Through the Heart by Kate Morgenroth Page B

and watched her. It’s not that I wasn’t used to that with the women I went out with. That was part of the pleasure of it. Half the time the women weren’t worth the bother, but the other men didn’t know that, and their envy was what I fed on. I loved having something they wanted.
    But for the first time, I felt something else. She seemed so naive, and I wanted to keep it that way, but I thought all it would take would be for her to look up and notice, really see how they looked at her, and it would be gone. That innocence would disappear. And then she would be like all the other women. Something priceless would have been lost.
    Maybe that’s what people love about their children. They see that pureness. That innocence. It’s irresistible. And then the kids grow up. Thinking about that, I was sure I didn’t want kids. How do you get over the heartbreak of seeing something perfect spoiled?
    When we sat down at the table, I looked across at her. “You are full of surprises,” I told her.
    I have always prided myself on being honest. But at that moment, I realized that I usually congratulate myself on being honest when I’m telling someone something unpleasant, something they don’t want to hear. And there is great power in that. Being honest about positive things—that lays you open. Of course, she didn’t hear it the way I meant it.
    “Believe me, this was as much of a surprise to me,” she said. And she left it at that. She didn’t do the thing that women so often do when they make some mistake and then get overly apologetic.
    “It’s not just the restaurant. You also had this hidden.”
    I have to admit, I think I said it just to have an excuse to reach out and touch her. To feel that hair. It was as heavy and silky as it looked. Like a doll’s. “You attract a lot of attention with that hair.”
    “That’s why I usually wear it up. But I think I’m pretty safe from attention here.”
    “Do you?” I asked.
    “In a room filled with families and screaming kids, yes.”
    “A man doesn’t stop being a man when he gets married and has kids,” I told her.
    It never made sense to me that this fact always seems to surprise women—that they somehow think a man will get married and then never notice a beautiful woman again, that he’ll never desire anyone other than his wife. How can you ever have a true relationship without understanding that instinct doesn’t get snuffed out by two words in a ceremony?
    And, unfortunately, it looked like her opinions were the same as the others’. She frowned at me, but then I saw her glance at my hand, and I realized she wasn’t frowning at the general concept; she was thinking that I was talking about myself.
    “My brother is married and has two kids. That’s how I know,” I said. But then I added, “And, just so you know, I think every man in here watched you as you crossed the room.”
    I looked around at the men, and then I noticed him. I couldn’t believe my radar hadn’t picked up on him before. A big guy. Blond. You could tell that he’d been good-looking at one point, but he was starting to lose it, as men often do when they settle into career and family, start eating too much from the boredom of it all, and then compound that by watching too much television as a way of trying to escape the trap of “have to’s” and checklists their life has become.
    This guy was sitting there, glaring at me like he wanted to strangle me, and I knew the girl I had sitting across from me wasn’t as free as she claimed to be. There was a man in this room to whom she belonged. I could see it in that glare. It was unmistakable.
    I said, “And there’s one over there to your right who is looking at me like he wants to kill me.”
    “Don’t be silly,” she said.
    I am not used to people accusing me of being silly. I didn’t like it.
    Then she looked over, saw what I saw, and her face changed.
    “Is there something I should know about?” I asked.
    “No.