Fifteen

“Come here often?” Patrick said, startling me as I sat at the bar sipping a glass of wine. The room was dimly lit and if you didn’t know it was four in the afternoon you’d think it was midnight. There were only two other people at the bar, and one person sat at a table talking on a cell phone and taking notes.

“How’s your room?” I asked after Patrick ordered a beer.

“Nice,” he said. “Want to see?”

Yes. “No way.”

“Okay, okay,” he said. “I’ll stop.” But I didn’t really want him to; I liked the sexual banter. It made me feel sexy and desirable. It made me feel like a teenager.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” I told him. “I have dinner plans tonight, so I have to be out of here no later than six.” I didn’t have dinner plans. I had no plans at all. But it seemed like a good idea for him to think so. It felt like I could get into trouble so easily. Here I was fifty years old and I was making up a story because I didn’t trust myself to be alone with him.

“Great,” he said. “We’ve got almost two hours.”

We sipped our drinks and reminisced about high school. We talked about Sophie and Pete and how great it was that they were still together.

“Remember senior prom? The four of us going to North Avenue Beach at four in the morning? I still remember the dress you wore.”

“You do not,” I said.

“It was blue and long and had rhinestone straps. And your shoes matched perfectly. I think they even had something rhinestone on them, didn’t they?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Are you gay?”

He laughed. “Just a good memory.”

“You’re amazing. My mom had those shoes dyed to match. And she put rhinestone clip-on earrings on them. I can’t believe you remember that.”

“I remember everything. I remember how we used to meet at the parking lot before school.”

“Me too. I was grounded after New Year’s, so you couldn’t pick me up. Do you remember?” He nodded. “So I’d take the bus and meet you in the parking lot.”

“Where we’d make out like mad until the bell rang and then we’d run like hell to make it to homeroom.”

“My parents never did get to know you.”

“They hated my long hair and black leather.”

“I wonder what they’d think today.”

“They’d probably think my hair was still too long. And that I needed a real job.”

As Patrick ordered us another drink I watched him in the mirror over the bar, chatting with the bartender, finding out his name, asking him to recommend a seasonal beer. He had a friendly, relaxed manner about him.

I was feeling heady from the wine, but mostly just drunk with the whole idea of Patrick Harrison here, now, and I giggled.

“What?” he said, taking my hand.

“This is just so strange.”

“I know,” he said and kissed me, once, and then again. “Like a couple of kids.”

“We used to make out in the parking lot at school and here we are, fifty years old, making out at a bar in downtown Chicago,” I said.

“We’re not exactly making out,” he said. “But I’d be happy to oblige.” He said this with an exaggerated leer. I felt happy inside, like someone who’d just won a blue ribbon.

“People are looking at us,” I said.

“Do you care?”

“Not really,” I said. And I didn’t. Unless someone who knew Michael was here.

For a while we sat silently, sipping our drinks. Patrick seemed easy and comfortable. I wished I could jump into his brain and find out what he was thinking. He ran his pinky along the back of my hand. We looked at each other in the mirror over the bar.

“Why’d we break up?” Patrick asked.

“I don’t think we did. At least I don’t remember any big scene. Do you? You’re the one who remembers everything.”

“I don’t.”

“I went away to college. I think that’s what happened. We called each other for a while but it was tough being so far away.”

“We were stupid. We shouldn’t have let it go.”

In my head I said, “So, wanna go up to your room?” and off we’d go to ravage each other like sex-crazed maniacs and profess our undying love.

Instead I looked at my watch. “Oh shit. It’s six-thirty,” I said.

“How’d that happen?”

I put on my coat and kissed him. “I’ve got to go.” I was virtuous with my resolve, all the while imagining us doing wicked things to each other.

He put his arm around me and walked me to the door while I inwardly argued with myself about leaving. What would happen if I stayed? Would that be so terrible? What was so great about being virtuous anyway?

“So, I’m not going to call you, remember?” he said. “If you want to see me, call me in the morning. Otherwise I’ll just head home.”

“I remember,” I said.

He kissed the top of my head. “So do you think you’ll do that?”

Of course.

“You’ll just have to wait and see.”