cold.
Staring outside, she hunched her shoulders and shook her head. She said, “It takes all kinds, Allie. And they don’t wear indentifying labels.”
15
He looked like a computer-game figure weaving through a maze. Allie watched Graham Knox’s slender body maneuver among the crowded tables at Goya’s as he brought her the hamburger and Diet Pepsi. Though he actually moved gracefully, there was that inherent and somehow appealing awkwardness about him that seemed to stem more from the tentative, intense expression he habitually wore than from physical motion. He always seemed preoccupied and puzzled by some inner conflict.
“You’re busy tonight,” she said as he placed her order on the table. The charred-beef scent of the hamburger wafted up to her. She wasn’t sure if it made her feel hungrier or slightly ill.
“And you have something on your mind.”
Allie was amazed. “How’d you know?”
Graham gave his canine-like lopsided smile and wiped his hands on the small white towel tucked in his belt. “I’m sort of a student of human nature. Gotta be, in my profession.” A Beatles song, “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” began blasting from the speakers. The decibel level of conversation in the restaurant rose to challenge it. The result was a maelstrom of noise. Graham leaned down close to her, his mouth near her ear. “You need to talk, Allie?” She felt his warm breath, like the life-breath of a lover.
“You shared your good news,” she said, “I thought I might share my bad—tempered with some good news, though.”
“The bad news isn’t too bad, I hope.” He glanced at his watch, one of those with a moon phase dial on it to make it more complicated. “It’s just past seven o’clock. The rush is almost over, and I can get off around eight. Wanna combine talking with walking?” He made it sound like a trick of coordination.
Allie thought a walk was a good idea; the noise might not abate in the usually quiet Goya’s. And it was a beautiful late September night, warm and clear. “I’ll eat slow,” she told him.
“I can sneak you some dessert, on the house. Give you an excuse to hold down the table. Unless you’re on a diet.”
She smiled sadly. “No, I’m not in a dieting mood.”
Graham touched her shoulder in sympathy; she noticed his fingers were long and tapered. He retreated through the melee of noise and laughter, toward the swinging doors to the kitchen, his lanky frame swaying among the tables with practiced precision and efficiency. From behind, he appeared not at all awkward or tentative. Someone in a far corner called to him. He waved a hand to confirm that he’d heard. Somebody somewhere turned down the volume of the canned music. The Beatles were finished with “Lucy” and were singing now about “Sergeant Pepper.”
Allie blocked out the voices around her, the laughter and the clinking of glasses and flatware. She gnawed on her hamburger and listened to the music. John Lennon. Christ! How could anyone shoot John Lennon?
Graham had brought her a scoop of vanilla ice cream with fresh strawberries over it. Allie was often amazed by how available fresh produce was in the concrete world of New York. Fresh flowers, too. As if there were a garden on every cloud-high roof.
After dessert and coffee she felt better. Her guilt at eating so many calories was assuaged by the fact that the strawberries and ice cream were free. She suspected even Richard Simmons would accept free dessert in a restaurant. He would if he saw those strawberries, anyway, and his appetite was heightened by other unfulfilled yearnings.
Now she and Graham were walking west on 74th Street, toward Riverside Park. There was a light breeze blowing in off the Hudson. The night was cool and, despite the exhaust fumes, the air smelled remarkably fresh for Manhattan. The sidewalks were crowded with people who seemed to be dawdling, enjoying the unseasonably fair weather; even traffic seemed to
Staring outside, she hunched her shoulders and shook her head. She said, “It takes all kinds, Allie. And they don’t wear indentifying labels.”
15
He looked like a computer-game figure weaving through a maze. Allie watched Graham Knox’s slender body maneuver among the crowded tables at Goya’s as he brought her the hamburger and Diet Pepsi. Though he actually moved gracefully, there was that inherent and somehow appealing awkwardness about him that seemed to stem more from the tentative, intense expression he habitually wore than from physical motion. He always seemed preoccupied and puzzled by some inner conflict.
“You’re busy tonight,” she said as he placed her order on the table. The charred-beef scent of the hamburger wafted up to her. She wasn’t sure if it made her feel hungrier or slightly ill.
“And you have something on your mind.”
Allie was amazed. “How’d you know?”
Graham gave his canine-like lopsided smile and wiped his hands on the small white towel tucked in his belt. “I’m sort of a student of human nature. Gotta be, in my profession.” A Beatles song, “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” began blasting from the speakers. The decibel level of conversation in the restaurant rose to challenge it. The result was a maelstrom of noise. Graham leaned down close to her, his mouth near her ear. “You need to talk, Allie?” She felt his warm breath, like the life-breath of a lover.
“You shared your good news,” she said, “I thought I might share my bad—tempered with some good news, though.”
“The bad news isn’t too bad, I hope.” He glanced at his watch, one of those with a moon phase dial on it to make it more complicated. “It’s just past seven o’clock. The rush is almost over, and I can get off around eight. Wanna combine talking with walking?” He made it sound like a trick of coordination.
Allie thought a walk was a good idea; the noise might not abate in the usually quiet Goya’s. And it was a beautiful late September night, warm and clear. “I’ll eat slow,” she told him.
“I can sneak you some dessert, on the house. Give you an excuse to hold down the table. Unless you’re on a diet.”
She smiled sadly. “No, I’m not in a dieting mood.”
Graham touched her shoulder in sympathy; she noticed his fingers were long and tapered. He retreated through the melee of noise and laughter, toward the swinging doors to the kitchen, his lanky frame swaying among the tables with practiced precision and efficiency. From behind, he appeared not at all awkward or tentative. Someone in a far corner called to him. He waved a hand to confirm that he’d heard. Somebody somewhere turned down the volume of the canned music. The Beatles were finished with “Lucy” and were singing now about “Sergeant Pepper.”
Allie blocked out the voices around her, the laughter and the clinking of glasses and flatware. She gnawed on her hamburger and listened to the music. John Lennon. Christ! How could anyone shoot John Lennon?
Graham had brought her a scoop of vanilla ice cream with fresh strawberries over it. Allie was often amazed by how available fresh produce was in the concrete world of New York. Fresh flowers, too. As if there were a garden on every cloud-high roof.
After dessert and coffee she felt better. Her guilt at eating so many calories was assuaged by the fact that the strawberries and ice cream were free. She suspected even Richard Simmons would accept free dessert in a restaurant. He would if he saw those strawberries, anyway, and his appetite was heightened by other unfulfilled yearnings.
Now she and Graham were walking west on 74th Street, toward Riverside Park. There was a light breeze blowing in off the Hudson. The night was cool and, despite the exhaust fumes, the air smelled remarkably fresh for Manhattan. The sidewalks were crowded with people who seemed to be dawdling, enjoying the unseasonably fair weather; even traffic seemed to
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