which I didn’t get today, and because I thought I might be late. I hate hanging people up, and I see I’m not,” looking at the wall clock. “Hope you didn’t shake up the wine and cake too much.” Oh God, how could he run with the wine and cake? “No, I held them both to me, cake straight,” and demonstrates. “Anyway, hi and hello,” putting out his hand. She shakes it and puts out her cheek. “This is fun,” she says, “five minutes of greetings.” Where’s the couple? Hears them in the kitchen. They must have planned, or she said “Let me get it,” so she planned, but why the plans if it wasn’t that they were busy and she was just helping them out by answering the door? But why wouldn’t they be out here by now? Maybe a good sign. No older, hair up and even blonder, as beautiful, body seemingly unchanged. She says “We’re having champagne — I’m not but they are and I hope you will too — to celebrate a belated happy new year. I was supposed to go to a party with the Lipsatz’s but never made it. The flu.” “You OK now?” “Of course, it was weeks ago.” “Sometimes they linger on,” knowing he’s showing too much concern. How to undo that? Thinks; can’t. Just says “You’re right.” Lipsatzes come out with hors d’oeuvres and the champagne and tray of champagne glasses, one filled with club soda and ice. “Happy New Year,” Janine says, holding her glass up and they all say Happy New Year and he intentionally starts the kissing by kissing Naomi’s cheek first, then goes over to her and she puts her lips out and he gives what he thinks she expects, a peck, then kisses Mel’s cheek and right after he does realizes Mel just wanted to hug. “It’s really wonderful being here,” he says — they’re still in the foyer, he hasn’t taken off his coat yet—“old friends, really,” and thinks, taking off his coat, switching the glass from hand to hand instead of putting it down on a sideboard which seems new or highly polished and he doesn’t want to stain, if he could only say something funny, true, untrite. He’s still nervous, pulsing in spots; relax, try to avoid eye contact with her for most of the evening and see how she reacts. Much better at dinner: words there when and where he wants them and often big ones but where it’s not obvious they’re said to impress. “What’s ‘extrapolation’ again?” she says at the table. Lipsatzes in the kitchen cleaning up, though the plates and utensils were throwaway paper and plastic and there was no salad or bread and the entire dinner came out of one pot. There to leave them alone? If so, only planned on their part. “Why,” though he knows, “in something you read?” “You used it, don’t you remember? When you were saying President Kennedy’s a charming lightweight compared to Mike Mansfield who you said is the one senator there qualified to run the country.” “Sure, in decency, dignity, speaking ability, modesty, intelligence, world experience and things like that. His face is pockmarked and he comes from little Montana, so maybe that’s what killed it. But Jesus, I totally forgot using the word. Just came and went. At least you know I didn’t say it to impress you. I won’t even try defining it I’m so bad at that,” and then gives one straight from the dictionary, as he’d looked it up last night for about the fifth time in a year. She says “Talking about impressions. I’m impressed the way you’ve changed in almost every aspect. It must be your work, people depending on you and all the interesting types you met, living away from home and in your own apartment, holding down a demanding position and what any two years would do to someone our still impressionable age.” “I don’t know. To me I’m just the same old schmo, but thanks.” “Oh come off it.” They leave together. Said at the table to her “I’ve got to go — work tomorrow — but you stay.” She said no, the Lipsatzes have to get up for work too. In the elevator she says “I’ll get the number 10 bus downtown.” “Take a cab. It’s late and your neighborhood I’m sure isn’t the safest.” “Money money money,” she says, “but I’ll be all right.” “Here,” and he fishes out a five. “I’m working and I don’t want you going home except by cab.” “Always so protective,” she says. “I’d do it for almost anyone, honestly.” Opens the cab door for her, tells himself not to attempt even an innocent kiss goodbye, says “May I call you?” “I hope so, if just so I can give you your five dollars back.” “Precious cargo,” he says to the driver, who nods, doesn’t turn around, and thinks another trite familiar remark; when she’s driving home she’ll think I’m even a worse schmuck than I was. She waves through the back window as the cab pulls away; he gives a brief wave and then pretends to be fingering his coat and pants pockets for something, eyes where his hands are, anxious look. Before the cab left she said “Want to be dropped off on the way?” and he said he’d rather jog home—“exercise again”—but walks, interpreting all the signs he could remember and what she said, punching his palm several times, not believing his luck. Phones, they meet, kiss the first night, meet, doesn’t want to sleep with him till she feels they’re ready, he tells himself don’t push it, ruin it, she’s not saying she doesn’t want to be with him. Takes a week. Night of the biggest snowfall in years. Maybe it contributed to it in different ways. They’re walking home from a movie in the Village. Nonessential cars, radio says the next day, weren’t allowed into the city. Several horses with sleighs down lower Fifth. Cross-country skiers, no traffic noises, so voices from blocks away. “Hiya, neighbor,” a stranger says. Throws snowballs at lampposts, lobs one at her and she quickly turns around and it smacks her back. “You-u-u,” and comes at him with a handful of snow as if she’s going to mash it into his face, drops it when she gets close and either he hugs her and she falls into his arms or she falls into his arms and then he hugs her, and they laugh, brush the snow away from the other’s neck, nip at each other’s lips and then kiss. “I’m going to get even with you one day for that snowball, mister,” she says when they separate, and he gets down on one knee and says “No, please, have pity, don’t,” and makes a snowball down there and threatens to throw it at her and she screams and runs off. Arms around each other’s waists rest of the way, kissing, saying things like “I’m gonna say it: I love you, always have, always will”; “I love you too, sweetie”; “You do? You mean romantically? Then I love you too-too.” “Too-too what?” “Too-too much which isn’t enough.” “Never too-too much, never enough; by George, what do I mean?” “Never ever have I loved you more, never have I loved anyone more or as much. Seriously, I’m being serious, though I bet you don’t want to hear it.” “You’re a darling and a dearie,” she says, “and I mean it.” “I’m gonna say this is the happiest night of my sappy life; day or night, happiest sappiest anytime, day, dusk, dawn or night.” “It isn’t mine but it’s one of and that’s sufficient, isn’t it, or not?” “It doesn’t always have to be equal so long as it’s close.” “It is; it’s going along perfectly; we’ve lots more time.” Apartment’s warm, radiators knocking, windows steamed up, doesn’t want to push, ruin it, though now isn’t sure he could, still, she’s a changeable sort, gets down to his jockey shorts as he does whenever he sleeps over — fresh pair every day; they’re white, doesn’t want her turned off by stains — kisses her goodnight, “So good night then, my dear, sleep well, pleasant tights,” saluting her, bowing, shaking her hand, then the other, wants her — knows he’s going too far — to pick up on the irony of their passionate kissing on the street and now going to separate beds, heads for the couch hoping she’ll call him back if just for another kiss, when he gets there wonders if he shouldn’t have tried necking with her just now, massaging her back, maybe curling his arm around to brush her breast, “Excuse me,” somehow maneuvering her hand to his fly. No, but at least to have said “You know I’d love sleeping with you — perfect night, the snow, hissing radiators, rising risers, chained tires clanging outside, besides what I’ve said is the deepest besides the ruttiest kind of love I’ve ever had for anyone including you. But I can understand why you’re not tempted — no, that’s not the right word — so I’m not going to push it, ruin it. We’ve time as you say, right, so who’s complaining? — not I,” and then, as he did, to walk to the couch without looking back. She says, when he’s making the couch up, pretending not to notice her going back and forth from bathroom to bedroom, trying to push his penis back between his thighs because it’s sticking straight out, “Listen,” in a short nightie, nipples and pubes seen through, “why don’t you sleep with me tonight, if you promise to take off those godawful shorts.” “You want me to wear boxer shorts instead of briefs?” “Anything. Nothing, under your pants, if I had the choice between those and no underclothes.” Engaged in a couple of months. Proposes in her building’s basement while they’re taking clothes out of the washer and sorting them and putting most into the dryer. “I know this is the wrong place but would you, if I asked, marry me?” and she says “Why, what other place would be more memorable to be asked that except maybe the toilet? and I’d love to.” “Let me get it straight — for the record as we reporters like to say — I never did but I heard about it — you’d love to marry me?” “Yes, I would.” “You will marry me then?” “Yes, I’ve said it.” “We can tell people, we can start planning for it? I can start considering your apartment my home?” “We might want to get a larger one, but for the time being, sure, it’s ours. As for telling people, let’s digest it for now and, to mix it up a bit, sit on it for about two weeks, but don’t you worry, I won’t change my mind.” Their folks meet at a restaurant and her father says “I can see who he resembles,” looking at his mother, and she says “Oh, Simon was very handsome when he was Howard’s age — all the women went for him and I felt fortunate he chose me. But he got plump and now you can’t see the likeness except in the strong chin, but I’d say he resembles him.” “Don’t ruin it for the boy,” his father says. “I was a born eater while he’s mostly hated food and has stayed thin. But you’re the bathing beauty — you know she was Miss New York, or was it Rockaway, before I met her and she danced in the Scandals? — so let them think he got his good looks and sleek physique from you.” “With Ziegfeld. And I would have won the Miss America too if they had talent then as part of the competition. But it was all rear ends and no brains and they chose some Pennsylvania Slovak who everyone said slept with the two main judges when they couldn’t get me.” “You never told me about the hanky-panky,” Howard says. Starts reading the daily Christian Science exercises from