body.
“Yeah, well,” says Matt. Second thoughts?
“I called you earlier, but I guess you were out.” She catches the bartender’s eye, mouths, “Perrier? Lime?” pantomiming the squeeze.
Matt says, “Not your people?” He tilts his head to indicate the far end of the lounge, where a conference or convention group is settling in. Folks muscle marble tables together, muster extra chairs from here and there.
“Sorry?” says Karen. “Oh, no. No, our sessions are …” She waves her hand vaguely about. “Holiday Inn. I always stay someplace else, these things get kind of, you know, incestuous. Thanks.” She sips her high-toned water. “So, you really meant it then?”
“Well see, the thing is …”
Meant
it?
Karen looks stricken.
“I’m not saying no, it’s just that sometimes in the heat of—”
Ah. So this is her real laugh. It’s bigger, richer—somewhere between an oboe and a bassoon. “Very funny,” says Matt. “You had me going there. Wedding bells.” He takes a rueful pull at his pint. “Anyway, shall we start again?” Time’s all jumbled up here, they’re shooting their scenes out of order, the get-to-know-you scene after the climactic sex scene.
“Gone With the Wind?”
he says. “The very first scene they shot? Atlanta already up in flames.”
“How about that!” says Karen.
“Sorry, I … I’m in movies.”
Those big eyes.
“Matt McKay.” He sticks out his hand. Though maybe he should be keeping it anonymous, nameless.
Last Tango in Toronto?
“I’m Kate Moreau.”
Kate.
Kate. He hears it again as he heard it last night, that sigh of startled desire.
She offers him a brisk shake, how d’ya do. “I’m awfully sorry about that. I’m bad, I shouldn’t be teasing a sick guy. Are you feeling any better, I hope?”
“A touch. It’s strange, I never get these things.”
“So you said. Well, so starting fresh … Nice to meet you, Matt. Where are you from?”
“Vancouver. Ish.” He raises his eyebrows. Both of them, or anyway he tries.
Kate points at herself, the shadowed cleft of her cleavage. “Halifax. I’m at Dalhousie? God, it’s so good to get
away.”
She blinks as if in disbelief.
Why this woman? She’s perfect in a way—a big mind in a vibrant body—but she’s also random, she’s also just an accident. Unless there’s something predestined here, invisible forces bearing down. What would a physicist say? If this goes on much longer he’ll ask her. “So, east and west,” he says. “Atlantic, Pacific.” He spreads his arms. “And we’ve met here in the middle.” He smacks his palms together—like a performing seal, it strikes him. He really hasn’t done this in a while. Has he
ever
done this? “How long are you in town?”
“About a week. The conference is only a few days but I’m treating myself, might be my last chance for a bit. And what brings you”—a magician-like unfurling of her fingers—“here? Last night you said work, but you didn’t say what kind.”
“Yeah, well, there’s always work, isn’t there?” How much do you tell a person you’ve boffed (goofy term, but it feels about right) but whose name you can’t hang on to? “This visit’s mostly about a friend of mine, actually. He’s sick, so I can’t see him yet. Because
I’m
sick.” Matt shrugs. “AIDS, he has AIDS.”
Kate sucks in some air. There’s something puffy about her anyway, something hyperinflated, an almost infantile openness. Dianne Wiest?
Edward Scissorhands.
What if he told her everything? What if he just dumped the whole knotted ball in her lap, could she maybe tease it apart for him? “And it’s my fault.”
“What do you mean? What’s your fault?”
“That he’s sick, that my friend’s sick.”
“Oh. Oh.” Kate starts to rise here, almost to levitate. Not as though she’s going to bolt but as though she’s going to burst right through the ceiling.
“No.” Matt bats at the air. “Christ, no, I’m sorry. No, I
“Yeah, well,” says Matt. Second thoughts?
“I called you earlier, but I guess you were out.” She catches the bartender’s eye, mouths, “Perrier? Lime?” pantomiming the squeeze.
Matt says, “Not your people?” He tilts his head to indicate the far end of the lounge, where a conference or convention group is settling in. Folks muscle marble tables together, muster extra chairs from here and there.
“Sorry?” says Karen. “Oh, no. No, our sessions are …” She waves her hand vaguely about. “Holiday Inn. I always stay someplace else, these things get kind of, you know, incestuous. Thanks.” She sips her high-toned water. “So, you really meant it then?”
“Well see, the thing is …”
Meant
it?
Karen looks stricken.
“I’m not saying no, it’s just that sometimes in the heat of—”
Ah. So this is her real laugh. It’s bigger, richer—somewhere between an oboe and a bassoon. “Very funny,” says Matt. “You had me going there. Wedding bells.” He takes a rueful pull at his pint. “Anyway, shall we start again?” Time’s all jumbled up here, they’re shooting their scenes out of order, the get-to-know-you scene after the climactic sex scene.
“Gone With the Wind?”
he says. “The very first scene they shot? Atlanta already up in flames.”
“How about that!” says Karen.
“Sorry, I … I’m in movies.”
Those big eyes.
“Matt McKay.” He sticks out his hand. Though maybe he should be keeping it anonymous, nameless.
Last Tango in Toronto?
“I’m Kate Moreau.”
Kate.
Kate. He hears it again as he heard it last night, that sigh of startled desire.
She offers him a brisk shake, how d’ya do. “I’m awfully sorry about that. I’m bad, I shouldn’t be teasing a sick guy. Are you feeling any better, I hope?”
“A touch. It’s strange, I never get these things.”
“So you said. Well, so starting fresh … Nice to meet you, Matt. Where are you from?”
“Vancouver. Ish.” He raises his eyebrows. Both of them, or anyway he tries.
Kate points at herself, the shadowed cleft of her cleavage. “Halifax. I’m at Dalhousie? God, it’s so good to get
away.”
She blinks as if in disbelief.
Why this woman? She’s perfect in a way—a big mind in a vibrant body—but she’s also random, she’s also just an accident. Unless there’s something predestined here, invisible forces bearing down. What would a physicist say? If this goes on much longer he’ll ask her. “So, east and west,” he says. “Atlantic, Pacific.” He spreads his arms. “And we’ve met here in the middle.” He smacks his palms together—like a performing seal, it strikes him. He really hasn’t done this in a while. Has he
ever
done this? “How long are you in town?”
“About a week. The conference is only a few days but I’m treating myself, might be my last chance for a bit. And what brings you”—a magician-like unfurling of her fingers—“here? Last night you said work, but you didn’t say what kind.”
“Yeah, well, there’s always work, isn’t there?” How much do you tell a person you’ve boffed (goofy term, but it feels about right) but whose name you can’t hang on to? “This visit’s mostly about a friend of mine, actually. He’s sick, so I can’t see him yet. Because
I’m
sick.” Matt shrugs. “AIDS, he has AIDS.”
Kate sucks in some air. There’s something puffy about her anyway, something hyperinflated, an almost infantile openness. Dianne Wiest?
Edward Scissorhands.
What if he told her everything? What if he just dumped the whole knotted ball in her lap, could she maybe tease it apart for him? “And it’s my fault.”
“What do you mean? What’s your fault?”
“That he’s sick, that my friend’s sick.”
“Oh. Oh.” Kate starts to rise here, almost to levitate. Not as though she’s going to bolt but as though she’s going to burst right through the ceiling.
“No.” Matt bats at the air. “Christ, no, I’m sorry. No, I
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