inescapable truth was that no matter how much she claimed to bask in Dave’s presence, she basked with comparable joy in the presence of at least several others.
How well can we know anyone? “Ah, sweet mystery of life,” as Nelson Eddy had sung to Jeannette McDonald.
The ultimate frustration was that Melissa seemed oblivious to his agitation. Perhaps she knew that she could always allay his doubts, that all she need offer was a hug and a kiss, and his anxiety would dissipate.
During January, they shared their first extended vacation, this to St. Maarten, where along a deserted beach they sunned, swam, and strolled. Romantic fluff, to be sure, but memorable romantic fluff.
The highlight of the holiday was a riotous afternoon when Melissa urged him to try snorkeling in the pure waters off the island. Unfortunately he became so tangled in his tanks and tubes that she had fallen over laughing, while Dave, too, could not help guffawing. At that moment of semi-awareness, he recognized that he would never meet anyone whose spirit of fun was so irresistible.
More than ever, he wanted to marry her.
“Ever think about taking a larger apartment?” he asked.
“When I can afford it.”
“The two of us could afford it right now.”
“Aren’t you comfortable?”
“Well . . .”
“Because I certainly am.”
“But if we pooled our incomes . . . ?”
“Yes?”
“And took a lease together . . .”
“Yes?”
“That is, if we signed up as a team—”
“It sounds great, but why bother?”
If she understood his implication, she never indicated as much. Indeed, even after one more extended trip over spring break, and two additional weekend excursions, none of his hints moved her.
Thus during final exams he had evaluated his life, and at that moment he had acknowledged that he was nearly forty, professionally secure, and ready to settle down. The next step occurred during Memorial Day weekend, as they dawdled over a lobster dinner on the tip of Cape Cod, when he broached the subject brazenly.
“Where do you figure we’ll be in five years?” he asked.
“Who knows?” she sighed. “Happy, I hope.”
“Do you ever plan more specifically?”
“Not really. Do you?”
“All the time.”
“Really?”
“Really. I even think about marriage. Do you?”
“Not if I can help it.”
For the rest of the weekend and through the next month, she resisted all speculation about making their arrangement full-time and permanent.
Today, however, he was determined.
Amidst the heavy heat of a Manhattan summer, he was ready to state his case. Unfortunately, as if to drive him over the edge, she was late once more, and as usual he was left to wonder whose company she was sharing. Was it Brendan, the real estate honcho? Or Marcel, the record promoter? Perhaps Tad, the tennis pro. Even more annoying, despite the air conditioning inside her apartment, hot blasts from outside seemed to envelope him, and under his sports shirt, sweat dripped down his arms.
The time was 4:40. She had promised to be home by one.
As Dave’s impatience grew, so did his resolve. He decided that as soon as she entered, even before dinner, he would present an ultimatum to the effect that he loved her, that they were meant to be together, and that further delay was unacceptable.
Yet how could he express these sentiments without resorting to repellent melodrama? How could he communicate that marriage would not crush her spirit but elevate it; that her flitting about with Lou or Jack or Biff (she actually knew someone named “Biff”) would eventually leave her not euphoric, but empty?
He had no idea.
At four-forty-seven, he was about to turn on the television to check the stock report, when he heard the elevator door, then the familiar click of her heels before they touched the corridor carpet.
At that sound, he was seized by an impulse, and without regard for consequences, he yielded to it.
He scurried to the bedroom closet, removed his suitcase, brought it to the dining room table, and laid it open. Then he approached the dresser drawer that held some of his apparel.
He heard the front door unlock.
He did not look up, but selected a pair of shorts that he carried to the suitcase.
“Hiya!” came her familiar lilt.
“Hello.”
From the corner of his eye he noted that she carried packages of clothing that she dropped on a living room table. He also observed that she wore the stunning combination of a short skirt, a tank top, and heels.
“Can you get the key from the door?” she asked.
“Of course.”
He walked to her, kissed her (and felt the customary tang of her response), withdrew the key, closed the door, lay the key next to her with an ostentatious “pling,” and returned to the dresser.
“This city was a madhouse!” she said.
“Was it?”
She kicked off her shoes, and began to open the boxes.
Dave’s instinct was to help, but instead he selected another pair of shorts that he folded inside the suitcase.
“Maybe it was the heat,” she continued. “But everybody was rushing and shoving. Bring me a glass of water, will you?”
“Right away.”
He paced nonchalantly to the refrigerator, poured a tall glass of Evian, and took it to her.
“Thanks.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Fighting the urge to embrace her, Dave returned to the suitcase and refolded his shorts.
“Hmmm! I needed that!” She exhaled and lay back against the couch until at last she noticed his activity. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
She sat up. “Yes, you are. You’re packing.”
Dave looked down. “Apparently I am.”
“What
