He forgets exactly what he said to make her continue listening and not call the police, if she was really going to. Days later she said she didn’t have the phone in her hand then but was thinking of going to the living room to call. He knows he said he wanted to give her a quick rundown of who he was and what he did and where he lived and so on, just so she’d have some idea of him and know or at least think there was a greater chance of it that he was rational and respectable and no criminal or kook. That way maybe she’d look differently on him. And maybe, though without opening her door if that was the way she wanted it, and preposterous as this outcome probably was, give him her name and phone number so he could call her some later time. And “later time” not meaning tonight but in a few days to a week or as far off as she wanted, but he would hope relatively soon. Or if she preferred to call him, he could give her his name and phone number. Certainly his name. He gave it. Waited for her to give hers. She didn’t. He could even give her the names and phone numbers of people he knew whom she might know and she could call them about him. Would she prefer that? If she did, he’d wait till she got paper and pen or he could even write the names and numbers out for her or slip a paper and pen under the door so she could write them down. She didn’t answer. Really, he said: intelligent, decent people. Educators, writers, a translator, a magazine editor; even a publisher of a small trade house here in New York. He listened. She didn’t ask who they were or if that was what he did: write, possibly teach. He was going too far, wasn’t he? he said. But, quite truthfully, though he also knew he wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know, he was attracted to her and didn’t want this to be a lost opportunity where he’d never see her again. Which was why, of course, he was making such a terrible fool of himself and putting her through all this and risking being grabbed by the super or the police. And don’t worry, he said. None of her neighbors had opened their doors to look, nor had he heard any of them come to their doors or open their peepholes. They must all be out. She didn’t say anything. Or just very circumspect, or apathetic, inattentive, uninquisitive, reclusive to a fault or for any number of reasons didn’t want to involve themselves in possible trouble. Tenants were tenants whatever New York City building you were in. Would she agree with any of that? Then what did she think about anything he’d said so far? Still no response. He asked if she was still there. Yes, she said, from right behind the door. And if she had called the super or the police? No. Then could he also tell her, and then he’d go, how he usually felt at parties when he went alone and essentially didn’t know anyone there: uncomfortable, a party imposter, which was another reason he’d asked her to come with him. That had nothing to do with her, she said. He could go, he didn’t have to go, all that was his business solely. He knew, he knew, he said, but was just saying, maybe for lack of anything else to say. No, that wasn’t so. He also told her what the bride was to him. That they had once been very good friends, mates for a while, and he wasn’t saying this to do anything but state a fact, though why he felt he had to state that fact was perhaps another matter and one he should look into…. But the bride and he didn’t work out, and also why she’d invited him. It was a strange story. He started laughing. He didn’t know if he could tell it through a door or keep it to thirty seconds, for that was how long she said she’d give him before she probably would call the super. He told it in a minute. One minute-ten to be exact, he said, looking at his watch before and after. She thought the story bizarre and funny. The part about the gun especially. Did he think her husband was serious? Just a big windbag, he said, or seemed. If she were he she wouldn’t go to the reception. He really shouldn’t have been invited, for it’ll probably make the groom uncomfortable seeing him there. He believed another ex-lover of hers would be there too, he said; the one who’d come in to the bar with her for the daiquiris. Even worse, she said. Something was slightly off about this woman. But he was right not to have gone to the wedding ceremony, though she didn’t know if he hadn’t gone for what she’d consider the right reason. But now to think about taking someone to the reception whom he’d just met in an elevator in the same building the reception was? It’d seem his motives were questionable now and that he wanted to take her to make it an even better story to tell or to get back at the bride some way. No, positively not, he said. He wanted to take her for the reasons he gave before, which he was sure she didn’t want to hear again: his unease at going alone, but much more so because he was attracted to her, that lost opportunity he mentioned, and thought if she came with him it’d be a pleasant enough place to get to know her a little and perhaps other way around for her too. Festive atmosphere, lots of convivial people, familiar building, two elevator rides and a short lobby walk to her own apartment, if it were cold out he’d say she wouldn’t even have to put on a sweater, etcetera. But if she wanted he could skip the reception and they could go out for coffee or any kind of snack, all on him, not that he didn’t think she could pay for it. But better yet why didn’t she just come to the reception for half an hour? She didn’t say anything. Even less time than that if she wanted. That way he could fulfill his obligation to go to the reception, since he had told the bride he’d be there and that seemed to mean something to her. And he supposed they could get coffee there as well as at any coffee shop and certainly far better snacks, maybe a glass of champagne if she wanted, and they could talk for part or most of that time, and that would be that unless she wanted to stay longer. If she didn’t, then he could stay and she could go home, or they could take a long or short walk after that half an hour to less, and then she could go home and he’d return to the party or just go home himself. Probably that. But what does she say? She didn’t know, she said. He was a most convincing arguer or fabricator. Not so, he said. He was usually inarticulate, garble-mouthed, preternaturally slow to think of the right things to say to win any argument or just thought of them too late. There was an expression for that in Yiddish, another in French, perhaps most languages — what you thought after the door had been slammed on you and you walked downstairs. Steps-in-mouth. Tongue-unfurled-only-on-the-dark-stairs. For arguing, convincing, more than simple conversing, even explaining, just weren’t for him, except now and then, like maybe now. And as for lying? She’d said fabricating and she was sorry she’d said it, she said. No no, he said. He didn’t, why would he? since in addition to other reasons, probably the most flagrant was that he was such a poor speaker he’d be seen through too easily. Though with the door shut it was true he might be more adept at it, since the person being lied to wouldn’t see his giveaway face. No, what he did do well was run on unintelligibly about relatively nothing and make it seem no more than that. But really, what does she say? She still didn’t know, she said. He swore there’d be no problems. Not on his knees, for he had his only good dress pants on and he was going to a party — No, no more bad jokes, for the time being. And ten minutes at the most?