Gideon by Russell Andrews

at her hands in her lap. “I figured I wasn’t smart enough.”
    “That’s never stopped me.”
    “Did you always want to write?”
    “I did,” he replied, turning serious. “And when I was growing up, it caused some serious friction between my father and me. Actually, it still does. If it hadn’t been for my mother, I’d probably be a—” He broke off, swallowing. Maybe it was the lateness of the hour, maybe it was the Coronas. Maybe it was because he hadn’t talked like this to anybody in a long time, not since Amanda. But suddenly he was feeling very emotional. He took a deep breath and ran a hand over his face. Maybe he was just tired.
    “You lost her, didn’t you?” Toni said, watching him.
    “Four years ago.” Carl gazed at her curiously.
    “I could see it in your eyes.” Her own big blue eyes began to shimmer. “I lost mine, too. Last year. I miss her every single day,”
    “Every single day,” Carl echoed.
    “There are things I wanted to tell her. My triumphs. My failures. Mostly my failures these days. Only she’s not there anymore …”
    “And never will be,” Carl said softly. “I know.”
    They were silent for a moment. Something had changed between them. There was a feeling of closeness. Of intimacy.
    She was the one who broke the silence. “So the other day, how’d you celebrate? Your novel, I mean.”
    “Never got around to it.”
    “That doesn’t seem fair.”
    “No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”
    Within minutes she had punched out and said her goodnights to her coworkers and they’d caught a cab uptown. They were in each other’s arms by the time they crossed Forty-second Street, kissing each other with a passion that bordered on the feverish.
    “Oh, God,” she gasped, panting for a breath. “Here I go again.”
    “Meaning what?” he said, his chest heaving.
    “I have really bad taste in men.”
    “Sure, now you tell me.”
    “No, it’s just … they always end up hurting me.”
    He gazed deeply into her eyes. “Let’s make a deal. I won’t hurt you if you won’t try to change me.”
    “Why would I want to?”
    “It’s been known to happen. Is it a deal?”
    “You know it is, Carl,” she said softly, melting into him.
    “I think you should start calling me Granny.”
    “Okay … Granny.”
    They did no more talking after that.
    When they arrived at their building, she went up to her apartment to shower and he stopped off at his place for the bottle of champagne that was still in his refrigerator and a couple of glasses. As he opened the door, he was suddenly terrified that he’d find Harry Wagner inside, rustling up some gourmet grub. But happily, there was no sign of the man, and he rushed out and up the flight of stairs. Toni had left her door open for him. Her bathroom door was closed, and he heard water running in there. The ugly green chair was exactly where they’d left it. Cartons were still piled everywhere. He went into her kitchen, popped the cork on the champagne, and poured. He raised his glass. In silence he toasted Maggie Peterson. Then he toasted himself and his genius and his luck.
    “I decided to take a bath instead of a shower,” Toni called out to him over the sound of the water. “I don’t suppose I could have my champagne in here, could I?”
    “I think that’s allowed,” he said. He carried her glass over to the door, pushed it open, and with great propriety said, “Madam’s champagne.”
    She was in the tub, naked and pink and slippery as can be. She was not the least bit self-conscious about her nakedness. Not that she had any reason to be. Carl stood there a moment, his eyes feasting on her, the fragrance of an exotic bath oil filling his nostrils.
    “Are you going to stand there gawking all night,” she said, “or are you going to get in here with me?”
    It was only a few moments before she was in his arms, splashing and wriggling and laughing. They were both laughing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d