Baby proof

place. Ben is running with a girl. He is on a date. A late afternoon, summer date. A run-in-the-park- together date.

I think back to our first run together. It was after we had slept together. About a week later. Two tops. I know this for a fact. I have an excellent memory, especially when it comes to dates. And Ben.

I study this woman-this girl-he is with. She has long, thick, white-blond hair pulled back in a perfect, silken ponytail that swishes back and forth just right. It is the kind of hair that I coveted when I was much younger, believing that I could somehow train mine to look and behave the same way. The girl strides forward, once, twice, three times and is now beside him. Ben says something to her and then leans down and grabs the bottom of his shorts as if to catch his breath. I can see his profile. He stands, and I watch his chest rising and falling with the effort that comes from a hard finish. His shirt is damp across the chest. The girl stretches her left hamstring. She has long, thick legs, reminding me of a beach volleyball player, only without the tan. Her skin is as pale as her hair. Her face is long and angular. I wouldn't call her pretty, but she is attractive, and unfortunately for me, very memorable. I can't tell how old she is, but something about her expression and stance makes me think she's still in her twenties.

All of these observations transpire in a few seconds, but that is long enough for a stream of ice cream to melt down the side of the cone and trickle onto my hand and forearm. It is also long enough for the light to change and Ben and his date to come bounding toward me. And it is plenty long enough for me to realize that I am completely trapped. If I still had my key to the front door, I would duck into the building and hide behind the stairwell near the mailboxes. Gamble that Ben already picked up the mail. I cannot turn and walk in the other direction because Ben knows my back as well as he does my front. I will be tortured wondering whether he saw me and just chose to let me walk away. And my third option-aggressively approach them-is something I just can't make myself do. So I just stand there, my feet rooted to the concrete. I frantically try to clean myself up. By now another half-dozen drips of ice cream are trickling down the side of the cone, carrying sprinkles downstream with them. I am a total mess.

You dumbass, I think to myself, for coming here at all and, even more, for ordering a cone on a hot day. A cone with rainbow sprinkles. What am I, twelve? This is my last thought before Ben sees me. His expression is confused at first, as if I'm completely out of context standing in front of a place where I lived for years. Then he smiles tightly, obviously flustered over the impending introduction. His eyes are casting wildly from me to the girl. Me to the girl. She is still oblivious. She doesn't seem to notice me at all, looking right through me in the way you look right through so many people every day. Especially in a big city. She is in the middle of telling a story. Something about a stress fracture she got from running around the reservoir in the same direction, day after day. It was diagnosed right before last year's New York marathon. She had to pull out of the race. One of the saddest days of her life.

I can tell Ben wants to interrupt her, save everyone the extra layer of embarrassment that comes when a third party has a delayed understanding of the awkward thing transpiring. But short of telling her to shut up, he can't stop the story. She finishes by saying this: 'But that's one of my goals in life. To run a sub-three-and-a-half- hour marathon.'

I am angry that we have one of the same goals-but I was only aiming to finish a marathon. I wonder what her other goals in life are. And if they include Ben. Motherhood. I feel as though I'm going to throw up. Ben has a pained look on his face, too, and this helps a little, but not much.

'Hi, Claudia,' he says, looking up at me.

'Hi, Ben.'

'It's good to see you,' he says.

'Good to see you, too,' I say. 'How are you?'

'I'm fine,' he says. 'Just… went for a little run.'

I make direct eye contact with the girl, and wonder if Ben told her about me. Told her that, technically, I was his wife until last week.

'Oh, sorry, um, this is my friend Tucker Jansen,' Ben stammers. 'Tucker, this is Claudia Parr,' he says, pausing for one beat before using my maiden name.

I memorize her name as she flashes me a polite, friendly smile. Unfortunately, it reveals absolutely nothing. I still don't know if she knows who I am. I do notice, however, that she has very few lines around her eyes. She is definitely in her twenties. I'd put her no older than twenty-six. The name Tucker seems to corroborate my guess. Nobody born in the sixties and seventies has a name like Tucker. The surname craze didn't start until later. She is an eighties child. She was probably five when St. Elmo's Fire came out. Three when Flashdance hit theaters. It is entirely possible that she hasn't even seen those movies.

I swallow, descend the stairs, and shake her hand. 'Hi, Tucker. It's nice to meet you.' Luckily I am left- handed so my right hand is not the sticky one.

Tucker's grip is firm, but her skin is soft. Alarmingly soft. 'Nice to meet you, too,' she says.

We are all stuck at this point. What else can we say? If Tucker knows who I am, she can't say anything. And if she doesn't know who I am, she can't say anything. Ben really can't offer up, 'This is my ex-wife.' Or, 'This is my new girlfriend.' Or, 'You two actually have a lot in common. You've both had stress fractures! Only Claudia got hers from tripping on an escalator rather than training too hard. And she only ever aspired to finish a marathon.'

And I certainly can't say, 'So, Ben, do you think that I'm allowing fear to govern my life?'

So we all just stand there for a second, smiling unnaturally, until I say, 'Well, I was just in the neighborhood. Thought I'd say hello.'

'I'm glad you did,' Ben says.

'Yeah. But I have to get going now,' I say, glancing at my watch. I am still holding the half-eaten cone, which is beginning to drip from the tiny opening in the bottom. Note to self: the next time you stalk your ex-husband, go with a waffle cone.

Tucker says, 'Well, I better get going, too…'

This statement is a strong indication that she knows exactly who I am. She feels rude and awkward standing there with my ex-husband while I am forced to slink away. It is arguably a compassionate move on her part, but it makes me feel even more pathetic. Then again, maybe she really does have to get home. Maybe she has to shower and get ready for the dressed-up, nighttime portion of their date. Or maybe they are already showering together. She appears to be completely unself-conscious, the sort of girl who might hop in the shower with a new boyfriend, under bright lights.

I feel tempted to let Tucker go so I can stay and talk to Ben. But I feel too humiliated and decide it's better to walk away first. Show both of them that I am fine with whatever they have going on. I give Ben a small, formal smile and say good-bye. Then I shuffle away quickly. I hear Ben and Tucker exchange a few words and then she is behind me, saying my name. She so knows the deal.

She asks if I'm going to the subway. I detect a Chicago accent and think, Midwestern, wholesome.

I say yes, I am.

'Me, too,' she says.

Great. I am now stuck walking several blocks to the subway with her, maybe longer if we're going the same direction. Now I really think I might puke. I can actually feel the martinis and rainbow sprinkles in my throat as I ask, 'So how do you know Ben?'

'We met at a party.'

'Oh. That's nice,' I say, and then can't resist asking, 'When?'

'Memorial Day.'

'That's nice,' I say again, feeling somewhat relieved that we didn't overlap.

'Ben and I are just friends,' she offers clumsily.

'Oh.'

'Yeah.'

After a long silence, I say, 'Us, too. Although we used to be married.'