, he assumed, handing out flyers to the place. What’s he talking about? That was a whorehouse in the Diamond District he passed a number of times more than thirty years ago—usually when he was
on his way to a photocopy shop on Madison—but never thought to go in. He knows exactly where it was: two brownstones up from the southeast corner of 47th Street and Sixth Avenue. He got to the street the Stardust was on and continued walking up Broadway. Going to whores, he thought, was something he did another time in his life. He just couldn’t see himself choosing a woman from whatever number of them were there, no matter how good-looking she was, and if she was really young it might even be more depressing, and following her to her room, making small talk, maybe having to wash his genitals and putting on a bag and getting on top of her, maybe the tenth and last guy of the day, and sticking it in, though with his fat prick a couple of them have said he’d hurt them in that position so they’ll have to get on top. Thinking about it, he gets an erection and starts playing with himself and then thinks No, what are you doing? and stops. He has to pee again but doesn’t want to get out of bed. Oh, do it now, when you’re not so tired, and he gets up, pees, washes his hands and gets back in bed. He dumped the copy of Frig into a city trashcan on the street when nobody was near enough to see him do it, reached Lincoln Center and wondered if he should cross to Columbus or continue up Broadway. Columbus would be shorter, but if he takes Broadway he could pick up an early edition of the Times at the newsstand on the corner of 72nd Street. Then he thought to call her. Again, thought just came. No, bad idea, he thought; it’s too late. But he could pretend he didn’t know how late it was. He could ask her out for a quick drink at the West End—say he’ll meet her, in fact, in her lobby and walk her up there. His excuse for not calling her earlier tonight, if he feels he has to make one? He took a long walk—he was trying to come up with a story idea, since he finished a new story today and hates not to have something by his typewriter to work on the next day—a single opening line, even, that has the potential to grow into a story. That’s the way he works, he could say, and he supposes is one of the reasons he’s so prolific. But he must have started out in his walk later than he thought and also walked much longer than he thought. Did he come up with anything, if she asks? No, but he will. Later tonight. Even in a dream. Or tomorrow. If she sounds a bit put off that he called so late, especially after not calling for close to a week, he could say he’s sorry and he’ll call tomorrow at a more appropriate time, if it’s still all right with her that he call. Oh, just call. No excuses or lies. He could ask her out for a drink, but she’ll know the real reason why he called. What could be the worst she’ll say—all this if she’s home, of course, and he hopes she is, alone, and not out on a date: “Call me again at a more appropriate time?” He’d memorized her phone number by now, though it was also in the memobook he had on him. He checked the book to make sure he had the number right—he did—and dialed it from a pay phone by Lincoln Center and she said hello. He said “Hi, hello, it’s Martin—Martin Samuels. How are you?” and she said “I’m all right, thank you. And you?” “Fine. Listen,” he said, “maybe it’s too late in the evening to call you—I know it is, and I’m sorry. I’m also very sorry I haven’t called in the last few days. I wanted to, to talk to you and possibly see you, but things happened. It’s a long dull story you don’t want to hear. But I wondered, and I know there’s only a small chance of this, if you’d like to meet at the West End, or I could come and get you, so you wouldn’t have to walk to it alone, for a drink or hot chocolate or whatever they might have there that you might like?” “Do you mean now?” and he said “Yeah, didn’t I say? Tonight. Now.” “It is late. Maybe if you had called earlier I could have found the time.” “Earlier than tonight, you mean?” and she said “Tonight would have been all right. But I’m saying, at an earlier hour.” “Too bad I waited, then. And I hope I didn’t wake you,” and she said “No, you didn’t wake me. It might be late for me to meet someone at a bar for even a quick drink”—“Yes, that’s all I planned it to be, a quick drink and then I’d see you safely home”—“but it’s still a little early for me to be asleep. I’m watching the end of a PBS nature program on gorillas, in fact.” “Then maybe I’m holding you up and you want to get back to it,” and she said “I’ve seen it before. It’s a rerun; very interesting and unusually done. No dry narration telling us what we’re seeing. Not a single word, right from the opening. Just the sounds of the gorillas and their activities and the nature around them—birds, wind, storms, a falling tree.” “Sounds good,” he said. “I don’t have a TV—haven’t much liked watching it for a long time—but what you’re telling me is I might be missing something every now and then. Anyway, we can’t meet. I don’t know why I thought there was even a small possibility we could. At least you don’t appear to be angry at me for calling this late. And I’m glad I didn’t wait longer to call tonight, where I might have wakened you. I’m very prompt when it comes to appointments and meeting people but tend to lose track of time when I’m by myself.” “I’m not angry at all. You could even say I’m pleased that you called. I’ll admit I was somewhat puzzled why I didn’t hear from you, but thought it was your own business. Look, let me think for a moment. Martin,” and he said “Sure; take as long as you want,” and she said “I didn’t mean it quite that way. Where are you? Obviously, from the traffic noises, on the street, but whereabouts?” “Broadway and 83rd. I took a long walk, which might have contributed to making me lose my sense of time, to think over a number of serious technical problems in a story I’ve been writing.” “You haven’t had too much to drink, have you? You don’t sound like it,” and he said “I stopped in some place for a beer, but mostly to use its men’s room, and finished less than a half the glass.” “Then how about this possibility? You’re not that far away from me where, if you want to come here, you can.” “That’d be great,” he said. “I’d love to see you.” “I hate to sound demanding, but could you please be here in half an hour? It is getting late and I’d rather not be waiting around too long.” “I can take a cab and be there in less than ten minutes. Lots of empty cabs passing every second,” and she said “I don’t know why I’m doing this. There’s always another day. I guess I wouldn’t mind seeing you too,” and he said “Same with me, which you just said.” “You know the address to give to the driver?” and he said “Four-twenty-five, corner of a Hundred-fifteenth. I even remember the floor you’re on, though not the apartment number…not necessary. There are only two in the hallway. It’s the one to the left when you get off the elevator.” “The right,” she said: “7J,” and he said “I meant the right, and that your elevator’s the one you see when you go through the building’s revolving door.” “You got it,” she said. “I’ll ring downstairs to the doorman to let you in the building and upstairs.” “Same one from the other night; Cal?” and she said “I don’t know who’s on tonight. You do have a good memory, though. So I’ll see you soon, Martin.” “I’m on my way. Do you need anything? and she said “That’d just detain you, and I have everything I need. Goodbye,” and he said “Goodbye,” and she hung up. He thought about taking a cab and then thought subway’s right here, 66th Street. It’ll take him to the Columbia station in ten minutes, probably getting him to her place fast as a cab would, if he hustles once he gets out of the station, and for a lot less money. He took the subway. Train came in a few minutes and he got off at a Hundred-sixteenth. Ran south on Broadway for a block, then down Riverside Drive. Cal wasn’t on. Another doorman, sitting in a leather chair by the door, reading a Russian newspaper, or some language in Cyrillic. “Good evening. Martin Samuels,” he said. “7J said she’d call down to you beforehand that I was coming,” and the man pointed to the elevator and said “Press seven button.” In the elevator going up, he thought Should he kiss her when she opens the door? Certainly her cheek, if she offers it. But the lip kiss he should wait till she adjusts more to his being there. Okay, here goes, and the elevator opened. She was waiting at her front door when he got off. “Hi,” she said, and he said “Hi,” and they went inside. “I want you to know, I’m not psychic. I asked Boris to call me when you were coming up. I thought it’d be mo
re hospitable greeting you at the door than letting you wait behind it.” “I appreciate that. May I hang up my coat and put away my book?” and she said “What are you reading?” and he pulled it out of his back pants pocket and showed it to her. “No, I don’t know it. You’ll have to tell me about it, if you’re enjoying it.” He put the book and his cap on the shelf above the coats in the foyer closet and hung his muffler and coat on the same hanger. “Aren’t you cold in so light a coat?” and he said “This isn’t so light and it’s not that bad out.” Should he try for a little kiss now? Big, little, don’t rush it, and holding off might even be the best move. She’d, he’d think, prefer him taking it slow, and besides, the conversation so far has been a bit stiff, nothing conducive for a kiss. She put her hand out for them to go into the living room, a gesture—the way she did it: sort of a sweep—he thought fairly formal. What’s going on? She have a change of mind about him since they spoke on the phone and is going to ask him to leave soon? “Your cats,” he said. “I’m beginning to think you don’t have any,” and she said. “You wouldn’t think that if you had to change their litter box every other day. They’ve gone beddy-bye for the night. I hate to think it, but the poor dears are getting old.” “Actually, I did see them the last time, didn’t I?” “I don’t know. Incidentally, I never asked if you worked out your literary problems in your walk,” and he said “No, but I will. Sometimes it takes two walks.” “A two-walk problem. Sounds formidable. Care for a drink? The beer selection hasn’t improved, but I still have a good red wine and several teas, herbal and nonherbal. I can even make you a hot chocolate,” and he said “That’d be nice, but would it be all right if I have another of that Israeli brandy? I really liked it,” and she said “Help yourself. I think you know where everything is. Snifter in the refrigerator, brandy on the glasses shelf in the kitchen cupboard with the elephant-ear plants on top. Kidding. You can be so funny at times, I thought I should add my own joke. But please, take, I mean it,” and he said “Take my brandy, please take my brandy.” She said “I don’t understand,” and he said “You’re not familiar with that old Henny Youngman line?” “Who’s that?” and he said “A comedian; post-World War II. Very Jewish. A line about his wife. Also lots of quips about army life, or maybe that was Harvey Stone. I’m really dating myself here. And your joke was good and original,” and she said “I don’t know about ‘good,’ and it doesn’t take much to be original. Just say what’s never been said, no matter how dumb and non sequiturial. See? I just did it. Get your drink.” It’s going better now, he thought, and went into the kitchen. “Or maybe I should attend to it,” she said from the living room. “Why am I suddenly being inhospitable?” “Stay there,” he said. “I can take care of it. Want me to pour you some?” and she said “It’s a little late for me to drink.” “One short one won’t hurt”—he didn’t want to be the only one drinking and with booze on his breath—and she said “Oh, all right, but a thimbleful. Just put mine in a juice glass; you’ll find it in the dish rack by the sink.” “I can have mine in a juice glass too,” and she said “Use the snifter. Your brandy will taste much better in it, and you can snift it. I’m having so little—more to be hospitable—it doesn’t count.” He got the snifter out of the cupboard—it seemed clean but he still rinsed it—and poured the brandy into the two glasses, inch for her, two inches for him. He drank half of his, poured another inch into his glass, put the bottle back on the side shelf of the refrigerator and brought the glasses into the living room. No TV around, he noticed, so it must be in the bedroom. She was sitting on the couch. “Maybe you’re hungry,” she said. “I should have asked. I have these delicious coconut macaroons.” “Nah, I’m all right. Don’t get up.” “If you change your mind, they’re in the cookie tin on top of the refrigerator. I also have chocolates from Mondell’s, a candy shop up the block. People come from all over the city to buy them, some even send their chauffeurs. One’s a famous actress, but I won’t name names.” “Why not?” and she said “The owner asked me not to. All right. Katharine Hepburn. Her particular favorite is called almond cluster. I think I have one of those left.” “I’m not much for chocolates, but thanks.” He gave her her glass—did it while he was standing so he wouldn’t spill anything from either glass as he sat down—and sat beside her. “You gave me too much—you might have to finish mine—but cheers,” and they clinked glasses and laughed at that. “What an odd couple,” she said, “—a juice glass and a snifter. But we should drink. Otherwise, no cheers,” and they drank. Talked. “So how have you been?” he started off with. “I know that sounds like a stupid question, but it has been a while.” After she said “Good, fine, busy,” he said “Me, it’s been the same: write, write, write. Gets so dull.” He asked and she told him what she’s been working on the last few days. “Stuff that has to be done if I want to have a career.” “You must work in your bedroom, because I see no evidence of a work space here,” and she said “You’re quite the quick observer. What else have you discovered about me?” “Nothing.” They talked a little more. He forgets about what. He actually felt a little dizzy and there was a welling-up feeling—something—in his chest. It felt good but uncomfortable. By now he knows all he wanted to do was kiss her. Leaned over to. She said “I think we should put our glasses down or else they’ll get crushed. They did, hers on the coffee table, his on the end table on his right. “So you know what I want to do?” and she said “You’ve given unmistakable signs.” “Then it’s all right?” and she said “Our glasses are down, and it was nice the last time.” He leaned over to her again. She closed her eyes just before he did and they kissed. The first was long. There were others of all kinds: short, long, one with their mouths open, one where they touched tongues, lip kisses, cheek and neck kisses; for him forehead and then eyebrow kisses. “That feels funny,” she said. “You don’t like it? It’s not something I have to do,” and she said into his ear because their cheeks were touching “Martin, it’s fine.” They kissed some more on the lips. He put his hands under her shirt in back as he did the first night he was here, then up her left side and on the same cup of her bra. She let him leave his hand there and then let him move it around. He tried to get his hand under the cup, couldn’t—something to do with the bra’s supports or it was on too tight—so he started unhitching the straps in back while they kissed. She pulled her face away and said “Maybe we should just go to the bedroom.” “I’d love to,” and she said “Then let’s, though let me shut off the lights in the kitchen first and make sure the front door’s locked.” She stood up, pulled her shirt down from the bottom and stuck her hand down her shirt in back to do something with the bra. “Done with your drink?” and he thought should he swig it down? Sip just a little? Leave it? Leave it, and he said “I’ve had enough.” “Sure?” I don’t mean to be hurrying you. I’m just being obsessive about cleaning up,” and he said “Then let me take a last short sip. It’s so good,” and he sipped a little and gave her his glass—she already had hers—and she took them into the kitchen. She must have rinsed them—that was the sound he heard—and placed them upside down in the dish rack or on the glass holders on the side of it. She then switched off the kitchen lights and went to the front door and he heard the latch in the lock click and the door chain slide on. She came back and held out her hand to him. He took it, got up, made his way around the coffee table, still holding her hand, and they went into the bedroom.