A Round-Heeled Woman by Jane Juska

myself.
    Jonah is a masterful storyteller. He tells stories about hard times in Sri Lanka, about his three children, grown now, his three ex-wives, gone now, his work with UNESCO, that, too, in the past. He tells jokes, not one-liners, story jokes that go on and on and are wonderful in his telling of them. Sometimes they are so long I guess the ending before he gets there and he laughs as he swings into the punchline. “You’re the best audience I’ve ever had,” he says. “You are a wonderful listener.” I bask.
    On the evening of the third day—Celia’s check had been used up long before—Jonah pours champagne into the hotel’s flutes; the glorious second movement of the Bruch warms the room. I smile at Jonah across the table. “How old are you, really?”
    â€œI told you in my e-mail,” he says.
    â€œYou said in your e-mail you were some years my senior. How many years senior?”
    â€œA few.”
    â€œYou look older than your photograph. I think you misled me, Jonah.”
    â€œI never lied.” He looks down at the olive pits and chicken bones on his plate.
    â€œHow old are you?”
    He looks past me, out the window where once again the sun is going down on the Golden Gate Bridge like I wish Jonah would on me and maybe would if I weren’t too shy to ask. “I’m eighty-two. But I never lied.”
    That night, in bed, I get wet. I can feel the dampness in my red-white-and-blue shorts. I reach over for Jonah. He is lying on his back, eyes wide open. He says, “I do not desire you.” And he rolls onto his side away from me.
    It is the longest night I can remember. I lie on the edge of the bed, sick with humiliation, begging the morning to come. What had I done? Why didn’t he want me? Jonah sleeps, still as death, the sheets pulled up under his chin.
    In the morning, as I brush my teeth, I decide what to do. From the bedroom I hear Jonah say, “Do you want me to leave?”
    â€œYes,” I say, and hand him the phone number of his airline.
    We are silent almost all the way to the airport. Finally, I say, “Since I must look at this as a learning situation, do you have any thoughts about this debacle?”
    Jonah looks straight ahead and says, “Get yourself some K-Y jelly. You get dry before I can get in and I can’t keep it up long enough for you to get wet.” What do you know, a test I didn’t even know I was taking; no wonder I flunked.
    My hands on the steering wheel are steady, the car moves ahead in a straight line, and I tell a joke. “There is this house of prostitution. The new owner decides he will put some class into the place. So he hires professionals. On the first floor he puts telephone operators.” (This is a very old joke.) “On the second he puts secretaries. On the top floor he puts teachers.” My voice is admirably steady and uninflected. It oozes with bitterness. “After about a month, the owner looks at his books and realizes that the first two floors are losing money. The third floor, the one with the teachers, is making money hand over fist. He decides to listen at the keyhole to find out what is going on.” Jonah stares into traffic, still without his seatbelt. I resist the urge to unlock the door and push him out. I continue with my joke. “On the first floor, where the telephone operators are, he hears, ‘I’m sorry, your three minutes are up.’ Well, he thinks, that explains that. On the second, where the secretaries are, he hears, ‘Sorry, it’s time for my coffee break.’ Okay, now I understand, he thinks. So he goes to the third floor, where the teachers are busy making money. He leans against the keyhole and hears, ‘We’re going to do this until we get it right.’ ”
    At the drop-off, Jonah gets out, pulls his bag, now empty, or so I believe, from the backseat, leans into the car, and says, “I hope