• Robert sits in the back of the place, the one Kathy found. It’s just off Lex, six blocks below where they work. Better than a dive, but not the kind of place other editors would go. “A good safe place,” Kathy said. Just hearing the word safe made him feel uneasy, guilty.
He’s in a booth, staring at the front, watching, waiting. She’s a few minutes late. The first time they did this she was there ahead of him. He came in, saw her, it felt good. Now he has time to think, worry. He stares furtively at each of the people walking in the door, or walking by him. Does he know them? Could anybody recognize him? Does it make any difference? The light is very low. Still, he keeps the parka on, sitting there with his arms on the table, his shoulders hunched up to cover part of his face. He feels obvious, conspicuous. He always laughed at people sneaking out of porno stores or cruising the hookers on Tenth. Hell, he thought, if I do that, I’m not hiding. Bullshit. The more hiding the better, that’s how he sees it now.
You don’t see anybody you know for years. Naturally he’d see someone here, now. Hey, Rob, how’s Anne? You alone? Can I join you? The obnoxious little scenario unrolls in his head. What’s up? You’re not waiting for somebody, are you? Business, Rob? Hey, you’re not . . . running around, are you? . . . Robert imagines snatching the guy up, throwing him over the bar. A little late. He knows. Everybody knows.
Robert looks at his fingers, realizes he’s tapping the table. His body feels tense, his mouth dry. He hates waiting anyway. But now he’s waiting for Kathy, and they’re bound to be discovered, and besides they don’t have that much time.
Just a little meeting, pretend it’s casual, no big deal, doesn’t mean anything. Well, what the hell does it mean?
“Jesus,” he mutters.
I just wish she’d come in the door. That smile. The way she glides in, a little cocky, a little flirtatious. Dressed up in a nice, elegant way, one of those executive outfits. But you don’t forget it’s a woman inside there. Not for a second. Oh, she makes sure of that.
That’s the thing. She’s running this whole game? Controlling it? Feels like that sometimes. But for what? Love, lust, getting ahead? Or she’s this little girl falling for the big editor? Maybe a Cosmo girl, doing what that dumb magazine tells her to do, try some new adventure. Maybe she’s just friendly. Maybe she doesn’t fucking know. Damn it.
Robert feels the insanity of being here. Drifting out of work a little early. Making excuses. Hell, lying. Trying to look invisible. Hoping nobody notices when he walks south instead of toward Grand Central. And for what? So he can sit across the table from her for a half hour?
Jesus. Am I crazy?
Ahhhhh. He sees her framed in the doorway. Fifty feet away, he can feel the heat of her, the joy. God, what a rush. He sits up straighter, stares at her, can’t help smiling.
Come on, baby. Come on down here. I’m waiting just for you. . . .
• • •
Not much time left, if he’s going to catch the 6:04. Finally Robert says, “So why are we here?”
That’s good, she thinks. Either the dumbest question she’s ever heard, or the smartest.
She lets a few seconds go by. Then she makes a little shrug, answers in a low, sincere voice. “You have to ask?”
Impulsively, her hands reach out, take one of his. The first time they’ve touched. He tries not to notice, not to gasp. He thinks his hand will catch fire.
A tremor starts up from his left knee, stalks through his genitals and skids to a stop in the skin of his belly. Lovely and scary.
“Damn,” he says aloud but softly. Trying to be casual. “Nice hands.”
She laughs, squeezes his hand tighter. “That’s my line.”
I’ve got a hard-on, he thinks, and I feel exactly like I’m sixteen. It was just like this. All hot glands and awkward everything. What do you do? What do you say? That’s just it. You never know. You just sit there with your tongue hanging out, and your dick sticking up, and you don’t know what the hell you’re supposed to do. Or what you want to do. Or how you feel.
He struggles for some middle ground, no cheap jokes, no wild declarations. He wants to say, “This is a little, uh, unsettling for me.” Too wimpy? Instead he says, “You look real nice.”
She nods, smiling in a serious way. Showing him she understands what he’s feeling, that she’s patient. Moving her fingers slightly, caressing the back of his hand.
He glances down, sure there’ll be burn marks where she’s touching him. Actual red marks. No, his hands look completely ordinary. But the tingling, the electricity, going up and down his arm is astonishing. But what is it really? Desire? Wonderful, idiot desire? Or some weird playing with danger? Something he shouldn’t have, so he desires it more? And this desire, being so strong, so mixed up with guilt, seems more valid than any other thought or emotion? If he were single, if he could lean over and casually kiss her, would he feel even half of it?
“This is nice,” Robert says, taking her hands briefly between his. “But it’s getting late. If I start now, I can walk it. Like I said,” he smiles, “you’re looking real nice.”
He gets out his wallet, puts a ten on the table for their drinks.
Kathy says, “I think it’ll be all right to leave with you.” There, that conspiratorial note. She’s good at letting it slip in now and then. They’re in this together. In deep.
They stand up and move toward the door. She walks a half step behind him. He feels her fingers lightly clutching his elbow, or tickling it. A little secret communication: I’m here.
Yeah, Robert thinks, like I’m going to forget.
He pushes through the door, goes out onto East 36th, glancing nervously at the people walking by.