The Pursuit of Alice Thrift by Elinor Lipman Page B

me and owns the kind of cars I do is not a stalker. He’s a guy on a romantic mission, like in a movie when the hero’s waiting for the girl when she gets home from work, exhausted and a little down in the dumps. Did I mention I was holding a single red long-stemmed American Beauty rose?”
    â€œNo, you didn’t.”
    â€œI was pissed, but I figured, what the hell? What do I have to lose? She stands me up, so I’ll give it one last try. So what do you think happens next?”
    I asked if this narrative really required audience participation. I didn’t say that his Socratic method reminded me of rounds, of interns being called upon to recite, to provide answers and differential diagnoses, and of constant failure on my feet.
    Instead of answering, I poised the ketchup bottle over my own fries, inducing a few drips. He asked if I was sure I didn’t want anything else. I said yes. I didn’t want him to call the waitress back, delaying his consumption of his hamburger, prolonging the night.
    â€œOkay! I love this part: Mary sees me on the sidewalk. Well, sees
someone.
It’s dark, so how could she recognize me when she’s only laid eyes on me once, and plus it’s too dark to see the rose. But this is one tough broad. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t make eye contact. I say, ‘Mary, it’s Ray Russo. We had a date to meet in Central Square.’ She said, ‘Oh, shit. Didn’t the bartender tell you that I had to work and couldn’t make it?’ I say, ‘Gee, Mary. No. And you must think I’m a fucking moron to believe that one.’ You know what she said? I’ll never forget it. I even told this at our wedding reception in a little speech I gave: She goes, ‘Well, you don’t have a choice, asshole, because if you don’t get the fuck off my property, my next phone call is to nine-one-one.’ ”
    I blinked. I tried to remember how this man and I had ever intersected and what possible turn of events had led me to this table and this conversation.
    Ray said, “Excuse my language. I wanted to quote her accurately so you’d get the full flavor. So anyway, I laughed, which was exactly the right thing to do. It cut the tension and showed her I had a sense of humor. Before you know it, we’re sitting on her front porch having a pretty good conversation. About forty-five minutes later, maybe an hour, we were . . . how should I say this? Getting to know each other even better.”
    I waited for some exposition. When none was offered, I asked if he meant they had sexual intercourse.
    Ray blotted his bulging mouth with his napkin, nodding emphatically. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
    â€œSafe sex?” I asked.
    â€œSure,” he said. “I’m always prepared. And so was Mary, as it turned out. She bought condoms at Costco, like a dozen gross at a time.”
    I answered as best as I was equipped to on this topic. “There must have been some extremely strong chemistry if you had sex after a forty-five-minute conversation.”
    â€œYou could say that. You could also say that Mary was a highly physical individual.” He picked up the salt and pepper shakers and made them face each other. “Like you and I have a conversation? To communicate and maybe pass the time? Not Mary”—and here the salt and pepper shakers went horizontal—“she might have been a sex addict if I hadn’t come along.”
    â€œWasn’t anyone home?” I asked.
    â€œShe didn’t care! She had a couple of roommates, but everybody minded their own business when it came to entertaining guests.” He picked up his mug, nodded firmly, and swallowed a few gulps.
    I said, “I’m fairly speechless.”
    â€œOver what aspect?”
    â€œMary. I have to reconfigure my mental picture of her.”
    â€œFrom what to what?”
    â€œFrom . . . I don’t know. I used to