Smart Women by Judy Blume Page A

different circumstances . . .
    “I was a reporter on the Miami Herald for a long time and then I quit,” he said. “I went to live in Israel for a year, on a kibbutz, but it wasn’t what I’d expected. And then I came home and wrote a book. That was a couple of years ago and since then I’ve been writing freelance articles, mostly investigative reporting. I like the way your mouth curls up. You’re very pretty, you know that?”
    “Please.”
    “Please what?”
    “It’s better if we don’t get personal, I think.”
    “Why is it better?”
    “You know.”
    “I don’t.”
    “I’ll write you a letter about it, okay?”
    “Sure, okay. You want my address?”
    “I know where you live.”
    “But I pick up my mail. My box number is three-five-nine.”
    “Three-five-nine,” she said. “I’ll remember that. I’d like to read your book.”
    “I’ll bring you a copy.”
    “Okay. But right now I’ve got to go to bed. I get up early.”
    He stood up. “When are you going to have me over for dinner? That’s what you’re supposed to do when someone new moves into the neighborhood.”
    “Is that in the Rule Book too?”
    “Absolutely,” he said. “Page forty-two.”
    “I see.”
    “Of course, I could have you over too. I make a mean spinach lasagna, an outstanding chicken curry, and I’m working on a stuffed zucchini.”
    “Sounds delicious.”
    “So . . . when?”
    “When, what?”
    “When should we get together for dinner?”
    “I’ll have to think about it.”
    “I swim every afternoon at the University pool. Would you like to join me some day?”
    “I’m not much of a swimmer. I get water up my nose.”
    “I’ll get you nose clips.”
    “Then I’d look like a frog.”
    “What’s wrong with frogs?”
    “They’re green and slimy.”
    “You’re right,” he said.
    She walked him down the stairs and to the front door.
    “I’m reading Proust,” he said. “The Captive.”
    “I never got past the endless minutiae of Swann’s Way. ”
    “So you’re not a romantic,” he said.
    “Says who?”
    “If you were you’d like Proust.”
    “Not necessarily,” she said, opening the front door. They stepped outside into the darkness. She kept forgetting to replace the burned-out bulb in the hanging lamp next to the door. “Why are you telling me all of this anyway?”
    “I want you to know me, I guess. I want you to like me.”
    “I do like you. Now go home.”
    “How about a soak first?”
    “No, not tonight.”
    “When?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe never.”
    “That would be a real shame.”
    She shrugged.
    “Margo . . . I’d like to kiss you goodnight.”
    “No,” she said.
    “Can I shake your hand then?”
    She put her hand out. He took it. His touch sent tingles up her arm, weakened her legs, sent a flash between them.
    Adolescent. Romantic imbecile.
    “Goodnight, Margo,” he said.
    “Goodnight, Andrew.” She pulled her hand away just in time. In another second she’d have been in his arms, her mouth on his. Instead, she turned and walked back into the house, closing the door behind her.
    Just like Leonard, the voice inside her head said as she was brushing her teeth.
    Are you crazy? she argued. He’s nothing like Leonard.
    The same tingles . . .
    That’s just physical attraction. She spit out toothpaste.
    You’re telling me?
    So I admit it. I’m attracted to him. But he’s nice too.
    You didn’t think Leonard was nice?
    Yes, I did . . . in the beginning . . . but it turned out he was neurotic.
    And how do you know this one isn’t?
    I don’t. How could I? We hardly know each other.
    Ah ha! That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you.
    Margo got into bed.
    No more affairs going nowhere, she promised herself. From now on she was only interested in men who wanted to settle down. Men who were divorced or widowed or had never been married, although she preferred divorced. That way she wouldn’t be fighting ghosts and he’d have had