© 2005 - 2008 Per Contra: The International Journal of the Arts, Literature and Ideas.
“Sure you
don’t want someone to accompany you?” he said, and she stopped and
turned around. “I absolutely don’t mind going out of my way. It’s
not that cold and I like to walk and I’ve nothing to do now but go
home. Oh, that must sound ridiculously pathetic. Or pathetically
ridiculous. Neither is what I intended it to be. It’s just that
it’s still so early.” “Go back to the party, then,” and he said
“No, I’ve already said goodbye to Pati. It’d seem too peculiar,
coming back, ringing up to be let in, putting my coat on the bed
again, etcetera. I’m happy to go home. I’ve plenty to do.” She
nodded and resumed walking and he headed for the subway station on
Canal Street. He looked back a short time later and she was gone.
He remembers thinking she walks fast and disappeared as quickly as
she did at the party. He hoped she wasn’t hurrying to meet up with
a boyfriend. Weekend night; it makes sense. But if she was, why
would she agree to meet him? Maybe to get rid of him and when he
calls she’ll say she changed her mind and doesn’t think it necessary
to give a reason why. Or the reason is that she’s seeing someone or
she’s too busy with her work to meet anybody now, even for coffee.
Or she might have agreed to meet him because she likes to take a
break herself and the boyfriend she can always see in the evening.
It’s all innocent, in other words, he thought, walking to the subway
station, tantamount to nothing. She has no plans whatsoever in
getting to know him better than as someone to meet once, and if she
finds him interesting enough, maybe meet for coffee a second time,
but just for talk. But he was so inarticulate and clownish with
her, what could she have thought they could talk about? Her author,
for one thing, but she must know ten times as much about him than he
does. He should have asked if she was presently seeing someone, he
thought. Well, he sort of did, she skipped around it, and anything
more on his part would have been prying. Later—a couple of months
or so—he was thinking about the first time they met and said to her
“If you were seeing some other guy, when we first met, would you
have agreed to meet me for coffee or even told me how to get your
phone number?” “I doubt it,” she said. “I knew you were interested
in me and I wouldn’t have wanted to lead you on. Of course, it all
would have depended on how serious a relationship I was in.” “As
serious as the one you’re in now?” and she said “Then, no.”
“Semiserious?” and she said “Maybe. Or maybe it would have had to
be several notches below ‘semi.’ A relationship that wasn’t going
anywhere or I was coming out of, with no chance of going back.”
“Can I ask why you did agree to meet me?” and she said “The usual
reasons. I wasn’t seeing anyone, hadn’t in a while, and I found you
attractive and pleasant and smart—” “Smart? You thought I was
smart? I acted like a complete putz.” “No, you didn’t. Let’s just
say I saw past what you called that night your bumblingness.” “I
didn’t say it that way exactly, but you were close. I’m surprised
you remembered even that much of it.” “I also liked your nervous
approach. You weren’t cocky or presumptuous or anything like
that. But another thing that interested me was that you were a
writer.” “Writers turn you on, eh?” and she said “No. But writing
about them and their work is a lot of what I do. So I think I was
interested in talking to you about your work and how you go about
doing it and what keeps you at it, and so on. I didn’t at the time
have much of an opportunity to speak to a live writer.” “I’m
sorry,” he said, “that was a stupid thing for me to say.” “It
wasn’t one of your brightest remarks,” she said, “especially because
you knew the answer.” “Okay, I won’t make that mistake again, or
I’ll try not to.”
How They Met by Stephen Dixon
