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Page 14.
 He shoved the bottle away. “My own age and younger.”
“Oh. So far.”
“I guess.” The wrinkles could be from too much sun if she’d tanned too much over the years. She was the type for skiing, sailing, tennis, slender cigarettes if any, and credit cards, all prescribed for Ivy League; none of which he had. “You don’t feel older,” he said. He corrected, “Seem.”
Getting ahead of ourselves. The signal is still red, but the signs ahead are clear to read.
She looked directly in his eyes for the first time. Her eyes were frank and grateful. “You seem like a wise rebel.”
“It’s relative,” he concluded.
“I had nobody to feel older than,” she said. “Jérôme’s thirty-four. Sometimes. Or sixty-four. Or four. Depending.”
“Jérôme.” Thinking of this other man made a sweat burn in his collar.
I wish you wouldn’t talk about him.
Seeing his look, she pursed her lips and studied the flotsam of lemon seeds and tea shreds in the brown lake at the bottom of her cup, aground on a sand bar of stained sugar. “I won’t say anything again. After all, it’s not your problem.” She looked sharply at him. “I promise to be honest. You must promise me the same at all times.”
“I do. I promise.” He waited through a silent eternity. It was clear in that long instant, she was deciding whether to flee or stay. She stayed. With a sag of the shoulders, she surrendered to the inevitable. And looked pleased.
“Does he beat you?” What have I gotten myself into?
Her glance was sudden and bright blue. “Oh no. No, no. Dear.” She laughed out loud. “I would be lucky if he gave me that much attention.” Her teeth were unflawed white. “You needn’t worry. He’s gone to Australia. They’re digging near Upskate or something on the North Coast.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Doesn’t it.”
“If you happen to be in Upskate at the time,” he said helpfully.
“I’m actually rather Downskate.”
“And here we are.”
“There you are.” She reached for her pocketbook. “That’s about the way it is.” She touched his arm. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
He sat alone, listening to water gurgling gently in secretive drains.
Dribble, dribble, went the rain, cleansing and nurturing all things.
Clocks moved slower in this oceanic time, where massive waves of leaves made a rushing in your ears, and your heart beat too hard and too fast. He knew he was free to get up and leave. Silly though—run? From what? Morality? No, a single transgression could not be very expensive. He would be mowing other lawns in this garden of easiness. Léopold Montblé should savor forbidden apples and write firmer beats. So much poetry forthcoming.
He heard her footsteps in the hollow wooden room and turned to watch her approach. She could easily be somewhere close to his age. She was beautiful in the way that some women are dramatic rather than puffy-sweet. She must be athletic, judging by the tight body, strong legs, firm arms and shoulders, narrow but sweet face framed in clipped honey hair. She smiled as she approached, guilelessly. Light makeup, nothing desperate, everything easy. Hands in raincoat, steps sure and direct, chin up…he thought he had the answer for her outlook and behavior; what a poet or pianist might call method (thinking of the piano music cluttering the air with thoughtful nuances and probing riffs that often ended in a sudden cacophany, then silence). So what was it that made her seem rebellious like him, and yet married to some je ne sais quois? The answer came to him all at once:
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