Last Night by James Salter

wanted to marry me.
    — Well, that’s . . .
    Arthur didn’t know what to say; his thoughts were skipping wildly, like scraps of paper in a wind. There is that fearful moment in the ceremony when it is asked if there is anyone who knows why these two should not be wed. This was that moment.
    — What did you tell him?
    — I haven’t told him.
    A gulf was opening between them somehow. It was happening as they sat there.
    — Do you have any feeling about it? she asked.
    — Yes, I mean, I’d like to think about it. It’s kind of a surprise.
    — It was to me, too.
    She hadn’t touched the coffee.
    — You know, I could sit here for a long time, she said. It’s as comfortable as I’ll ever feel anywhere. That’s what’s making me wonder. About what to tell him.
    — I’m a little afraid, he said. I can’t explain it.
    — Of course you are. Her voice had such understanding. Really. I know.
    — Your coffee’s going to get cold, he said.
    — Anyway, I just wanted to see your apartment, she said. Her voice suddenly sounded funny. She seemed not to want to go on.
    He realized then, as she sat there, a woman in his apartment at night, a woman he knew he loved, that she was really giving him one last chance. He knew he should take it.
    — Ah, Noreen, he said.
    After that night, she vanished. Not suddenly, but it did not take long. She married Bobby. It was as simple as a death, but it lasted longer. It seemed it would never go away. She lingered in his thoughts. Did he exist in hers? he often wondered. Did she still feel, even if only a little, the way he felt? The years seemed to have no effect on it. She was in New Jersey somewhere, in some place he could not picture. Probably there was a family. Did she ever think of him? Ah, Noreen.
    SHE HAD NOT CHANGED. He could tell it from her voice, speaking, as always, to him alone.
    — You probably have kids, he said as if casually.
    — He didn’t want them. Just one of the problems. Well, all that’s acqua passata, as he liked to say. You didn’t know I got divorced?
    — No.
    — I more or less kept in touch with Marie up until she retired. She told me how you were doing. You’re a big wheel now.
    — Not really.
    — I knew you would be. It would be nice to see you again. How long has it been?
    — Gee, a long time.
    — You ever go out to Westhampton?
    — No, not for years.
    — Goldie’s?
    — He closed.
    — I guess I knew that. Those were wonderful days.
    It was the same, the ease of talking to her. He saw her great, winning smile, the well-being of it, her carefree walk.
    — I’d love to see you, she said again.
    They agreed to meet at the Plaza. She was going to be near there the next day.
    He began walking up Fifth a little before five. He felt uncertain but tenderhearted, in the hands of a wondrous fate. The hotel stood before him, immense and vaguely white. He walked up the broad steps. There was a kind of foyer with a large table and flowers, the sound of people talking. As if, like an animal, he could detect the slightest noise, he seemed to make out the clink of cups and spoons.
    There were flower boxes with pink flowers, the tall columns with their gilded tops, and in the Palm Court itself, which was crowded, through a glass panel he saw her sitting in a chair. For a moment he was not sure it was her. He moved away. Had she seen him?
    He could not go in. He turned instead and went down the corridor to the men’s room. An old man in black pants and a striped vest, the attendant, offered a towel as Arthur looked at himself in the long mirror to see if he had changed that much, too. He saw a man of fifty-five with the same Coney Island face he had always seen, half comic, kind. No worse than that. He gave the attendant a dollar and walked into the Palm Court, where, amid the chattering tables, the mock candelabra, and illuminated ceiling, Noreen was waiting. He was wearing his familiar dog’s smile.
    — Arthur, God, you look exactly the same. You