She goes to an academic conference in San Diego, comes back and emails him. “Hurray, I’m home,” she says. “Too many writers at the conference, but it was still fun. I missed you. I didn’t think I would. I didn’t even think I’d think of you. But I did, a lot. Why didn’t you email me while I was away? I’ll be sitting at my computer the next three hours, grading papers I put aside to go to the conference, so take me out of this drudgery and write me soon as you can.” He reads her email ten minutes after she sent it and writes back “Why, did I promise to write you? I thought of it, then thought you’d be too busy, and I also didn’t think you’d want me to. But call me, please? When you have time. I want to hear with my ears those missed-you words directly from you. Or I’ll call you. Are you still there? Over and out.” She writes right back: “Let me call you. I started it. Shut off your computer and let’s just talk.” He shuts off his computer and stares at the phone, which is on the table the computer’s on. About three minutes later, she calls. “Hi,” she says. “Sorry for the delay. I had to find your number before I could call. So, I’ll repeat what you want me to say. Are you listening?” “I’m listening,” he says. “But you don’t have to repeat it. You might think that too silly and it’ll reflect badly on me.” “No, I want to. I missed you. I thought of you a lot. I didn’t think I would, but I did. I know I never showed it before — affection, I mean, other than a friendly affection. . does that phrase make sense?” “Yes.” “Is it a phrase?” “I think so,” he says. “Some writing teacher I am. But I now think the way I think you think and that’s that we have something going here. Do you still think that way, if I’m right about what you think?” “You’re absolutely right in every way you said,” he says. “So when could we next see each other?” “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” she says. “Claude’s got the kids for the weekend. You can pick me up or I’ll pick you up and we’ll do something. Movie. Dinner. Anything you want.” “I can’t wait,” he says. “Movie and dinner. Why not? Now you’ll want to get back to your papers.” “Yes, that’s very considerate of you to think that. We’ll talk tomorrow — by email or phone — to see what time.” “Tomorrow,” he says. “I really can’t wait, but will have to. Oh, I’m so happy now.” “I am too,” she says. “Happy that you’re happy and happy for me. It’s exciting. But now drudgery calls. I’m hanging up, okay?” “Okay. Me too.”
He can tell by her emails and how she acts and what she says when she’s with him that she isn’t interested in him the way he is with her. She’s funny, dry, conversational, doesn’t seem to want to be hugged or touched by him and only offers her cheek to be kissed. But he could never hide his feelings for very long with any woman he was interested in. He’s been a good boy, you can say, not letting anything slip out that might reveal how he feels about her. But he’s tired of just this friendship and wants more. Real kissing, lovemaking, exchanging endearments, that she’d only be seeing him, and so on. He’s not going to get any of it, so should he just tell her how he feels and make that the last time they see each other? Or should he not say anything and continue to meet her for lunch every other week or so as they’ve been doing? He’ll say something, get it out, say it all, in fact, and that this should be the last time they meet. “It’s been fun,” he’ll say, “but it’s become hard for me to see you when I feel this way and get nothing of the same thing back. Oh, saying hello when we first greet each other at the restaurant isn’t so bad. But near the end of the lunch, when I know it’s going to be over soon and I won’t see you for another two weeks, and definitely when we say goodbye and you head for your car, are very difficult for me to take.” That’s what he’ll say, or something very much like it. So they meet two days later. Another of their lunches. They talk about the books they’re reading, movie she saw, what her daughters are doing, her cat, the novel she just turned in to her literary agent, what they should order. “Want to split a sandwich and salad again?” she says. “Or just a side salad and each of us a cup or bowl of soup and the sandwich we’ll share.” The food comes. “Dig in,” she says. “My soup looks good,” he says. “Want to try it?” She says “You don’t have to ask me twice,” and he passes his soup to her, she takes a spoonful, says “Delicious.” “Have some more,” and she says “One dip’s enough. I have a whole bowl to devour. I’m afraid you won’t want to taste mine. The shrimp in it.” “Right,” he says. “I wouldn’t want to chance it. I’m a three-time loser.” “Wise move, then. Though I’ve never heard of a four-time loser.” “That’s good,” he says, “good. But look. I have to tell you something. And I hope what I say doesn’t disturb you, but I have to get it out.” “You didn’t like the story I gave you the last time.” “Damn,” he says, “I forgot to bring it with me. No, I liked it a lot. I’m surprised I didn’t already tell you. It’s a terrific story, and I’m not just saying so — probably the best of yours I’ve read. But it’s this — and I’ll mail you back the magazine first thing tomorrow.” “Save it for when we next meet,” she says. “There’s no hurry.” “Okay. We’ll see. But listen to me. I’ve never been one to hide my true feelings. Not that I haven’t tried, but I always fail. It’s just not me.” “What are you trying to say?” She puts her spoon down. She looks serious. “What I’m saying is I’m glad the feelings I have came. I haven’t felt this way since Abby died. And it feels good, but also disappointing, because nothing can come of it.” “What?” she says. “You must know by now. This will have to be the last time we meet.” “I must know that this will have to be the last time we meet? Why? I like our meetings. I look forward to them.” “I’m saying because of my feelings for you.” “You mean they’re more than just friendly? If so, I’m glad. Because if you’re about to say you have strong feelings for me in an amorous way, shall I say, and I know this is no joking matter so I’ll try to keep the jokes at bay, and also the rhymes. But I have, and I was afraid it might backfire on me so I never expressed it, similar feelings for you. Now, is that what you were going to say? If so, I’m glad. I’m repeating myself, but I am. The big question is why you would have these feelings for me.” “Don’t be silly,” he says. “Sorry. I meant that in a nice way. I could ask the same of you, but sure, I can say. You’re beautiful, wonderful, smart, kind, a terrific writer, funny, joyful — all those words. Did I say ‘smart’? I did. Exuberant too. More. You make me happy. I think of you almost constantly. I see you in my head most of the time I’m not with you. I feel you’re perfect for me. The other way around, I don’t know. I want to be with you always, and other things. What about you?” “Well,” she says, “I wouldn’t go as far as all that with you, but much of it is the same. Do you mind if I take your hand? Hold it, I mean?” He puts his hands on the table and she takes both and kisses one. “Oh, dear,” he says, and starts crying. “God, you’re such a softie,” she says. “Another thing I like about you.” “My age doesn’t bother you?” “Are you kidding? No more than my age bothers me. Now,” she says, putting his hands back on the table, “we should get back to our food. Then we should pay up and leave an extra generous tip — this time you have to let it be my treat entirely. It’s not fair, you paying all the time,” and he says “This time you get whatever you want.” “And then we should go to one of our cars — where did you park?” “In the parking area right out front. Got a good spot.” “Then we’ll get in my car, since I’m in the enclosed parking area upstairs and it’s more private, and seal this with a few big kisses and an enormous hug.” “I can’t wait,” he says. “Neither can I,” and she picks up her spoon, he hasn’t started yet on his soup, and eats. “I don’t think I can eat anything now,” he says. She says “Nothing’s going to stop me. You know me by now. Always hungry.”