“Sounds great,” I said, not remembering how many yard lines there were.
On the drive to the game, I learned that Tim had never been married. I hadn’t thought to ask him the night before, assuming a man past age forty must have gone through at least one divorce. Now I admonished myself for my negative attitude.
“Never met the right woman,” he explained, speeding up and changing lanes. “I was engaged twice to the same lady. Once I got cold feet, and once she did. We’re still good friends, keep in touch.” He eased up on the pedal and glanced at me. “But I’m getting to the ripe old age where a man feels like settling down. Being single isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“I know what you mean.” I looked out the side window. Below the freeway lay Union Bay and Henry’s studio. As I watched a seaplane lug into the sky, I couldn’t help wondering if he stood down there painting.
The football game was exciting, and the volume in the stadium deafening. Sitting only a few rows above the players, right in the thick of the action, I found myself yelling and screaming with the other sixty thousand fans, and surprised myself with my own enthusiasm. Later, as we walked back to his car, Tim took my hand. His seemed rather small and even smoother than mine. But he was a banker, not a construction worker, I reminded myself. White collar.
We stopped at a sports bar alive with music and the chatter of jubilant fans. Since I’d nearly lost my voice from cheering, I mostly listened to Tim’s stories, all the while wearing a most interested expression on my face. By the time he’d sucked in his last fettuccini noodle, sipped the few remaining drops of his imported beer, and paid the bill, I was tired and ready to go home.
When we reached my front doorstep, I could hear Charlie yapping inside and pawing at the door.
“Can you stand my horrible little dog again?” I asked. “He’s usually a good boy.”
“No problem, I like dogs.”
I led Tim into the living room. We sat on the couch and talked about the great defensive plays that saved the game, then discussed whether the Seahawks held a chance at the Super Bowl. Charlie insisted on lying at our feet, but when Tim tried to give his head a stroke, the dog leaned out of reach and glared, ears tipped back.
I asked about Tim’s work at the bank and learned he handled some very prestigious accounts. His voice swelled with pride as he described his job and his lavish office with its roll-top desk and stunning view of Puget Sound.
“I can watch the ferry boats and freighters,” he said. “Come by someday. We can have lunch.”
I imagined his introducing me to his secretary and coworkers and was flattered. “Sure, I’d enjoy that,” I said.
As we stood at my front door saying good-bye, Tim took me in his arms and kissed me. It was a metallic kiss, firm and cool, as he pushed his hard lips against mine. Suffice to say, I felt a surge of disappointment.
After we parted, he said, “Good night. I’ll definitely be calling you.”
Raindrops hit the windshield like bullets of gravel, and oncoming headlights glaring off the slick streets made me squint. My gut told me I should have stayed home, but Laurie had insisted it was my turn to drive to class.
Minutes later, I inched my car into the underground parking garage at the university.
“Tell me, what’s going on with you and this golfer guy?” I asked Laurie, my crabby mood urging me to confront her.
“Nothing for you to worry about.” Her voice sounded as creamy as ever, yet I detected a false edge.
I imagined her in the arms of some creep. He’d have to be a jerk to pursue a married woman. “Do you still run into him on Wednesdays? Or has it gone beyond that?”
“I’ve got the situation under control,” she said in staccato. “Case closed.” She wrenched open her wallet and handed me a five-dollar bill. “I’ll pay for parking tonight. Anything to put you in a better mood.”
I took the money and handed it to the attendant, then found an empty stall. As I turned off the engine, Laurie jumped out of the car and shut the door harder than necessary. With her notebook under her arm, she forged ahead to the elevator. I caught up with her as the elevator doors slid open. We got in, standing in opposite corners. As we surfaced to ground level, I leaned against the back wall and stared at her distorted reflection in the metal door.
When we reached the gallery’s ticket booth, I spotted several students from class. Laurie paraded over to them, waving hello. A moment later I noticed Henry and Emily entering the lobby together. While Henry spoke to the woman selling tickets, Emily glided over to me.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. She wore a melon orange silk jacket with a mandarin neck and violet dragons embroidered on the front. Silvery curls of hair, no doubt loosed by the wind, danced above her eyes. She slipped her arm through mine, and we followed Henry, who was leading the group down the carpeted corridor toward the first room.
“Seldom Seen Drawings and Prints by the Masters,” Emily read aloud as we paused at the exhibition’s sign. She gave my arm a little squeeze against her side, then let it drop. We wandered to the center of the room and stood in silence.
My heart sang with unexpected delight. Each work, elaborately matted and framed, was a tiny masterpiece. When my gaze happened on a Leonardo da Vinci sketch, the highlight of the show, I drank in its beauty, tracing the lyrical lines with my eyes. All sounds of voices and footsteps became muted as I tried to memorize each sepia pen stroke.
Suddenly people were standing next to me, and I
