holding pulpy papers in his hand that he will offer up to his mother. And then he is himself again, pulling into my driveway. “Here you are.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Thank
you
.”
I laugh. “For what?”
“I don’t know.”
I open the car door, and he says, “Well, I
do
know.” I wait, expectantly, and he says, “I’ll tell you another time.”
12
E ARLY S ATURDAY MORNING , L YDIA AND I ARE SITTING AT THE breakfast table looking through the personals ads. We’re seeing if anyone looks better than the blind date I have set up with Jonathan for tonight. “Here’s one,” Lydia says, squinting at the tiny print. “He’s forty-three, he’s financially secure, he likes dining out, travel, and walks along the beach.”
“Oh, they all say that. Honest to God. Read a few more. They will all say that. What I want to know is, when I go to the beach how come I don’t see hundreds of available men walking up and down looking for women? You know, expensive sweaters wrapped around their shoulders, airline tickets in their pockets?”
“Well, of course it
is
almost winter.”
“I know, but even in summer I never see any.”
Lydia considers this, frowning, fingering the handle on her teacup. “I’ll bet there were some available men there. You probably just weren’t really looking.”
“No,” I say. “They weren’t there. There were just families yelling at their kids not to drown and teenagers walking around like billboards, acting as if their bodies would never change. They’re so oblivious to the fact that they’ll get older. Sometimes I want to grab them and say, ‘Hey! I used to look just like you! Haha-HA!!’ ”
“Yes,” Lydia says. “That’s what I want to say to you sometimes.” She sips her tea.
My God. Of course that must be true. Of course it must! What’s a little cellulite next to a face full of deep wrinkles? What’s a face full of deep wrinkles next to infirmity? When does the time come when you stand in front of your grown-up woman’s mirror and feel contentment for what you see? Ever?
“Well now, look at
this,
” Lydia says, pointing to the ads. “This really does sound good—he’s an artist—a painter; he has season tickets to the ballet; he likes big dogs. Oh, but he’s a much older gentleman. He’s more for me.”
“You don’t need anyone,” I say ruefully. Lydia is wearing a gift from Thomas: an ultra-soft, navy blue robe with a thin line ofred trim. In the pocket of the robe had been a folded-up sonnet about sleep, one of Thomas’s favorites that he had copied out for Lydia in his tall, back-slanted script.
“I know,” Lydia says, smiling. “In fact . . .”
“What?”
“Well, maybe I shouldn’t say this yet. I’m not absolutely certain, after all. But Thomas and I are thinking about getting married.”
I sit back in my chair, wordless. I see Lydia at the altar, her veil being lifted. And there is Thomas, his face illuminated with love and hope, bending down to kiss her.
“What do you think?” Lydia asks.
“Well, I . . .”
What about me???
“I think it’s wonderful, Lydia. I just . . . That’s really wonderful! When?”
“Well, at first we thought June, of course. But then, considering our ages, Thomas thought maybe we’d better just go ahead and do it as soon as possible.” She looks meaningfully over the top of her glasses at me.
“So. You’ll be moving out, then.”
“Yes, I’ll be moving into his place.”
Damn. I’ll have to find another roommate. I recall seeing a sign only yesterday on the bulletin board at a bookstore: FEMALE COL LEGE STUDENT SEEKS ROOM. CAN TEACH JAPANESE . At the time, I’d thought idly of calling her, thinking it would be nice to have one more roommate; the heating bill has been much higher than I thought it would be. Now I think I’d better go to the bookstore as soon as it opens this morning and get the number, have the woman over for an interview right away. It might be nice, having a
“Thank you,” I say.
“Thank
you
.”
I laugh. “For what?”
“I don’t know.”
I open the car door, and he says, “Well, I
do
know.” I wait, expectantly, and he says, “I’ll tell you another time.”
12
E ARLY S ATURDAY MORNING , L YDIA AND I ARE SITTING AT THE breakfast table looking through the personals ads. We’re seeing if anyone looks better than the blind date I have set up with Jonathan for tonight. “Here’s one,” Lydia says, squinting at the tiny print. “He’s forty-three, he’s financially secure, he likes dining out, travel, and walks along the beach.”
“Oh, they all say that. Honest to God. Read a few more. They will all say that. What I want to know is, when I go to the beach how come I don’t see hundreds of available men walking up and down looking for women? You know, expensive sweaters wrapped around their shoulders, airline tickets in their pockets?”
“Well, of course it
is
almost winter.”
“I know, but even in summer I never see any.”
Lydia considers this, frowning, fingering the handle on her teacup. “I’ll bet there were some available men there. You probably just weren’t really looking.”
“No,” I say. “They weren’t there. There were just families yelling at their kids not to drown and teenagers walking around like billboards, acting as if their bodies would never change. They’re so oblivious to the fact that they’ll get older. Sometimes I want to grab them and say, ‘Hey! I used to look just like you! Haha-HA!!’ ”
“Yes,” Lydia says. “That’s what I want to say to you sometimes.” She sips her tea.
My God. Of course that must be true. Of course it must! What’s a little cellulite next to a face full of deep wrinkles? What’s a face full of deep wrinkles next to infirmity? When does the time come when you stand in front of your grown-up woman’s mirror and feel contentment for what you see? Ever?
“Well now, look at
this,
” Lydia says, pointing to the ads. “This really does sound good—he’s an artist—a painter; he has season tickets to the ballet; he likes big dogs. Oh, but he’s a much older gentleman. He’s more for me.”
“You don’t need anyone,” I say ruefully. Lydia is wearing a gift from Thomas: an ultra-soft, navy blue robe with a thin line ofred trim. In the pocket of the robe had been a folded-up sonnet about sleep, one of Thomas’s favorites that he had copied out for Lydia in his tall, back-slanted script.
“I know,” Lydia says, smiling. “In fact . . .”
“What?”
“Well, maybe I shouldn’t say this yet. I’m not absolutely certain, after all. But Thomas and I are thinking about getting married.”
I sit back in my chair, wordless. I see Lydia at the altar, her veil being lifted. And there is Thomas, his face illuminated with love and hope, bending down to kiss her.
“What do you think?” Lydia asks.
“Well, I . . .”
What about me???
“I think it’s wonderful, Lydia. I just . . . That’s really wonderful! When?”
“Well, at first we thought June, of course. But then, considering our ages, Thomas thought maybe we’d better just go ahead and do it as soon as possible.” She looks meaningfully over the top of her glasses at me.
“So. You’ll be moving out, then.”
“Yes, I’ll be moving into his place.”
Damn. I’ll have to find another roommate. I recall seeing a sign only yesterday on the bulletin board at a bookstore: FEMALE COL LEGE STUDENT SEEKS ROOM. CAN TEACH JAPANESE . At the time, I’d thought idly of calling her, thinking it would be nice to have one more roommate; the heating bill has been much higher than I thought it would be. Now I think I’d better go to the bookstore as soon as it opens this morning and get the number, have the woman over for an interview right away. It might be nice, having a
Similar Books
