leaving?”
“Well . . .”
“Are you?”
Dave gathered himself. “I guess so.”
To maintain momentum, and to avoid further queries, he retrieved the rest of his shorts, and placed them in the suitcase.
“But why?”
“Lots of reasons.”
“Like what?”
“No need to bother with them.”
“Yes, there is. I mean, you’re making a big move. Don’t I deserve an explanation?”
“I suppose.” He paused.
Her eyes opened wide. “Well?”
“Well . . .” What should he say? To delineate specifics would sound petty. Better to act as though he were burdened by a pervasive, yet indefinable melancholy.
Instead, Melissa filled the silence. “If it’s about my being late . . .”
“That’s only part of it—”
“Because I’m sorry, but traffic was murder.”
“Of course it was.”
“And I came all the way from fifty-ninth street!”
Sensing that she was off-balance, Dave stood still and smoothed the small pile he had created.
Meanwhile she persisted. “If you want me to explain—”
“Don’t bother.”
“Then I‘m sorry, but I don’t understand what’s happening!”
For a moment Dave weighed the intonation of her voice, which seemed to have acquired the hint of a quiver. Seeking to maintain his advantage, he turned to her. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Not exactly.”
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting?”
“A while, I suppose.”
“And do you have any idea how often this happens?”
“More than it should?”
“Every week.”
“Then why don’t you come later?”
“Because every week you promise that you’ll be on time, and every week you leave me sitting like a fool.”
“What can I say? Things happen.”
“Couldn’t you at least call me?”
“You don’t carry a cell.”
Dave pointed to a living room end table. “I believe that’s a phone right there.”
“But I didn’t know you were here.”
“I told you I’d be here.”
“You might have been late.”
“Have I ever been late?”
“No.”
“Well?”
She twirled on one toe and extended her lower lip. “I don’t know. I just hate to see you angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“Then why are you leaving?”
Dave sighed with dramatic dejection. “I suppose the time has simply come.”
“Time for what?”
“Time for me to leave.”
As Melissa searched for words, Dave sensed that she was suffering one of her rare bouts of befuddlement. Finally she spoke. “Could I just tell you that—”
“Don’t, please.”
“Can’t I explain—”
“No excuses.”
“I just want to say that—”
“Hey!” Dave sliced the air with a horizontal chop. “Enough!” Then, to soften the blow, “It’s okay. Really.” He paused. “We’ll still see each other.”
He turned to the dresser and withdrew more underwear.
“Wow,” said Melissa. “I don’t know what to do.”
Dave walked back to the suitcase, and laid down his T-shirts. “You don’t have to do anything. We’ll be fine.”
She drew close to him, sipped sensually, then brought the glass to his lips. “You might feel better if we talked it out.”
Dave smiled. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“You won’t let me say anything?” said Melissa.
“You can say anything you like,” said Dave, repacking a t-shirt. Then he stopped and looked at her. “Although I’d like to hear one thing in particular.”
“Name it.”
“Who were you with?”
“Today?”
“Today.”
“I was trying on clothes.”
“Who were you with?”
“They had a sale.”
“Who was it?”
“And I lost track of time. Before I knew it—”
“Who was it?”
“Then traffic jammed up—”
“Who . . . was there?”
Melissa turned away. “No one.” She sipped. “Sort of.”
“WHO . . . was there?”
She turned to him. “All right. Mickey was there.”
“I knew it!” Then Dave strode to the dresser.
“But only to help pick things out.” Melissa followed him. “That’s his business. And he is not the reason I was late!”
“It’s
