The next day not looking for her I saw her. I was doing laundry and there she was, outside, going by. I could let her walk past. It was up to me. I went out after her. She was stopped just past the window, looking at a notice put up by the ballet troupe class, her face wonderful looking, gray strands in her black hair, tan Boy Scout shirt, long Levi’s skirt, beat-up Lady Canada boots.
I stepped around her, putting my hand on her side. She turned, looking up at me, not recognizing me. She looked stoned. Then she recognized me. I grabbed her and we hugged.
“What,” she said, “what are you doing here?”
“Laundry,” I said, “I’m doing laundry.”
She laughed that same laugh.
“I’ll help.”
We turned and went back into the laundromat. My clothes were already dry and she helped me fold the shirts and T-shirts and jeans and then the sheets. I saw the fastest way to do it, started to do it, she was still figuring it out. “No,” she said, “let’s do it this way.” I went along, feeling it made no difference. We folded the first one, then the others. We were finished and I put the box of fresh clothes under my arm.
“Well,” she said, “don’t forget your book.”
I saw I had forgotten it.
She handed it to me.
Going outside together, I said nothing. We walked to the corner and she said, “I guess we can still have our life together, it’s still there, there’s a lot of time.”
We stood there on the corner.
She said she had to find a bathroom, maybe into the Koffee Korral, but she didn’t want to spend any more money.
She was looking up and down the Avenue.
She smiled, and put her face up gently for a kiss.
I hardly touched her, then thought I should have really kissed her.
The next day, though, having thought it through, I said, Like hell we can.
Then later in the week, just before I left town, we ran into each other again. We had some Chinese food at Shi-Shan’s and she told me what was going on.
I didn’t like what she was saying. The affairs she talked freely about were ones that were over with, and ugly to hear. The ones she hinted about were ones that weren’t finished. I didn’t want to listen. I just wanted to sit with her, something I’d never done, something she’d always wanted.
She wanted me to talk. She kept giving me openings. Finally she asked if I was still with my new girl.
I said, “Yes.”
She didn’t say anything, then, “Well, you still haven’t said anything about yourself.”
“No,” I said.
“You just don’t like to.”
“No.”
“You never did,” she said, “not to outsiders.”
“Outsiders,” I said.
She was smiling.
“No, there isn’t anything to say. We both know everything. Let’s just sit here for a bit, okay?”
“But we can’t, can we?”
“No,” I said, “I guess not.”
“I mean, we’re not free to be here, are we?”
I looked at her.
“Well, I’m not sorry it happened.”
“No,” I said, “neither am I.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Yes,” I said, “I am too.”
“You don’t know what I went through. You have no idea.”
“You don’t know. You don’t. You know that ringing in your ears that you got? Well, I’ve got it now,” she said. She kept on talking for a while then slowly stopped . . .