He calls her and says “Lunch still good with you?” and she says “Sure, I’d love to.” They meet at the restaurant where he last saw her — she says it’s the closest one to the school she’ll have to pick up her older daughter at after lunch — and they talk about a lot of things: books they’re reading, what she’s teaching, tires she’s ruined because of the many times she’s driven over curbs, and so on. They laugh so hard at times he feels their laughter might be annoying other diners it’s so loud. She’s as wonderful as he remembers her — that’s what he thinks about while she’s talking at length about something and he’s listening. Smart, clever, funny. Beautiful, he thinks. He knows he always thought her attractive but he doesn’t remember ever thinking she was beautiful. Could it be it’s something in him that’s changed? That just being so much younger than he is being beautiful? Something like that. And with her relatively young age and natural good looks — well, the two could add up to beauty to him. Who knows? He’s all confused. The truth is, just being with her makes him confused. Or maybe he’s on to something. When they start talking about serious things — or when he does and she’s just listening — she looks too serious, staring straight at him, hand cupping her chin, that sort of pose as if she doesn’t know how to be serious so can only pretend to look it. Is anything wrong with that? He doesn’t think so, or not much. She doesn’t like to be serious. Or she has enough serious things going on in her life — that could be it and probably is. Divorce, money problems, a car that’s falling apart — she brought it in to get it fixed this morning and had to leave it there and borrow a loaner — and she doesn’t know if she has enough money to cover it. She’ll go to her husband. He got the better car. And just dealing with her husband. And teaching and writing and worried about not getting tenure and nobody to help her the days she has her daughters. Lots of juggling. So what’s he saying? He’s not sure. No, he doesn’t know. Got a little mixed up there again. Maybe she just likes things to be light and funny and unserious and gets depressed when they’re not. Especially, he’s saying, when she’s taking a break from all the other things in her life, some of them troubling, and having what she hoped would be a casual pleasant lunch in a restaurant. But he doesn’t know her, at least not since she was his grad student and advisee and a little after when she used to pop into his office with one of her infant daughters for a chat, so what’s he making all these assumptions for? The check comes. “On me,” he says. She says “Then next time it’s on me.” “Next time. . you like movies, right?” “Love them.” “So next time maybe we should go to a movie — a matinee. The Charles or the Senator or a theater like that. A weekend day if you can manage it.” “I’d like to,” she says, “if you let me buy the tickets.” “We’ll see.” “Stop that,” she says. “You’re not being fair. You have to let me buy them. And I’m ordering your book online this week. I’ve been too busy with other things to do it before.” “Don’t order it,” he says. “It’s a hardcover and expensive and not worth it. Let me give you my pristine copy. If I need another pristine copy I can buy it at the Ivy.” “Not a chance,” she says. “Consider it done.” “All right. I give in,” he says. He walks her to her car. “This was fun,” she says. “And I know I got lucky. Whitney told me you never accept invites to dinner or lunch.” “Well, you see how true that is. And I invited you, didn’t I? And I wouldn’t call you lucky. Lunching with me, I mean.” “Nonsense.” Don’t say it, he thinks, but that’s usually what Abby said when he said things like that about himself. They kiss each other on the cheek goodbye. He gets an email from her later that day. She must have got his address from Whitney or someone because he doesn’t remember giving it to her. “Hi! Thank you for lunch. The sandwich was delicious, the soup divine, the double espresso exactly what I needed to get thoroughly started today, and the cortavo (little C or big?), if that’s what it’s called and you introduced me to, the perfect end-of-lunch coffee to top it off. As I demonstrated, I love food and I felt great after. We’ll talk. Ruth.” He thinks: Should he reply right away? He wants to, but give it more time. Don’t want to seem too eager: remember? Ah, just do it. No harm if he’s careful what he says. “Dear Ruth: No thanks needed, but thanks. I like their food too. But because I know what a mess I can make, I’m never going to order a salad with so many little parts to it. From now on, just solid pieces of food I can eat with a knife and fork. Soup I never have in a restaurant unless I’m alone and facing a wall or only with my daughters. I do everything wrong other than eating it with a fork or lifting the bowl to my mouth and drinking from it. I like the restaurant you chose but have lunched there so much or at one of its branches, that I think I know the menu by heart and have had almost everything on it at least twice. For a change, if we ever do have lunch out again, let me treat us to Petit Louis Bistro. Been there only once for lunch, and the food was good, the setting pleasant, I loved the afternoon light that came through the windows, and because the place is French and the service is so attentive and refined, I’m sure my latent good table manners will kick in and be unimpeachable. Maybe we could even do it the same day we take in a movie, though you’d probably be too busy with other things to spare so much time. Lunch-movie. They go together and in that order, I’d say. Anyway. . best, Phil.” Did he write too much? And should he read it over a couple of times and change and fix what needs changing and fixing and wait a day or two before he sends it? He reads it. It’s harmless, really only there to make her laugh, nothing in it to make him seem eager to see her or that he has anything but friendly feelings toward her, so send it, and he does. After, he thinks: Did he just now make a big mistake? Stop it. You’re killing yourself. It’s all right what you wrote and all right that you wrote. She emails him the next day. “Hi! Only opened my inbox a minute ago and read your email very quickly and can’t reply this moment. Gotta run. Busy busy busy. More later. xx, Ruth.” She’s still writing him, not taking days to do it and those x’s. Kid stuff. Don’t make more of it than’s there. The rest, all good signs.