still-wrapped CD. It was Beethoven, the Triple Concerto. "Would you like to hear it?" So I made a pot of tea, and we sat and listened to the concerto, and it was almost like old times. Except that it wasn't. When the music ended, I decided against small talk and asked him a straight question. No pun intended.
"Have you ever been married?" "Yes." "Really." I masked my surprise by fiddling with the tea strainer. "You've never mentioned it." "I was married for nineteen years. I had a son and a daughter." He stirred sugar into his cup and sipped. "They were killed eleven years ago. All three, in an accident on the Beltway. Julie was twelve, Tyler was eight." "I'm so sorry." Why do those words always sound feeble, heartbreakingly inadequate? You wish and you search for better ones, but there aren't any. But Kirby said, "Thank you," as if he meant it, and that sad little ritual was over.
"Eleven years," he said after a pause. "It's a long time to be alone. It suited me at first. Not anymore." And he looked at me with frank meaning over the rim of his cup.
I stood up and went to the stereo, took his CD out of the player, put it back in the box. Leaned over and ran a finger across the titles in my music holder, looking for something suitable to accompany what I was going to say to him next. I couldn't find anything.
"Kirby. . . "I leaned back against the windowsill.
"You know about my breast cancer." He did-I'd told him months ago. It's not something I keep secret, but then again, I don't go around blurting it out to people, either. But I'd told Kirby. Just the bare fact of it, no details. "I thought that . . . maybe you thought I only had the tumor removed, a lumpectomy. Or that I had had reconstruction. But, no. I just have-nothing. Here." I gestured. "A prosthesis in my bra." Except for medical professionals, no one has ever seen my naked, asymmetric chest. Of late I had been coming, quite easily, to terms with the idea that no one ever would. And so I had stopped imagining myself having this unbelievably awkward - conversation with a prospective lover. - Kirby unwound his long legs and levered himself up from the floor, coming to stand in front of me. I folded my arms across my chest. His narrow face looked stern and ever so slightly impatient. "That doesn't matter to me in the slightest. I don't give a damn. I couldn't care less." "Well," I said. I believed him.
"Isabel, I'm falling in love with you." I moved away from him, shocked. That I didn't believe. I wasn't interested in falling in love with anyone. I've done that. Now I'm too old, too selfish, I want to concentrate on me, not someone who's falling in love with me.
"Oh, Kirby. I wish you hadn't said that:' He turned, and it was a huge relief to see that he didn't look miserable or angry or embarrassed. He looked thoughtful. He smiled. "Then I wish I hadn't said it, too:' He took something from his pocket and came toward -me, holding it out. A ring-I started back in horror. "I brought -down some-washers to try," he said mildly.
"You. . . What?" "The faucet in the kitchen. It's still leaking, isn't it?" I nodded stupidly.
"I'll see if I can fix it." He went out of the room, into the kitchen, and started puttering. - I sank down on the floor, right where I was. Grace hauled herself up from her place by the radiator, padded over, flopped down beside me. Grace loves Kirby, I mused, stroking her soft gray muzzle. Other than that, there wasn't a coherent thought in my head.
On Tuesday, I would be having my last six-month checkup. After that, assuming all was well, I'd only have to see my surgeon/oncologist once a year. Another breast cancer milestone. Petting Grace, staring into space, it came to me that I'd made a decision. If I was all right, no spread, no lumps or bumps, no fishy X rays-and I was sure there wouldn't be-then I would think, think about the possibility of a relationship with Kirby. Just consider it. No pressure, no timetables, no agendas. I'd just give it some
"Have you ever been married?" "Yes." "Really." I masked my surprise by fiddling with the tea strainer. "You've never mentioned it." "I was married for nineteen years. I had a son and a daughter." He stirred sugar into his cup and sipped. "They were killed eleven years ago. All three, in an accident on the Beltway. Julie was twelve, Tyler was eight." "I'm so sorry." Why do those words always sound feeble, heartbreakingly inadequate? You wish and you search for better ones, but there aren't any. But Kirby said, "Thank you," as if he meant it, and that sad little ritual was over.
"Eleven years," he said after a pause. "It's a long time to be alone. It suited me at first. Not anymore." And he looked at me with frank meaning over the rim of his cup.
I stood up and went to the stereo, took his CD out of the player, put it back in the box. Leaned over and ran a finger across the titles in my music holder, looking for something suitable to accompany what I was going to say to him next. I couldn't find anything.
"Kirby. . . "I leaned back against the windowsill.
"You know about my breast cancer." He did-I'd told him months ago. It's not something I keep secret, but then again, I don't go around blurting it out to people, either. But I'd told Kirby. Just the bare fact of it, no details. "I thought that . . . maybe you thought I only had the tumor removed, a lumpectomy. Or that I had had reconstruction. But, no. I just have-nothing. Here." I gestured. "A prosthesis in my bra." Except for medical professionals, no one has ever seen my naked, asymmetric chest. Of late I had been coming, quite easily, to terms with the idea that no one ever would. And so I had stopped imagining myself having this unbelievably awkward - conversation with a prospective lover. - Kirby unwound his long legs and levered himself up from the floor, coming to stand in front of me. I folded my arms across my chest. His narrow face looked stern and ever so slightly impatient. "That doesn't matter to me in the slightest. I don't give a damn. I couldn't care less." "Well," I said. I believed him.
"Isabel, I'm falling in love with you." I moved away from him, shocked. That I didn't believe. I wasn't interested in falling in love with anyone. I've done that. Now I'm too old, too selfish, I want to concentrate on me, not someone who's falling in love with me.
"Oh, Kirby. I wish you hadn't said that:' He turned, and it was a huge relief to see that he didn't look miserable or angry or embarrassed. He looked thoughtful. He smiled. "Then I wish I hadn't said it, too:' He took something from his pocket and came toward -me, holding it out. A ring-I started back in horror. "I brought -down some-washers to try," he said mildly.
"You. . . What?" "The faucet in the kitchen. It's still leaking, isn't it?" I nodded stupidly.
"I'll see if I can fix it." He went out of the room, into the kitchen, and started puttering. - I sank down on the floor, right where I was. Grace hauled herself up from her place by the radiator, padded over, flopped down beside me. Grace loves Kirby, I mused, stroking her soft gray muzzle. Other than that, there wasn't a coherent thought in my head.
On Tuesday, I would be having my last six-month checkup. After that, assuming all was well, I'd only have to see my surgeon/oncologist once a year. Another breast cancer milestone. Petting Grace, staring into space, it came to me that I'd made a decision. If I was all right, no spread, no lumps or bumps, no fishy X rays-and I was sure there wouldn't be-then I would think, think about the possibility of a relationship with Kirby. Just consider it. No pressure, no timetables, no agendas. I'd just give it some
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