30 Pieces of a Novel

The First Women

AFTER HIS WIFE left him, what? First woman he had anything to do with was much younger than he. Thirty-five years younger, more. Didn’t intend to. Sure, saw her numerous times walking on the street and entering or leaving what he assumed was her apartment building and admired her looks; body and face, intelligent expression, way she walked, her bounce, height, hair. Sometimes would turn around to look at her walking the opposite way and once slowed down so she could catch up and get ahead of him and he could look at her from behind. But she was so young, around the age of his older daughter: young body, young face, rest of it, her clothes. So he would never think of stopping her, saying something, doing anything to initiate a conversation and see where it would lead: even saw her in the market a block from their buildings and could have started something there. “We must live pretty near each other; seen you so often in the neighborhood and on my block and a couple of times here.” (Wouldn’t want to give away that he knew what building she lived in; that might seem a bit peculiar to her: Knows what building I’m in? Does he also know what apartment? Does he look through his window into mine? What else has he seen?) Wouldn’t think of doing that to any woman stranger on the street or in a market, and probably not in an elevator or waiting for one, even if he knew they lived in the same building or he was in hers visiting a friend. Dinner parties perhaps, but he’s only been to two the last six months and both had people mostly his age to around ten years younger. At work at a lunch table might be all right if he happened to sit next to a woman and then found himself attracted to her or walked into the lunchroom and saw a woman he’d been attracted to and sat at her table with the intention of starting a conversation—“Excuse me, but pass the pepper, please? The chicken salad good? I’ve never had it here, if that is chicken salad”—which might lead to meeting her for a coffee or drink sometime. Possibly in the same lunchroom—“So, nice talking, and see you again, maybe: tomorrow, here at one?”—or to going out with her, even: movie, play, museum, or just for a long walk. But she stopped him. That’s how it happened. He was walking up the hill on his side of the street, she was walking down — her building’s almost directly across the street from his — when she smiled at him, he smiled back, they were about ten feet from each other, and he immediately turned away, thinking, That was a nice smile, if he didn’t know better he’d say she was interested in him a little; no, that’s going too far. But this is the street and New York and even if he were thirty years younger he wouldn’t try to capitalize on a smile to make a pass. Should he look around to see if she’s looking back at him? If she is it’d embarrass him that she caught him looking and would make her uncomfortable and then when he saw her next he’d have to make a point of not looking at her when she passed or she’d think he was some kind of street lech and after that would avoid looking at him every time she came within a certain distance of him: thirty or forty feet, let’s say. It could be she’s just beginning to recognize him, having seen him so much; figures he lives on this block or around it on Riverside Drive so she’s just being friendly. She could even be from out of town — so many residents around here seem to be — and still has that out-of-town hi-neighbor behavior, and that’s all it is. It’s true he’s fantasized about her, but he’s living alone now and hasn’t been close to a woman since his wife, so he fantasizes about lots of women, ten a day maybe, especially good-looking ones he sees on the street, and because of all the colleges in the area, and one just for women, there are loads of them to fantasize about — when she said, “Excuse me. Excuse me there, sir, you up the hill,” and he turned around and she was about forty feet away and he pointed to himself and she nodded and started up the street to him and he walked down and said, “Yes?” and she said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stop you and then take you out of your way like this, and I should have thought of it sooner,” and he said, “No harm done, a few feet, and I’m not really in a rush to anything, what is it?” and she said, “You see … oh, this sounds silly — will sound, saying it … I’m embarrassed, almost, and really will be if it isn’t so, but I believe we’re acquainted. It’s why I did that smiley greeting before. You’re a friend of my father’s, knew him a few years ago — as colleagues — and came over to our house with your wife once or twice, or once or twice when I was there. I recognize you, in other words — wow, I don’t know why that took so long and was so arduous to get out. I forget your name, but your face is the same. You both taught together, Dad and you,” and gave the name of the school. “Well, that’s right, I did. I no longer teach there, but you are … or your father is …?” She told him, and he said, “Oh, how is he?” She told him, and he said, “And how’s your mother? — excuse me, I forget her name.” Told him and asked about his wife and children. “Two daughters? I don’t think I ever met them but I remember my father waxing ecstatic about them … wanted me to meet them, even be like them, I think. No, why wouldn’t they have come to the house with you if I was there, unless they had sleep-overs that night, or I did,” and he said, “I don’t recall that ever happening, double sleep-overs. Maybe my wife and I only came by for drinks,” and she said, “Could be, so it was just the adults and a quick introduction to me. But they were supposed to be very smart, artistic and literary — reading, writing, way beyond their years — acting too, I think,” and he said, “Your memory, whew!” “I always had — I still do — an extensive memory for insignificant details — not insignificant to you, naturally, but to my own life,” and he said, “That can’t be true,” and she said, “Why do you say that?” and he said, “I don’t know. But I’m like that myself in ways, but with significant details — forgetting to take my pajamas off and put my shoes on before I go out — only kidding,” and she smiled, obviously didn’t think it funny, said, “Wait a second. Are your daughters even my age? That could be why they didn’t come over,” and he said, “One’s twenty-three, other’s twenty,” and she said, “So I was right. Your eldest and I are the same,” and he said, “Really? And as for my wife — you asked about her — well, she left me. It all happened pretty quickly. I’m sure your folks know. You can say I’m still shuddering from the shock of it and moving back here permanently, or maybe I’m melodramatizing it a bit. Anyway, it’s very nice that you stopped me. You probably have someplace to go now too.” Then he just looked at her, had nothing to say, she didn’t seem to either, or he couldn’t think of anything to say — wanted to but nothing came and he’d save the regards-to-your-folks for when they said goodbye — she smiled, then almost laughed into her hand, he said, “What’s wrong?” and she said, “Why?” and he said, “So where do you live, around here? I’ve seen you on this street a couple of times, on Broadway too, and I think once in the market up the block. Of course you understand why I didn’t recognize you,” and she said, “Of course.” “So. Regards home, and I’ll be seeing you,” and was about to put out his hand to shake, and she said, “You didn’t ask where I live. I mean, you didn’t wait for an answer. In that corner building. Moved in a few months ago,” and he said, “It’s a Columbia-owned building. So I assume, and I should have asked this before, grad student, same field as your father’s? Or maybe your mother’s — I forget what she did. Anyway, we’re neighbors and both newcomers, though I’m an old newcomer, meaning I used to live here years ago but have recently come back. And that’s a funny thing to say, at least to my ears, ‘neighbors,’” and she said, “No, it’s all right, and we are. And I know you have to go now — you have your right foot pointed up the hill already, but”—and he said, “Do I? It was unconscious, believe me,” and straightened his feet so they were both facing her—“but maybe one afternoon, if you’re free, you’d like to get together for coffee … you’re probably always busy,” and he said, “No, that’d be nice,” and asked her first name and said he’d pass by her building on his way back and get the number of it and would call Information for her phone number, if it’s in, and she said, “It’s in,” though he doesn’t get the point. He’s certainly attracted to her, what man his age wouldn’t be? — any age, if he likes women; she’s practically a beauty — so he’s flattered, but why would she want to have coffee with him? Entering her intellectual phase or something? No, that’s condescending. And he should have found out what field she’s in in grad school; it may be the same as his. Wants to talk to an older man, an academic, have her mind stimulated? Well, he’ll stimulate her, all right, but fat chance, and why’s he thinking like that? She’s a kid, has a sweet smile, she must be a lovely girl, parents were very nice people, intelligent, decent, so she must be, and he’s got all those years on her, so he doesn’t know. Doesn’t know what? Doesn’t know. “But maybe it’s a good idea I take your name and phone number down now — the old mind ain’t what it used to be and never was much, when it comes to remembering,” and wrote them down in his memo book. “Or I can call you, you know,” she said. “That’s what I originally intended with this open invitation. But to be honest, I forget your name,” and he gave it and his phone number and said, “You don’t want to write the number down?” and she said, “I can remember, it’s an easy one. So”—smiling—“see ya,” and he said, “See ya,” and they parted, and he thought, he meant to shake her hand but was glad he didn’t. Kids don’t appreciate it, may even wonder about it, mostly because they’re not used to it, or maybe he’s wrong. Anyway, looking back — picturing it — it would have seemed funny to do.

She didn’t call, and he thought about calling her for a week. Then always thought no, why should he? She can’t be too interesting. Or let’s say she is, in a little way, but what would they talk about? Well, he’d have to know what she’s interested in. But after a while he’d make as big a fool of himself as he’s ever done in his life. That an exaggeration? No, because what could be more foolish than an old guy making a pass at what’s really a girl? Being rejected, maybe, or accepted — he doesn’t know which. For that’s what it’d probably lead to if it went on, since if they did have coffee he’d say at the end of it, “Why not let’s do this again? That is, if you want to and have the time; it’s been enjoyable”—politics, they could have talked about, literature, writers, painting, teaching, learning, living in the city — and if she agreed, fine, and if not, well, that’d be okay too, but if they did meet again for coffee, or a couple of times after that—“We got a regular coffee-klatsch going,” he could call it — he’d say, “What about we go out to dinner one time, for a change of pace, or just lunch? My treat, someplace fairly simple around here — actually, I’m not much for lunch; if I eat a carrot it’s a lot — but I’ll go and have something,” and suppose she said yes or “If you don’t eat lunch, then let’s have dinner.” He’d pick her up at her door? Probably lives with a roommate. University housing off-campus can be very expensive. All this is to say if she doesn’t have a lover or serious boyfriend, and with them is there a difference? And then what? When you have dinner or even lunch, you talk about things you don’t when you’re just having coffee — he thinks that’s right, at least about dinner. And different too from when you’re just having a drink. A drink — a bar — picturing it: all those college kids in the bars around here; it’d look absurd. And what would they drink: beer, wine, and the first time clink glasses and make a toast? What would they even talk about that second time for coffee, and the third? Her father, mother. Siblings, if she has any. Growing up in an academic household. What she’s taking in school. They probably would have gone over that already. Well, what she learned that day or week in classes or read for them. A paper she might be writing; maybe he could help. But would he be interested in any of it? How does he know? And he hated writing papers in school. Movies, that’s what young people like most today, and music, but not his kind of movies and music, he’s almost sure. And no going to her apartment building if it’s only occupied by young college students and no married couples and some with kids, nor going there either if she has a roommate, female or non-lover male. Maybe they could skip lunch or dinner and just go to a movie — he could meet her at a corner or in front of her building or the theater — and discuss it over coffee after, no matter how bad it is. Actually, the worse it is the more he could pinpoint what he thinks is good in a movie from old ones he saw. And while they were talking he would probably look covertly at her body and no doubt fantasize having sex with her, which would be wrong — sex with her would. She’s too young. Besides, she’d be put off by the suggestion. How would he even make it? He wouldn’t have the words, and if he found them, he’d feel too silly saying them. But say she was open and relaxed about it and said something like, “Your look; what is it, Mr. Bookbinder?” and he’d say, “Gould, please call me Gould; what is it with you?” and she could say, “It’s still hard for me to, but okay, Gould, even though my folks”—Oh, your folks, he’d think; just at the right time—“my folks weren’t the type, when I was small, to insist I call all adults by mister and missus and their last names,” and he could say, “But you were saying?” and she could say, “About what was on your mind. The look you had. I’d never seen it on you but recognized it from other men,” and he’d say, “Then I guess I’m caught and will have to come clean,” and would apologize while saying it: “I know it’s wrong, stupid, our respective ages, all of that …” and she could say, “I don’t know. It’s true I haven’t done it with a man more than five years older than me, maybe because there was never one who interested me. But it’s not like I have anything terrible against it. And isn’t it every young woman’s fantasy—” and he’d say, “Don’t talk about girls and their fathers,” and she wouldn’t have; she could just say, “I don’t mind the idea,” or, “The suggestion’s not the worst one, so what do we do next?” or not even that: none of it. He’d just come out with it, find the words—“I’ve been thinking”—say them clearly, wouldn’t give any kind of look, and she’d go along with it and they’d go to his apartment — well, where else? unless she was living alone in a building which didn’t only have other young students in it and wanted to go there, and they’d do it — have a drink, sit down and kiss, whatever they’d do first — and it wouldn’t work. Sure, it’d be pleasurable for him, though you never know what can happen when you get too excited, and maybe in a way for her too: the pleasure, as he knows what to do and still has plenty of energy for it and would just hope that he could go slow, because once is usually it for him till the next morning. But she’d see his body and even if it’s in pretty good shape for a sixty-four-year-old, it’s nothing like the bodies of the boys she’s used to and she might be turned off by it, even repulsed. The gray pubic hair, or most of it gray; chest hair that’s totally gray and in fact mostly white; wrinkles everywhere; way the body sags in places no matter what strenuous exercises and long running and swimming he does; this, that, from top to bottom — the elbows; especially around the eyes — it’s a ridiculous notion, sex with her, so what’s he even thinking of it for? It won’t happen. He shouldn’t call. It’s probably why she didn’t call; she somehow saw it in his face that time they spoke: that this is what he was interested in, not talk. And even if they had sex once — her experiment with a much older man, let’s say — that’d be it, because she wouldn’t want to do it again. Why would she? He’s an old fart, far as she’s concerned, and if she doesn’t see it at first, or blocks it out for some reason, she’ll see it after: older than her own father by more than ten years, he figures, as he had his children late. So: nice to talk to, perhaps, but not to make love with, and then they’d see each other on the street once every other week, which is about how often he saw her before, and what then? What would he say? She? And suppose she let on to her folks about it? “I met this old colleague of yours — you’ll probably remember him too, Mom — or former colleague, rather, though he’s quite old also but still in some ways considerably attractive for his age”—not intending to tell them what happened, but her father’s a smart guy and was a very good college teacher so knows how to ask questions and extract answers from students, and kids can’t hide things well the way adults can, and maybe it’s also not how they act today: the compulsion to tell the truth, lay it all out, no matter how much it hurts or shocks someone else, as if that’s a virtue, or is he thinking of a time ten or more years ago? — and then her father could call or write him and say something like, “How could you? Not just that you knew she was my daughter. You’re forty years older than her. What are you, some sort of predator, ravener, plunderer, vulture, hyena, monster, perverse addled dirty old dotty fool? Women twenty years older than she, which a man your age of any decency and brains would still think far too young for him, aren’t good enough as pickings? Why are you trying to mess up her life? What’s in it for you but a slap on the back you give yourself for fucking a child? If it weren’t that I didn’t want to embarrass her and that she’s five years past the legal age of consent, I’d report you and probably try to prosecute you, and if there were some academic court of law I’d work to get you fired from your teaching post.” Or he wouldn’t write or call but he’d think it, or it could be he’d think, Lucky stiff. Shacking up with a girl so beautiful and young. Wish it could be me, though naturally not with my daughter.

So he didn’t call but she did. “Hello, is this Mr. Bookbinder?” and after he knew for sure who it was, he said, “Damn, I had a premonition you’d use that if you called — the ‘mister’ or ‘professor’ or ‘doctor’—which I’m not: I barely got through elementary college — instead of just my name Gould,” and she said, “I didn’t want to, honestly, nor thought beforehand how to address you. It simply came out, whatever that latency means. My subconscious should probably keep that a secret,” and he quickly tried to think what she’d just meant but said, “Okay by me. So, what’s doing with you?” and she said, “My goodness, plenty of things, but we’d mentioned something about meeting for coffee one day — do you still want to?” and they met. She was interesting: wide range of interests, knowledgeable about a lot, quick mind, some wit, articulate delivery, funny at times, charming, her parents send him their regards — the “life of the mind” came up twice in her conversation, and she seemed earnest about it — and she seemed to find him interesting: laughed at his jokes, said several times, “What you say makes a lot of sense,” looked into his eyes as if he were her equal; someone she could be interested in, or even involved with, is what he wants to say. He wanted to say to her right away, “Listen”—or after they got a coffee refill and second pine-nut macaroon horn they shared between them—“listen, what are you doing tonight?” He gave advice, after he asked about her graduate-school work, on some courses she was thinking of taking and some eventual career moves. “But the truth is, if I had to take those same courses I’d no doubt fail and be mustered out of the program, especially the long novels of Melville and that one you mentioned on Puritan literature,” and she said, “Oh, please,” and he said, “No, I haven’t the mind for that stuff. Bartleby and maybe Billy Budd, though I can’t stand the grandiloquent language of the latter, if I remember the book correctly and have the word right, but those two are about it. I don’t know: the brain; who knows where the hell it goes or, with me, ever was, but I couldn’t keep up in your class. And write papers on the long ones? Forget it. It’s a fluke that I’m teaching. But if you notice, I only do short things and very clear and modern and interpretable … so it’s a good thing I’m retiring in two years. My younger daughter will be out of college then, and that’ll be it for half-tuition remission from my university, and I bring down the entire profession. Now your father: I don’t know how many years he’s been professing or has left in it, but there’s a teacher, a scholar, a learned man, with eclectic interests and the ability to compress and express them, just like you. I used to feel a little stupid sometimes talking to him, not that he was ever high-hat or pooh-pooh or self-important. He just knew what the hell he was talking about and had good ideas. Me, I’m a fake,” and she said, “No you’re not,” and he said, “Oy-oy-oy, now you’ll think I brought it up to get sympathy or lower my level or show I’m vulnerable or some other ulterior reason, but just ask him. I’m talking about teaching and understanding the subtleties and particulars of literature and making the connections and seeing its big reach. He’ll tell you. But let’s change the subject; it’s too much about me.” Politics: some things about the coming presidential election they both read in the Times and a couple of liberal weeklies. Then they analyzed the mind of the lit professor turned U.S. senator who killed his wife and her lover a month ago: ran over them when he saw them walking hand in hand across a street. What could have induced him, so much to live for and all that, and they had three young kids? The story goes he was having an affair of his own with a young staff worker and had had several before with all kinds of women and wasn’t living with his wife — they were getting a divorce, had amicably worked out a settlement and this was her first man since they broke up — so why? She said, “Male honor — that another penis had superseded his?” and he said, “Are you speaking metaphorically … hey, how about that word?” and she didn’t smile and said, “Both,” and he said, “Anyway, no, I don’t think so, or just a little, and what do I care about that vile jerk? I’m only interested in what happened to his wife and kids and, to a smaller extent, the poor schmo he killed. I’m sorry, I don’t always mean to direct us, but the conversation’s gotten too morbid, so can we change the subject again?” “Do you like movies?” and he said, “Sure, some, who doesn’t? though I prefer the older foreign ones in black and white — late fifties, early sixties, long before you were born — but I bet you like the new ones a lot,” and she said, “Only if they’re good.” Has he seen …? and he said no, but does she think it’s worth going to? If she does he’ll make a point of it, and she said if he’s serious about that she’ll go with him, since she wouldn’t mind seeing it again: it was probably among the best five or six movies she’s seen in her life, and he said, “Oh, it was that good?” and she said, “Are you playing with me, because I don’t like it,” and he said, “No, why, something I said, or the way I said it? Oh, I won’t lie; I was playing — patronizing — and I’ll try not to do it again. It could be I just don’t know how to express myself well in social matters also, or have degenerated the last few years, no fault of anyone’s but my own, so please excuse me,” and she said, “And stop flattering yourself too,” and he said, “What? Okay, if you say so, I won’t. So what’s our next topic?” and she said, “That’s not how I engage in conversation,” and he said, “Of course not, I was only saying,” and she said, “And the truth now: you weren’t being a touch sardonic to me then?” and he said, “No, why would I, I wasn’t, but if you don’t mind I think that should be my last apology for the time being. All right, that said, when do you want to meet for that movie, if you still do? And it’ll be dutch treat, okay? since I know you’d object to my paying,” and she said, “I wouldn’t — I’m only a grad student without a major stipend — but fine with me,” and after he left her he thought they almost blew it then but that could be because they’re both a bit unsure and maybe even nervous about meeting again because they think it’s the wrong thing. Is it? No, it’s simple, it’s nothing.

They went to the movie two nights later. Met her at it, got there fifteen minutes early to buy the tickets and have the excuse, “Got here early so thought I’d save some time in line by buying the tickets beforehand — not to save time so much but more to make sure we got seats — I hope you don’t mind,” and she said, “No, I told you, if you mean about buying both tickets. Do you want to be reimbursed?” and he said, “It’s not necessary,” and she said, “Excuse me, I shouldn’t have put it like that,” and took out her wallet, and he said, “Please, put that away. So, where do you want to sit?”—as they entered the seating area — and she said, “Anyplace you do but not too near,” and he said, “Should we have stopped off at the candy counter?” and she said, “I don’t eat in theaters — distracts from what I’m seeing, besides making too much noise,” and he said, “Same here: the snacky stuff and not sitting too near. In fact, because of my eyes I like to be pretty far back. So maybe, if that’s not what you want, we should sit separately and meet after,” and she said, “The back’s good.” They sat, movie started, she took his hand a few minutes into it. He couldn’t believe it. He’d already decided — when he walked to the theater — that this would be the last time he’d see her except for chance meetings. He’d gotten too anxious about this movie date; it would lead to nothing and he could see himself falling for her a little, but not making a fool of himself — keeping it a secret from everyone — and it would be upsetting. He’d think of her a lot, want to call her, but wouldn’t. He’d planned to say nothing about it after the movie and when he accompanied her back to her building or however they’d leave each other, and if she said anything like, “Want to meet again?” he’d say, “It’s probably not a good idea and I’d rather not go into why, though believe me it has nothing to do with you. Meaning nothing you did or said, since for you I’ve nothing but admiration and respect,” or not go quite that far, as it might come out sounding like a line to inveigle her into a relationship, and he was sure she’d say, Okay, it that’s what you want,” and shake his hand good night and that’d be the end of it. So they were watching the movie, right at the start after the opening credits, his hands on his lap, when suddenly she was holding one. He didn’t see or feel her hand crawl to it or anything. His right, her left, she just took it and squeezed, about thirty seconds after she started holding it, and he thought, still facing the screen, She’s squeezing my hand, what does that mean? and then she squeezed it harder and he thought it’s probably a signal for him to look at her, the second one harder because he didn’t look at her after the first, and he looked at her and she was smiling at him and looking as if she wanted to be kissed, and he thought, I can’t do that, it’s enough she’s holding his hand and squeezing it. It was a dark scene on the screen so the theater was fairly dark, and her head turned just so toward him and lips parted a bit and that smile that said, Kiss me, we could do it now, just once if that’s all you want, but come on while we’ve time and the theater’s dark and people around us can’t see, and if you do kiss me I’ll kiss you back if you don’t pull away right after, and he thought, Not here, probably not anywhere, there are some things you don’t understand; at least they have to be talked about, and how would it look? — people will see and think, Look at the old fart and the young beauty, first I thought she was his daughter or even his granddaughter, then they’re kissing on the lips, maybe doing worse things below, how could he and, even uglier to think of, how could she? He smiled at her, faced front, didn’t squeeze her hand but continued to let her hold his. Occasionally glanced at her and she was always watching the movie. She gently squeezed his hand a few times and then so hard his knuckles hurt, and it wasn’t during an especially tense movie scene as the other squeezes since the first one had been so seemed she wanted him to look at her again and he did, and her head was like it was an hour before: turned and with the mouth open and smile just so, and he mouthed, What? and she squeezed his hand and tugged it a little toward her and he pulled it back but left it in hers and said, “What? What?” and she said, “Oh, what?” and someone behind them said, “Shh,” and he mouthed Something wrong? and her expression said, With this look and smile and my neck arched and head turned so and mouth parted in a preparation-for-kiss position, you say you don’t know what it is and that something could be wrong? What’s wrong with you? What was wrong with you before? Or maybe I should ask, What do you see or sense wrong in me? You embarrassed? What don’t you like? Our ages? Me? My looks, mind? People all around? That I made a move on you? That I’m stopping you from watching the movie? Listen, it’s going to happen, mister, you better believe it, here or somewhere else, now or later, this kissing. And probably tonight or another night this week — unless you confess beforehand to being gay, impotent, perverted, or having a sexually transmittable disease — we’ll be in bed also, so you better get ready for that too, and she turned to the screen, and he thought, Suppose she was thinking some of that, he hasn’t yet told her about his wife and why they separated. And there’s her father, mother, all the other things. What else is she expecting him to do besides kiss her here, kiss her later on the street, at a bar, a big long one in an elevator? Dance with her at some preppy club? Double-date with her friends? Hold hands with her the entire way while they walk to wherever they walk to after the movie? Last time his older daughter was in she took his hand on the street and held it at her side and they walked that way for about a minute till he raised their hands to his mouth, kissed hers, and took his out of it, and said, “This’ll sound awful to you. But as much as I loved holding hands with you when you were a girl, probably as much as I loved anything, some people will get the wrong idea now. They don’t know you’re my daughter so they’ll think what they think, and half of it won’t be nice things, and I don’t want them to,” and she said, “What of it? We know how we’re related and that there’s never been anything like that, so why let the petty small minds run you?” and he said, “You could be right. Ideally, you are. But there’s a certain public decorum I have to hold to. I get uncomfortable easily, for both you and me, even if I know I’ll never see these people again, or if we do there’s very little chance we’ll recognize each other, so what else can I say except that I hate it to be this way. Maybe if we wore signs — HIS DAUGHTER, HER FATHER — and arrows on the signs pointing to the other person, which’d mean we’d always have to walk in the same position to each other. No, that’s silly and nothing will work. Anyway, you’re all grown up, and I’ve been wanting to say something about this since you were around thirteen, so walk with me normally from now on and save the hand-holding for when you’re with one of your beaus,” and she said, “Beaus. Oh, boy, that’s a word,” and he said, “You mad over this?” and she said, “It’s a bit sudden, but no.”

In the movie now he looked front, she pulled her hand away from his — a sign she was angry or disappointed, maybe — and he whispered close to her ear, “Really, did I do something wrong? Anything I said I should be thinking about apologizing for?” and she whispered, looking serious, “Why, because I removed my hand from your sweaty palm? It was getting physically unpleasant, just as mine must have been getting to yours, and I thought I might be annoying you with it and distracting you from the movie.” “Shh,” the person behind them said, or another one; “please, the movie. You want to talk, do it outside.” He mouthed, Later, and smiled, and she nodded but didn’t smile, and he thought, Jesus, I’m such a creep, I can’t believe it, and they watched the movie and discussed it on the way to a pub, she called it, she knew around here and wanted to go to for a drink before heading home, and standing at the bar in it he felt funny, all the young people standing around them, just as he thought he would a week ago. He’d suggested when they came in they get a table — his main reason: not to stand at the bar with all the young people, though what he told her was, “We can relax and talk better”—but she said, “A table’s too formal for just a piddly beer. And I’ve been sitting all day at my desk at home, and then at the movie, so I’d like to stretch my legs.” Some men around her age at the bar or walking past them seemed to want to make a pass at her. Anyway, were definitely interested. Kept looking over, tried to catch her eye directly or through the long bar mirror above the liquor bottles. One handsome young man sitting at the bar stared at her through the mirror now. When they came in she looked around briefly, seemed to nod hello to someone in a standing group but he didn’t see who, and then only looked at him—“Chins,” she said, clicking her beer stein against his glass of wine, and drank from it and said, “We done discussing the movie?” and he said, “Unless you want to talk some more as to why they make these things so noisy, jumpy, and uncomplex,” and she said, “I don’t. Now tell me what happened in the theater. And don’t say ‘What do you mean?’ I won’t allow you to give yourself extra time to think up an evasive answer, though of course my going on about it now has given you that time. How come, to put it bluntly — oh, I hate phrases like that when it’s obvious I’m being blunt — you didn’t kiss me? Was I — and I don’t like babbling people either but feel I have to finish this, so forgive me — asking for so much? Or you simply didn’t want to, or thought it the wrong place, or the shusher behind us stifled you, or what? There, you’ve had lots of time to think up a clever evasion, and meanwhile I’ve exposed myself as an unattractive babbler, but say something,” and he said, “I have to talk here? How do you know we’re not being monitored? This looks like the kind of joint that might do that — state-of-the-art slick and insipid singles bar with its newest gimmick being to entertain its masses through hidden recorders. One of the drinkers nearby could have one under his shirt or up her armpit and then management lowers the deafening music a few dozen decibels and plays our conversation back over the same sound system and everyone laughs himself silly,” and she said, “You’re not talking, then,” and he said, “Okay, I talk. ‘Didn’t want to kiss’? You said that, lady? Well, let me think about it, not with any excuse-making goal but to see my reluctance then as clearly as I can,” and he looked at his glass and thought. This is the approach. He can have it both ways and also appear thoughtful. He can protest his unresponsiveness yet give all the arguments for not getting involved further: the age difference, her family, he has a daughter also twenty-three and maybe even a few months older than her, she’s just a student, she should be going out with much younger men, same frame — frames? — of reference, and “just a student” meaning he’s a teacher, she’s a grad student, it wouldn’t look right or seem good. Other things he’ll come up with: what could it lead to? That it’d embarrass him being affectionate to her in front of people, and kissing? Out of the question. Meaning in front of people, not that he wouldn’t like to. Mention the hand-holding incident with his daughter. That he’d think himself a hypocrite he could only be kissy-poo alone with her? No “kissy-poo” reference. Besides sounding awful, he doesn’t want to ridicule the act of kissing her, because then he’d be ridiculing her; she was the one who practically put her lips to his. Anyway, something like that, and if she accepts his reasons and respects his reactions but says it still doesn’t make any difference to her — she’ll go along with however he wants to conduct himself in public, within reason (she’s not going to be passed off as his daughter, for instance) — then what? Then — well, he doesn’t know. Does he want to see her again? Yes, he thinks so. Yes or no? Yes. Sleep with her eventually? Yes, surely. Sleep with her tonight if she lets on that’s what she wants and actually does all the asking or prompting? All depends: his place or hers, roommate, type of building she lives in. But his building. People in it have begun to know him. If one’s waiting for the elevator with them or the next morning is already in the car when they get on it to ride down? They could walk down — it’s only the seventh floor and he could say it’s good exercise and how he almost always goes downstairs; that’s the truth — but someone could see them going through the lobby to the street, and what if a neighbor’s waiting for the elevator when they leave his apartment? So? Means nothing in the morning: student of his who dropped by early to deliver a late paper and they just happen to be leaving at the same time. Doorman? Why would he care? He’d see them come in at night and think, Hey, what a doll, lucky old fuck, or maybe that’s another one of his daughters. But he’s way off track: first the negative arguments. “I’ve thought about it,” he said, “even if the music’s hardly conducive to thinking — that bang bang screech bong,” and she said, “It’s not anything like that and don’t digress; tell me what you thought,” and he said, “For one thing, I’m still married,” and she said, “This is what you sunk into deep contemplation for? Because I thought you were separated, the two of you marching lockstep to an amiable divorce,” and he said, “Where’d you hear that? I never told you. Maybe your folks did, but I never told them either, though it’s true,” and she said, “I’ve only spoken to them briefly since we met, and not about you — I forgot to,” and he said, “Ah, best you not, right now: what would they think? Anyway, you’re right about the divorce — you must have just assumed it, or something I said — but you don’t know the reasons for the amiability. My wife’s quite sick. She wanted to divorce because of that. Sort of sacrificing herself. Thought she was being a drain on me. I took care of her as much as I could but couldn’t anymore. She was that sick — still is — but even worse — she’s eleven years younger than me — moved back with her elderly parents and they’re taking care of her now with a nurse, the kids coming around often but not to help, and she doesn’t want to see me anymore when she’s so sick, because—” and she said, “I didn’t know; that’s terrible,” and he said, “It’s awful, yes, except it isn’t true,” and she said, “What isn’t?” and he said, “What I said, all of it, except the separation and amiable divorce procedure. I don’t know what came over me to do that — I’m sorry,” and she said, “Wait, what you just—” and he said, “Yeah, made up. As I said, I don’t know what—” and she said, “But why? Something wrong with you, a screw loose, to play with my emotions like that?” and he said, “Listen, I can understand why you’d be mad, but maybe we should tone it down here,” and she said, “Okay, but answer,” and he said, “No screw loose. Oh, I’m normal, so like everyone else who is, minimum of a little. But I’m nervous with you, so maybe my nervousness makes me feel a tiny bit extra screw-loose, giddy, say dumb things, even turned me into a liar,” and she said, “Okay, okay. Not entirely satisfactory and I’m not sure what to say, but okay, okay. What’s the real situation between you and your wife?” and he said, “Separation and eventually a divorce, all quite amiable and compatible. Twenty-eight years, which includes the four we lived together before marriage, and she got tired of it, felt we had little to say to each other, et cetera. No common interests left, now that the kids were grown, though the younger is still in college, so we should separate for a while and if it’s what we continue to want … I’m sorry about that bizarre story. As I said, where it comes from, who knows, since she’s healthy as all hell, and that excuse about my nervousness around you can’t be all of it. I think, maybe, and this is just speculation, and I don’t want to go into another long solitary thought session to try and figure it out”—and she said, “What were you saying?” and he said, “I didn’t want to talk about a separation, one we’re trying out, because then you might think Sally and I could go back together,” and she said, “So, fine, if you did, but what’s it got to do with our silly kissing?” and he said, “I suppose little, that what you’re saying?” and she said, “Well, does it? Just for curiosity’s sake, where’s the separation stand now?” and he said, “Oh, that’s another thing. She met a man, is very happy with him, lots in common, so we’ll probably end up getting divorced and she remarried. I don’t know what could stop the divorce — certainly I wouldn’t, if it’s what she wants — thus the amiability,” and she said, “Fine, and you don’t seem too torn up by it,” and he said, “I’m not, but you know …” and she said, “Which means what, the long stretch with her is enough to stop you from stepping out some too?” and he said, “You mean with you?” and she said, “Not only, but for argument’s sake, yes,” and he said, “No, but our respective ages, you bet. Every time I think I knew your parents twenty years ago—” and she said, “Fifteen, probably less,” and he said, “And now you’re all grown but still forty years younger — forty-one; that’s a chunk,” and she said, “I’m not looking for anything long-term. I’m just interested in you, would like to see where it goes. We stop when we want to, even at this pub’s door. We for certain don’t have to get serious. We have fun, talk a lot, do what comes naturally if that’s what develops, see movies, read, stay away from my parents, go to the beach if you like beaches—” and he said, “I don’t. I like mountains. Beaches are too bare and hot.” “Then I could never go out with you.” “Good, you shouldn’t. And I look ludicrous in a bathing suit with my shirt off.” “What are you saying? You’ve a nice build.” “How would you know?” “I can see through your shirt, the way you fill it out, and your big arms.” “Maybe the arms are the last to go. But I’m gray. I’ve gray hair on my chest and, if you want to get personal and frank — can I say it?” and she said, “Say anything you want,” and he said, “Around my pubes, on them, but there, and in some spots, white.” “What of it? Maybe I do too.” “You couldn’t.” “I could be prematurely gray, coloring the gray away in my head hair, maybe everywhere else too, or the places where I don’t shave it off. You never know.” “Listen, let’s walk and talk and, if it rains, run for cover.” “It’s not supposed to rain, but were you speaking metaphorically?” and he said, “No, I thought I read it in a weather report.”

They walked and talked. She took his hand, he let her for a minute and then pulled it away, patted the hand that had held his, and said, “I might meet someone — this is home territory, the whole Upper West Side is — or you might. They won’t know what to think. That concerns me; what can I tell you? They’ll maybe think you’re with your grandfather. And if they see us crossing the street, that you’re helping him across, and if they do think that, we’ll be lucky,” and she said, “Don’t be maudlin. And how can anyone think I’m helping you across if I’m not holding on to you?” “I see you, I see my daughter, what can I tell you?” and she said, “And I see you and I don’t see my father.” “You have to.” “Don’t tell me what I have to see. And you don’t see your daughter in me either. Besides, you need as much help getting across the street, and look it, as I do. Please, don’t be such a schmuck. You’re too old for it; it’s unbecoming and to me unattractive,” and he said, “Listen, I can’t take a girl forty-plus years younger than I, a young woman — a woman, all right, a woman — calling me a schmuck. ‘Unattractive,’ fine. When I was your age or ten years older that might have hit me, but not now.” “I meant in an ugly way, that ‘unattractive,’” and he said, “Still, I don’t care. But you don’t know what that ‘schmuck’ does to me.” “Then what should I call you, ‘my darling’?” “Of course not; it wouldn’t be true.” “I know. That’s why I said it,” and he said, “Good, then you also know now I’m slow.” “Really, Gould, we should talk some more about this and your perspective on it, but not while we’re walking. Would you care to go in someplace quieter and less crowded this time for another wine and beer?” “Coffee,” and she said, “I could make us coffee at my place.” “Oh, jeez, I don’t know. Haven’t I turned you off sufficiently where you’d rather have seen the last of me?” “You’re doing your darnedest but it hasn’t reached the point where I see anything too difficult to overcome.” “Nicely and graciously put, but I don’t deserve it. Okay, your place, so long as you know there’ll be no commitment from me to go further. ‘Urgency … push.’ I’m not saying it right — I’m doddering — but you must know what I’m getting at.” “Just coffee. If it only comes to that. Because I don’t like any prearranged restriction if there really seems no call for one.” “Listen. Suppose it went further — I’m definitely not saying for today — and you hated it, were even repulsed by it because you suddenly saw how old and doddery I was, and then we’d have to walk around each other on the street after that when we met, not wanting to say anything to the other or even approach him—” and she said, “So? First of all, we wouldn’t stalk around, or what you said. What does it mean anyway? You make it look like two snarling panthers — lions, cheetahs, one of the feral cat families — because one’s in the other’s territory, by gosh — or maybe cheetahs and panthers only go roaming — but the other doesn’t want him there.” “That’s not what I meant. I was talking about potential embarrassment, uncomfortableness.” “So I got it wrong. My turn to be incoherent. Sorry. But we’d just — and my ‘sorry’ was for insinuating you were being incoherent; you weren’t, or not much. But if I now have it right, we’d just say hello, talk politely a little, ask after the other’s family — I feel I know enough about yours to do that, or would by then, and I also know how much you love talking about them — and then go our two ways, something that shouldn’t be new in relationships to either of us. We all come across people we don’t particularly want to meet, but we deal with them civilly, don’t we? — no inclination to hurt or get revenge? But tell me why we’re talking like this. It’s ridiculously premature. For now, let’s just have coffee. Or if you want — I feel I’m pushing you too much on this, as you said, or did I get that wrong too? — maybe we should go home, you to yours, me to mine, so long till the next time, if we meet on the street or in the market or one of us wants to call and the other doesn’t object to receiving.” “No, coffee and dessert, on me and at a coffee bar, please.” “You paid for the movie tickets and drinks.” “I like to pay; I do it without argument or for reward,” and she said, “If we’ve settled on coffee and dessert, I have some Mondel’s chocolate lace cookies in a tin, just a few days old … well, I’ve given myself away: but at my apartment? I also have a new espresso machine never used: cappuccino, espresso, the works. And brandy, which I use for cooking, but it’s good stuff, if you want to cap the night,” and he said, “Do you have a roommate? Only because I don’t want to converse with anyone else tonight under forty,” and she shook her head. “I live alone. I thought I told you that,” and he said, “Not that I remember, but we’re both pretty aware by now of my deficiency that way,” and she said, “Well I do, my big luxury; the espresso machine was a housewarming gift from my folks, along with a Bokhara rug.”

They cabbed to her place. He looked at his building as he went into hers. He forgot to ask if it’s a student building, lots of young students around, and if there’s a Columbia University security guard at the door, but there wasn’t, and nobody in the lobby or at the elevator, and what would he have done if there was? He’d have gone in with her. She was the one who wanted to cab. “But it’s only ten blocks,” he’d said, “and I like walking and it’s a nice night,” and she said, “I’m tired: my feet. I haven’t been on them all day, but they hurt. I’m older than you think, physically; I also have a waitress job three days a week,” and he said, “Oh, you didn’t say,” and wondered where it was and what would happen if he went into it by accident in the next few days and saw her there, or let’s say if they said, later tonight, It isn’t a good idea to see each other again, and then sometime in the next few days he went into the restaurant, sat at a table alone or at the counter — he prefers counters to tables when he eats alone: it’s quicker and also easier to read a book on them — and she turned out to be his server. In the cab she’d asked if he had any siblings and he said, “One, a few years younger, but he died when I was a boy,” and she said, “So did mine, an older sister by two years, but she was killed by a hit-and-run when she was nineteen,” and he said, “I didn’t know; I’m very sorry. I only remember one girl from my dinner at your house, and I’m almost sure it was only once, so maybe it wasn’t even you I saw then,” and she said, “You forget it was I who first recognized you. It could be that Sue was sick that night and had to stay in her room or was on a sleep-over. Anyway, we’ve something very deep in common,” and he said, “But my loss was almost sixty years ago. It was in Central Park. We were standing by the bridle path. I was supposed to be looking after him, and a horse went nuts, tossed its rider, and kicked my brother in the head, and he suffered for a long time with a blood clot and seemed to recover, and then, like an old man shooting an embolism or whatever they shoot, died doing his rudimentary schoolwork at home. I think he was drawing the cover of his book report.” He thought, riding up the elevator and staring at the gash in the ceiling panel and cable moving above it, Why’d he lie about his brother, and what’s going to happen now with her? He’s not prepared for it. What does he do with a young woman? Not prepared with a bag either, but she probably has a packet of them in her night table or another kind of protection. If it comes to that, as she said, if that’s what she meant. It’s been so long with any woman. But a young one with such a young body, everything flat and firm, it seems. And he hasn’t made love with anyone but his wife since he met her — has kissed a few but hasn’t even touched one on the breast, and he thinks every kiss he did was when he was a little high and standing in someone’s kitchen. All his hand and finger movements will be the ones he did with his wife thousands of times. He knew what she liked, how she wanted it done, and if he didn’t, she told him, so he thinks he’ll probably do things to this girl’s body as if it were his wife’s. If he ends up inside her, he’ll come in a minute. No, he knows how to hold it back if he wants to, or for a few minutes after it seems he’s going to come soon, but that was with his wife and after many years with her. It’s going to happen though, sex, if not tonight then soon with her. If there’s a chance for it tonight, will he do it? Yes, because when she decides to do it — his age and looks again — that might be the only time she does. She’ll give him the smile, he’ll kiss her this time, it could even start right after they close the door and hang up their jackets: she’ll start rubbing his back, he’ll rub hers, they’ll be standing and embracing at the time — best it starts up after their jackets are off and maybe even their sweaters: more maneuverability, fewer layers to tug up and go under — then the legs, sides, behinds, they’ll feel around and this piece of clothing will be off and that one and soon all of them, and it’ll be many kisses later and he’ll be worrying if his breath stinks to her, if she’s imagining it stinks because he’s old, if she isn’t already turned off by him, his skin, wrinkles, and flab. But she’ll still be kissing — lips and tongue don’t change, he doesn’t think — and maybe thinking she’ll do it with him this once, what’s the harm? a different kind of experience, et cetera, and she’s already a little excited, see him on the street after that, say it just wasn’t going to work, that’s why she didn’t call or answer his answering-machine messages, but no regrets — and they’ll go to the bedroom and so on and then he’ll have done it, first time with someone since his wife, if it, please God, comes to that.

So they went to her apartment. She asked for his jacket, hung it in the closet alongside hers, and went into the kitchen to make coffee; he stayed in the living room, flipping through some of the books on her end tables, cocktail and dining tables, and a few on the couch. “Would you like some of that brandy in your coffee?” she yelled out. “I see it’s Spanish,” and he said, “On the side, why not, sure, thanks, if you’ll join me, but even if you don’t,” and she said, “Yeah, I could.” They both had brandy in a small glass that looked like half a shot glass with a stem. They had another. “Two of these is just one,” she said, “so don’t think you’re going to get sick by the morning.” She sipped from her espresso coffee — she wasn’t able to figure out how to operate the steamed milk part of the machine and didn’t want to disturb him to try and help her; he didn’t touch his coffee, and she never referred to it till it was cold. “Want me to heat it up? Or better yet, make a fresh one for you?” and he said, “The brandy’s all I need,” and then, “May I?” and poured himself another. They talked about a lot of things quickly. Does her waitressing job cover her rent and other expenses? No, not in this city, so her parents contribute about half. Does she get in some reading at work? A little, during customer lulls or when she escapes to the toilet, but there’s this dismal recorded restaurant music that never stops and the readings she has to do are often unnecessarily complex or unpardonably impenetrable, so it’s hard to concentrate. Next year she’s supposed to be a teaching assistant, which will mean full tuition waiver and a stipend, so she can give up the waitressing job. “You’re a teacher, so give me advice as to what to do when you know a student isn’t doing the assignment. I’ve always wanted to know, and I think now I’ll have to.” “You whip him or her,” and she said, “Be serious, this is important.” He told her his tricks how to make sure the students read everything he assigns them. She said, “I should get this down on paper, but I’ll remember,” and he said, “Or you can ask me at the time, if you run into the problem,” and she said, “You may be too busy with your own work then,” and he said, “No, I’m always accessible, and to my friends even more so.” She asked if he liked teaching; he said, “Not especially.” She said, “Maybe because you’ve been doing it so long.” He said, “No, I’ve never liked it, and if your next question is why do I do it”—“It would’ve been”—“Well, to support myself and the things I like doing.” She asked what they were and he said, “Too few to enumerate,” and she said, “Come on, don’t get highbrow and fussy; it’s the one thing I’ve disliked most about academics,” and he said, “You’re right. Reading, long-walking, my daughters, of course; my typewriter diddling most times, and for more than twenty years of our marriage, my marriage and my wife, who is still quite nice.” “What made you break up?” and he said, “I thought we talked about that. If we did, I shouldn’t have, as I don’t like discussing it, I’m sorry,” and she said, “Please, no excuses or apologies required. Have you seen any women since you separated?” and he said, “Dated?” and she said, “I guess you could use that term,” and he said, “No, what about you? When was the last time you were involved, or maybe you are even now with someone special,” and she said, “That’s a funny question, and if you don’t mind I’d rather not answer it, and not to get even with you, you understand.” “Why, did I say something inappropriate again? If so, I’m sorry, but I’ve been out of circulation for many years, and in ways I’m like a rustic,” and she said, “You were married, though,” and he said, “Yeah, but my wife acted as my social intermediary. I, for the most part, reclused myself except in school, though I’d flee from there the minute my work was finished, and could barely endure answering the phone at home. I’ve come out of that somewhat since I’ve been living alone; I mean, you gotta if you have a phone but no answering machine,” and she said, “Good, I’m glad, it’s better for you not to be that way. As for me, let me explain that I don’t like talking about someone I was involved with, at least not to someone I only recently met,” and he said, “You mean me?” and she said, “Who else? I don’t even have a pet here,” and he said, “I see, and that was dumb of me to say, ‘You mean me?’ Of course me. As you said, who else?” Then they were silent. Something about her face: he was saying the wrong things and she was looking away. It wasn’t going well. It had become strained. She wanted him out of here, he was sure of it, and well she should. It’s not that it’s late. What time is it? He’d look at his watch but that might annoy her even more: He’s that bored with me? she could think. Well, who the hell does he think he is? Or give her the impetus to say, “It’s getting a little late, isn’t it? and I’m also feeling tired, so perhaps we should call it a night.” He looked at his empty glass, wanted to pour another, but thought she might think he drank too much or had to drink to be with her and have things to say. “Would you mind if I have just one more of this?” tapping the brandy bottle. “It’s very good stuff. I always thought Spain, brandy, it’d be harsh, but it’s not. I was once there but I don’t remember having brandy. I only drank beer then — lots of it; I had a terrible pot — and some wine: white, which wasn’t produced much in Spain, while I now mainly drink red and hardly touch beer. So, I missed my big chance, with the brandy and red wine. Port I remember in Portugal — I was even in Oporto, where they made it; you took a tour of the porteries — what would they be called?” and she said, “I wouldn’t know.” “Maybe just distilleries. And these glasses are pretty small, as you said, and I’m not used to drinking this much, so I’m curious — you’re curious, I’m curious — the effect it’ll have on me. What an awful thought, you taking care of me — awful for you — if I got really pissed. Only kidding about all that except the beer, red, and pot,” and she said, “Please, I’ll join you in one more.” She seemed back in the mood from before and asked when was he in Spain. He said, “Several years before I met my wife. I went with a woman and her kid — I’d been living with them — and we mostly hitchhiked. The boy had blond hair, so it was easy,” and she said, “You know, the truth is — as you’ll see, all this time you’ve been talking, I’ve been listening some but mostly thinking — why not talk about that subject from before?” and he said, “What do you mean?” and she said, “Why am I reluctant to talk about it: my last two involvements? And I couple them up like that because they were practically back to back — a mistake; I don’t think I had a week’s break between them — and equally intense and both men seemed so young for their age and they even looked alike. Very tall, gaunt, lots of shocks of dark head hair; even the bony noses and enormous feet and hands and same-shaped eyes. I know it wasn’t unintentional on my part, choosing the second with the looks of the first. I mean, with the second one — but you know what I mean. And the hair matter — that’s no reflection on you, you understand. Younger men just have more hair. You must have had it too,” and he said, “I actually began going bald when I was thirteen, I think, or started worrying about it. That I still have some hair on top and so high on the sides surprises me; I thought I’d be a billiard ball. But these two young men: you liked them both, equally, what?” and she said, “I loved them, one no more than the other and both a lot, but knew it wouldn’t last with either for more than a few months, if that. Still, I fell for them because they were so attractive and congenial, and it quickly worked out well. The conversation wasn’t that good, though did it have to be, right at the beginning? But the sex was, and that’s something. So there,” and he said, “How long ago, the last?” and she said, “Not long, but maybe I’ve spoken enough about it, not so much confessed but gone on almost nonstop,” and he said, “And sex, now there’s a subject,” and she said, “Why, do you have something to say regarding what I told you? It could be you found my quick activities with successive men repugnant, or something less severe, or my cavalier attitude to the whole thing,” and he said, “Not in the least, we’re just talking. I only meant sex, the universal subject for adults, the Esperanto in body language of a different kind, we could say, or not only for adults. Kids are good at picking up languages easily, right? So whenever it starts. So much to talk about there, in so many aspects,” and she said, “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying,” and he said, “I wasn’t being clear?” and she said, “Not really. What is it you’re sort of circulating around, something again about those two men I mentioned?” and he said, “Well, if you’ve no objection to talking about it, yes, you and these two guys, back to back, front to front, but instead we can start at the start, since I assume the first wasn’t the first and so the second not the second, were they?” and she said, “Oh, you’re funny; of course not. I’m twenty-three,” and he said, “So how old were you when you had your first involvement?” and she said, “Do you mean sex or just liking a guy?” and he said, “I guess so: sex, involvement, one and the same, I suppose, today or for about the last twenty years — I’m not sure, out let me know if this is the wrong question — out of line — it I’m being that, and I’ll immediately change the subject or shut up,” and she said, “Real sex? Being penetrated? Losing the locket? Fifteen. You?” and he said, “Closer to fifteen or to sixteen?” and she said, “I forget; what’s the difference?” and he said, “For me, things were a lot different when I was a kid,” and she said, “So you were much older when you first did it?” and he said, “No, fourteen. I remember it was December, right after Christmas — I was on school vacation — but with a whore. Most girls I went out with didn’t do anything but kiss and, if you were lucky, on the fourth or fifth date would let you touch a breast through the blouse and, after a dozen dates, through the brassiere. For more, you had to go steady with them for half a year to a year — and I’m not saying too much more — or go out with a particularly wild usually homely girl you didn’t want to be seen on the street with, and with her on the first date you could sometimes get bare tit, as we called it — it really sounds stupid now, and the way we regarded these girls, repulsive,” and she said, “But a professional whore. What a depressing introduction, though I suppose how most adolescent boys lost their virginity then,” and he said, “That’s right. Most of my friends first went to prostitutes. I don’t like the idea of it now but didn’t think it depressing then. In fact, I have to admit I found it very exciting — the prospect of going to one and seeing a woman for the first time totally naked. I was practically heady at the thought of it, though it wasn’t a great experience when I actually did it: she was crude and smelly and smoked a cigarette during a little of it, and her apartment was ugly. And it isn’t, as I said, that I didn’t want it to be with one of the girls I liked and dated,” and she said, “And you continued going to prostitutes after that?” and he said, “With my friends, when I was a teenager, yes, sometimes five or six of us to the same one in the afternoon. She’d take us one at a time and the others would wait on the street telling infantile dirty jokes to one another or in a small waiting room she had, all of us crammed onto one couch. But not for almost forty years, I want you to know, which means as a man — twenty, twenty-one — a very young man, my first two times in Europe? … Yes, there more than anywhere else. The women in the Amsterdam windows, a London prostitute or two right out on a quiet side street, against a car fender — that’s where and how you did it, standing up. I’ve never seen anything like it in New York, and it was much cheaper there too. And Paris, rue du or de something or other — it was famous as a hooker street, but all gone now, I hear — near Les Halles, which has been torn down too. But I didn’t do much whoring here, and usually when a friend set something up and maybe — this is, I’m still in my early twenties, you realize — because he had the dough and didn’t want to go alone, was afraid he’d get beaten up and robbed. I was a big guy; most of my friends then were rich little guys … anyway, where he paid for me.” “As far as my first, it wasn’t that great either. I didn’t want to but wasn’t forced. I did it mostly because all the other girls my age did, or said they were doing it — wouldn’t that be something if they were all lying? But why are we talking of this, or focusing on it rather, after all the other subjects we started to discuss?” and he said, “We just got into it; who knows why?” and she said, “No, I bet there’s a more deliberate reason,” and he said, “What?”—thinking he knew what she was going to say, and she said, “Simply to get ourselves worked up. What do you think?” and he didn’t want to say, I knew you’d say something like that, but said, “What do I think? Truth is, I am a little excited, genitally — so you think I started the conversation for that reason, both for you and me, or intentionally turned it around to it at a time when we really didn’t know each other or much about the other?” and she said, “I’m not accusing you. I feel I’m just as much responsible for the conversation’s sudden turn and focus and am a little excited by it myself and enjoying the feeling. Because what’s wrong in it? Is there any danger, do you think?” and he said, “Why should there be? Or maybe I’m missing your meaning,” and she said, “I’ll put it this way: what do we do next? What about that? What do you think we should pursue next?” and he said, “You mean, do something?” and she said, “Only if you want to; it has to be consensual; I’m not about to spring on you,” and he said, “Of course, I know, and I’m delighted, but where?” and she said, “Let’s go to the bedroom. We don’t have to do, unless you insist on it, the preliminaries out here, do we? We’ve done most of it with chatter, so we can skip the couch stuff and save the rest for inside after we’ve taken off our clothes,” and he said, “You don’t like being undressed?” and she said, “Not especially; I can undress myself,” and he said, “My wife did, even long into our marriage, and rebuked me for not doing it more often with her, undressing,” and she said, “If you’re asking me to undress you, I’ll do it if you want, but in the bedroom. I think this room we should keep as is,” and he said, “Nah, it’d be silly; I can undress myself too,” and she said, “Fine,” and stood up, put her glass down, and said, “One more thing before we go in. I’d prefer you not mentioning your wife again tonight or till much later, and only if it’s necessary or involuntary, like if you’re talking in your sleep about her. It can be disconcerting,” and he said, “Sure, though you can talk about your gaunt hairy men all you want,” and she said, “Why would I want to? That’s so stupid,” and he said, “Hey, maybe it was — no, I’ll concede it was and that I don’t know where it came from — but I wish you wouldn’t tell me that something I say is stupid, at least not till much later,” and she said, “Okay, I can see that’s important to you, and I was wrong. So we won’t talk about anything like that: your age, your wife, my youth, or any of my former boyfriends or lovers and nothing about either of our intellectual and social deficiencies,” and he stood up, finished his drink, and said, “Can we at least, while we’re here, and without messing up the room and because I think the moment can use it and that it’s also important we do, kiss?” and she said, “I want us to,” and they moved to each other. He said, “My mouth has brandy on it but so will yours, but if mine’s stinkier with it it’s probably because I drank more, so excuse me,” and she said, “Really, it’s not an offensive smell. I even kind of like it: that and cognac and a French pear brandy, have you ever had it? I forget what it’s called in French,” and he said, “I don’t think so, what’s it look like?” and she said, “Clear, like vodka,” and he said no, and they kissed.

They went into the bedroom. They’d kissed a few times standing up in the living room and he felt woozy from it, light-headed; at one moment he thought his legs might give way, but that’s all he needed. Screwy old guy, she could think, next thing I know I’ll have to hold him up, sit him in a chair. Such soft lips, he thought. His, in comparison, he was sure were a bit cracked and stiff. She knew how to kiss, hand on his neck and squeezing it a little and then fingers climbing up the back of his head almost in a spiderlike way, but only in the way the spider moves, nothing about being trapped or any of the other bad spider associations. Doing it almost as if she was thinking this is how she’s supposed to hold a man and move her hand when she kissed, but he liked it. Her hand was warm and soft, and it made him shiver a few times. The brandy was a good idea; it had relaxed him, maybe made him say a couple of things he shouldn’t have, but because both of them drank it it sort of neutralized any smell he might have on his breath. He didn’t sense brandy on hers; it just smelled fresh. Kept his tongue in place because she didn’t use hers, but he was thinking as he kissed her that if she started to use it he would too. She undressed, unbuttoning her blouse and taking it off, sitting on the bed and removing her jeans, unhooking her bra, but her breasts didn’t plop out as he expected when the bra came off; they just stayed there, sticking straight out and almost pointing up. Maybe only the breasts of girls fourteen or eighteen or so did that. He’s only seen them in photos, never even saw his daughters’ once they started to develop, and when he was young and felt girls up and once got a shirt and bra off one — or maybe just the bra; the shirt she kept on but open in front — it was always in the dark. She slipped off her panties and then her socks — he tried not to watch, or just made quick looks, and she sometimes caught him but didn’t say anything with her expression — and threw them under the bed. Light hair down there, he thought he saw, while her head and underarm hair were almost black. She color it to make it lighter? Wouldn’t think so — doesn’t see the purpose; shaving, yes, or whatever depilatory process if you’re self-conscious of having what you think’s a lot of hair — but he won’t bring it up. “Aren’t you going to disrobe?” she said, and took off her watch and shoved aside two little heart-shaped wooden boxes at the edge of the night table to put it down. That’s probably the side she’ll sleep on, he thought, since there’s a night table on the other side. What could be in the boxes? Maybe one day, if they’re still there and the relationship goes on that long and when she’s not in the room, he’ll look inside. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’ve been dillying. I have to admit I became a bit fascinated, almost like a voyeur, or voyeur minus one, watching you undress. Excuse me,” and she said, “Why? It’s got to be natural. Which might seem as if I’m admitting to the unnatural in that the peeper instinct has never been in me,” and he said, “That’s hardly unnatural; neither is, wouldn’t you say?” and she said, “I suppose,” and he took off his shirt and watch, put the watch in his pants pocket, and undid his belt. His penis was erect and a little curved to the left and sticking through the fly of his boxer shorts as he pulled the pants down. She looked at it, made no expression, and looked away; but it had to look comical sticking out and curved that way, maybe even obscene, and he pushed it back in, folded his clothes up, and put them on a chair. She shut her eyes, twisted her arm around her back to scratch the middle of it, gritted her teeth as if the scratching or something else back there hurt, yawned, and said without opening her eyes, “Sorry if you heard that,” and he had but said, “Heard what?” and she said, “I yawned, but nothing to do with you. Just I’m tired … long day,” and got up to get something from the top dresser drawer. We’re like an old couple already, he thought; ah, maybe that’s good: we’ll be relaxed, no poses. And a diaphragm, probably, from the drawer, but he can hardly believe the whole thing. Stepped out of his shorts; he was still erect but so what? Just that he was going to make love with her, this beautiful body and face, that’s what he found so unbelievable. Because she was so young, maybe she was more beautiful to him than she actually was, but again, so what? Firm, lean, strong, no fat or bumps, impressions, or pocks in her thighs and buttocks, ass so high, nice-sized breasts and the shape they’re in — she’s in perfect shape all around. Slim legs, body like one in a bathing suit or Caribbean beach ad. No tan, divisions of dark and light on her skin, whatever they’re called. She’s evenly white as if she’s intentionally stayed out of the sun and in fact had rarely been in it or never without covering or chair or beach umbrella or wide-brimmed hat. But the light pubic hair, dark head and underarm hair; something there he didn’t understand. Important? No, but why was she letting him go through with it? Look at the differences, lady, compare; for one thing, his neck. He saw it as john-whore, but only because she had a body and face a guy his age usually had to pay for. And smart, too, going for a degree he’d never have the brains to get. Any advanced degree: never wanted one, but that’s another thing. Not that he would pay to lay her. What’s he saying? Sure he would, once: a hundred, maybe even two hundred, once, but if it was in a normal apartment, not a whorehouse, and she said something like, “I don’t ever do this but I suddenly need the money,” and she was absolutely clean. Clean? Hadn’t thought of it but sure she’s clean, and she must know he is after no woman but his wife for almost thirty years. But he’s not going to tell her what he thought. Unless, let’s say, they were lying around on the bed after lovemaking one night or any other time, tonight, for instance, tomorrow morning, but lying around casually, maybe her head on his chest, his arm around her shoulder, and that hand resting on or holding her breast, and he said, “For curiosity purposes only, and you don’t have to say if you don’t want, but what did you think when you first saw my body with no clothes on, and I’m not talking about my penis, but you want, even that — the testicles, the works. And don’t worry about offending me about this. I know what I look like — the neck, for instance. I don’t want to call any more attention to it than would seem necessary or normal, because then it’ll seem like self-pity’s motivating me, but there it is, the neck, getting a little scrawny just like everyone’s eventually does. So believe me, say what you thought about my body at that time, even what you think of it now, even the neck, what it does to you, if it in any way repels you — that’s not a good way of putting it — but I’d really like to hear.”

She turned around, had what looked like a miniature athletic bag in her hand, bright red with electric-blue straps and some words inside a circle on it — a basketball, he now saw — and said, “I’m going to wash up,” and he said, “I should too,” and she said, “Why, what do you have to do — you mean the toilet; you want to go first?” and he said, “No, my body — you know, wash my penis; I mean, it’s okay, but just to wash it anew — and also all around the anus and inside, sort of like that, if you want me to be honest,” and she said, “With what? Not with one of my washrags, I hope,” and he said, “Why? You just throw it in the wash after. But if it bothers you … anyhow, I wasn’t thinking of using a washrag, actually. My hands — lathered up — one hand, and if you have tissues in there, or toilet paper will do, which I’d dry myself with. And I won’t throw the tissues into the toilet bowl, so I’d need a wastebasket too,” and she said, “Good, my bathroom’s fully set up for all of that,” and he said, “Then good, we’re set. Now, before you go, and you should go first — my activity isn’t crucial — may I also hold you a little and maybe a kiss before? I suddenly want to,” and she said, “That’d be nice, I’d like it,” and smiled, stepped toward him, they kissed, he pressed his body into hers, ran his hand up and down her side, rubbed her back, on her rear end, clutched it, leaned over and stretched his arm down till he got his hand under her buttocks and between her legs, and she said, “Please, Gould, not so fast,” and he said, “Oh, my name,” and she said, “What about it?”—his hand was away by now — and he said, “Nothing; that you used it: a second, I think. It sounded nice, and I’m sorry, but I didn’t think I was going so fast,” and she said, “It was, for me, and I also want to wash up, as I said, and do some other things in there”—her head nodding to the bathroom — and he said, “Okay, all right, but so many rules here; whew. Don’t do this, do that; or not so many do’s, just don’t do this or that,” and she said, “I’m only telling you what I have to do first and what I don’t like done too fast — that’s so bad? Standing up and fooling around here, for instance. It’s nice for a minute, but maybe you even had in mind doing it right here,” and he said, “I didn’t,” and she said, “I’m glad, because we don’t have to, isn’t that true? The bed’s a much better place. And I’m tired; I already told you. So standing up and feeling each other after a while can be an effort when I’m this way,” and he said, “Come on, will you? Stop telling me — please, I mean — how to make love and how not to. I’ve done it before, I do have some experience. Okay, you do too, but understand that everything I’m doing here with you — if there’s any action that isn’t, I’d be surprised — is coming from some need or urgency of mine or something to touch and feel and paw you and the rest of it, now and later, so what the hell’s so goddamn wrong with that? Tell me,” and she said, “You don’t have to get vulgar and I think angry there, all of a sudden. And the truth is, too much talk too, okay?” and he said, “Listen, don’t now tell me not to talk or how to and then when to talk and more of the not-to-do-this stuff unless something I’m doing is physically hurting you — that I can respect,” and she said, “Right now your talking is hurting me, is that coming through?” and broke them apart and pushed him away a few inches. He said, “Hey, maybe this isn’t a good idea — this whole thing — how about that?” and she said, “I think you’re right,” and he said, “So maybe then I should get dressed,” and she said, “I think that would be the best thing to do, yes,” and he said, “Boy, that was one fast coming together and breakup,” and she said, “It was, though I wouldn’t exactly use either of those terms for it. Let’s just say something is definitely wrong, or had become that, and whatever was materializing between us tonight isn’t such a good idea now,” and he said, “Okay, everything’s wrong, even the goddamn terms and words,” and she said, “Please, don’t get angrier and make it into a big clamorous embroilment. And I’m really not trying to escape from this conversation — I just have to go badly, excuse me,” and went into the bathroom and shut the door.

He started putting his clothes on. Should I? he thought when he had his shorts on. Or should I stay naked and, when she comes out, say, “I thought maybe you had a change of mind? I know I have, but if you don’t, fine, I’ll get dressed,” but then thought no, just go, they’re never going to end up in bed, and if she sees him sitting here naked … well, he could say something quickly why he is, that business about her possibly changing her mind and he didn’t want to get dressed when he’d only have to undress again — he’d say it jokingly — but she could get annoyed that he hadn’t started dressing and say something like “It’s no laughing matter, and your delirium about my changing my mind is in fact a bit depressing,” and he got his shirt and pants on and was sweating heavily and his stomach hurt and chest felt empty because he had so much wanted to do it with her and had even seen something good and happy and long-term from it for a while and he knows he’s going to kick himself to kingdom come once he leaves her place — a chance like this will never happen again, never — and was putting on a sock, thinking maybe he can come up with something to say to change things around, an artful apology, blaming it on his newness to this kind of male-female situation and which he swears—“I’m a quick learner”—will never be repeated, when she came out wearing a bathrobe tied tight at the waist. “As you can see, I’m almost dressed and would have been completely but I couldn’t find the mate to this”—pulling at the sock on his foot. “No, that’s not true; I just didn’t want to be entirely dressed and out of here by the time you came out, don’t ask me why,” and she said, “I see; it’s all right, take your time. And look, I want you to know — I don’t want you to think I was being a tease before. I meant to do what we were both heading for, but it was something you said, and the bad feelings I felt coming from you … a certain crossness—” and he said, “All right, all right, can it. Jesus!” and she said, “You don’t have to become insulting,” and he said, “How was I?” and she said, “Just now, in what you said: another example of what I meant about the bad feelings coming from you,” and he said, “I’m sorry, then. I’m feeling particularly lousy and frustrated about this evening — mortified too, in a way… morbid, even. I feel just terrible, to tell you the truth, but I’ll get over it, though the whole thing should have been avoided because it was stupid from the start,” and she said, “No, it wasn’t,” and he said, “No?” and she said, “I never would have asked you up or even wanted to see you a second time if I had thought it was,” and he said, “Well, you don’t feel any different about it now, do you? because I think I do,” and she said, “I’m sorry, no,” and he said, “Then it was stupid, and now even stupider than when I said it was. It’s got to be our vast age difference”—putting a shoe on — and she said, “You certainly do struggle with that theme, and so sedulously,” and he thought, Sedulously, what’s it mean? — oh, yes, and said, “Listen, I’m trying to be nice about this, polite, civil, because I feel so goddamn rotten about everything and I don’t want to feel even worse, but will you stop telling me about myself — will you just please stop?” and she said, “You’re angry again; I’m sorry,” and he said, “Angry? You’re sorry? Oh, I don’t know,” and had his other shoe tied now and said, “So long,” and left.

Saw her a week later. It was late afternoon and they were going opposite ways again on the same sidewalk and he said, “Hi,” and she smiled and said, “Hi, how are you?” and he said, “Fine, thanks, and you?” and she said, “I’m in a rush to something very important now so I really can’t stop, excuse me,” and he said, “Don’t worry, I understand,” and walked on. He turned around a few seconds later and looked at her hurrying up the hill. God, what a shape, and so goddamn beautiful! If only he had gone along with what she was saying that night, stopped talking or only spoke softly, not got angry or vulgar, touched her where and when she wanted to, pretended to have more dignity, just held back, let her make the moves, call the shots, the rest of it, because it should have been obvious that was what she wanted, something he only realized after he left her place, then it would have happened. She was a little scared, or wary, had reservations, that much he knew when he was there — meaning she had to; it would only be natural; you don’t want to just jump in with an old guy, no matter how forward and out front she was in the apartment, bar, movie theater, et cetera, but he didn’t deal with it intelligently. And again, with someone so young and lovely. Ah, you’ve gone over it plenty, too much already, so don’t start killing yourself some more over it. That it didn’t happen, wasn’t successful, but got so close: no clothes, their bodies pressed together, kissing, his hand on her ass … forget it, and you don’t ever want to try it again with someone her age, not, as he’s also told himself too many times, that he’ll ever have another chance. They really don’t want to be doing it with you, that’s what it comes down to. They think they have the body and face and youth and spirit and who knows what else — the time; they got just about everything, far as they’re concerned, and instant oblivion also — and can dictate the terms because of that, if they do, for whatever fluky reasons they have, want to go through with it, and that can take care of the scariness and wariness and so on. So what’s he saying? He’s saying nothing. Or he’s saying little. But he just should have shut up. But also done what he did in the theater, and that’s pull his hand away from hers — in other words, something like that — or is that what he did? No, he just didn’t, when she wanted him to, kiss, but anyway, done what she wanted but with some reservations and reluctance or wariness himself till he got her in a position where she couldn’t call things anymore, where he had her pinned or locked but was inside her and nothing was going to stop it till he was done, and after that told her to screw off with her demands if she made any from then on or made them excessively. Because just to have done it once with her. To be walking down this street, after having just stared after her from behind, and thinking, I laid that gorgeous girl, and then to be able to go over it all in his head. But he didn’t think of that then.

Saw her a few more times after that, and they waved or smiled at each other or both or said hi or hello and went on. Then he saw her when he was with his younger daughter. They were going the same way, she was at the corner waiting for the light to say WALK and he was a little behind her and got alongside her and said, “Hi,” and she said, “Oh, hi, hello”—and smiled—“how are things going?” and he said, “Couldn’t be better, and you?” and she said, “Same here, thanks. Well, I’ll see you,” when the light said WALK and she crossed the street, and he and his daughter crossed it a little more slowly. Then he yelled out, “Lorna, by the way …” and she turned around, and he said, “This is one of my daughters, Josephine,” and she waved and said, “Hi, Josephine, nice to meet you,” and continued on, and Josephine said, “Who’s that? One of your students?” and he said, “No, just someone I know from the block,” and she said, “I didn’t know you were so popular,” and he said, “I’m not.”