t be her because her resemblance to you is from more than ten years ago when she was around your age. Stupid mistake on my part. But may I ask your name? Mine’s…I was thinking of saying I almost forgot it, but that’d be such a dumb joke. Martin Samuels,” and he’d stick his hand out to shake. If she was with someone, he’d ask that person’s name and shake hands. If she was with two or more people, he’d just say hello to them. The joke part, only if she was alone. Or probably not the joke part; too silly, so he’d just give his name. He actually thought of this while he was looking for her. If she wasn’t alone, he’d first apologize to her and whoever she was with for breaking into their conversation. He didn’t know what he’d do after he asked her name and gave his. It could be embarrassing, being the stranger of the group and just staying there, but he’d take the chance. Maybe he’d say “Well, nice meeting you all,” and walk away and try to catch her later if she was alone, now knowing her name and the introduction, of sorts, out of the way. Then he thought she might be in the hallway bathroom. When he passed it to look for her in Pati’s bedroom, the door was closed and he could see through the crack at the bottom that a light was on inside. Although someone could have left it on after using the room. He didn’t want to try the doorknob to see if it was locked. He didn’t want to give the impression he was trying to get the person inside to finish sooner. He stood outside the bathroom. This almost had to be where she was, he thought. And if she was in there, this’d be a good opportunity to speak to her alone when she came out, but another woman came out. He said “Hi,” went in and locked the door. He didn’t want the woman to think he’d been waiting outside the bathroom for nothing. And as long as he was in here, he thought, he should pee. He was going to have to do it soon anyway, what with the three or four Bloody Marys and bottle of water he had, and then he really might have to go and both bathrooms might be occupied. He peed, then went through the apartment looking for her again. Nah, it’s hopeless, he thought. He went into the bedroom for his coat. He didn’t see any reason to stay, now that she was gone. He knew nobody at the party but Pati and she was always getting or taking away things or introducing people. Birdbrain, he thought. For that’s what he should have done: got her to introduce him to that woman, but too late for that. He really hadn’t met anyone on his own here because he spent most of his time trying to meet that woman. He started to look for Pati to say goodbye. Then he told himself he’d call her tomorrow or the next day — probably tomorrow — to thank her for inviting him and to ask about this woman he tried speaking to but she was always surrounded by other people, and left. They waited for the elevator for about five minutes, maybe more. No, had to be more. There were long stretches when neither of them spoke and she looked mostly at the elevator, he mostly at her, and every so often she turned to him and smiled a bit mechanically and then looked back at the door. One time he said something like “We should seriously think about using the stairs. I’m sure the door down there will open or just need a good shove.” And she said “I told you: you go. I’ll go back to the party and tell Pati the elevator’s not working — yes, I concede; you were right all along,” and he said “Maybe I wasn’t.” “Anyhow,” she said, “she can call the super. But I’m not walking downstairs to get out of the building, at least not yet.” “It’s not that you’re in any way apprehensive of me,” and she said “Do you mean afraid of you? Of course not. You’re a friend of Pati’s, so why would I think that?” The surprising thing, he now thinks, was that they weren’t joined by anyone else from the party or floor, which had about eight apartments to it and it wasn’t late. The elevator came around then. He said “Like tie-ups on highways, no explanation when traffic finally gets moving,” and she said “I know, but hurray.” They got in the elevator and the door closed. “Think it’s safe?” she said, and he said “I now bet it was just someone unloading a whole bunch of packages or furniture.” “No,” she said, “it took too long.” “A huge piece of furniture could’ve got stuck in the elevator door or the person or persons kept the door open with something heavy while they carried some stuff into the apartment, and then got caught up in a phone call there,” and she said “Please, let’s get traffic moving.” He was nearer the button panel and said “Which floor should I push for you?” She looked at him as if she found the line peculiar or she didn’t quite know what it meant or something else but she didn’t smile or laugh, and he said “Just trying to be funny. I don’t know why I feel I always have to crack you up.” She said why would he want to? and reached past him and pressed the button for the ground floor and the elevator started moving — and he said something like “Before you think I’m entirely ridiculous or nuts — I’m not, the second one, anyway — let me in as adroit a manner as I can manage under the circumstances tell you why.” He said that what he was about to say must have been obvious to her at the party. He’d wanted to introduce himself to her since she got there but, and these were his exact words, “I didn’t have the guts.” Also, “and believe me, none of this is a line,” she was always talking to someone or several people and looking as if she was having a good time and he didn’t want to butt in. He must have made her uncomfortable, though, staring at her so much, and he apologized for that. They had to have been out of the elevator by now and might have been walking to the outside door. She said his staring, as he called it, wasn’t obvious to her because she didn’t remember seeing him at the party, and he said “Oh, you had to have, at least my shirt,” and opened his coat. “You see, I didn’t know it was going to be so formal an event.” His shirt was a long-sleeved rugby type, blue and yellow stripes with a white opened-neck collar. “I thought it was going to be a small informal get-together of friends Pati made at Yaddo this summer. I thought that because the day we left there, that’s what she said she was going to do this fall. I didn’t see anybody from Yaddo there. But I didn’t know she knew so many well-known painters and writers and high-powered critics and book editors and the like. I didn’t get to meet any of them but overheard people saying they were there and a couple of them I recognized. In fact, I was talking briefly with some writer a few years younger than I, who cut me off and said ‘Excuse me, so-and-so publishing bigshot just came in and I was told I should meet him.’ What a schmuck.” “He was only trying to push himself a little; that’s not too bad. But what I find curious is that I still have no recollection of you at the party.” He remembers she took a while buttoning her coat and wrapping her muffler or scarf around her neck and maybe even adjusting her gloves and cap before they went outside. “Oh, I was there, all right,” he said. “I know, but what I’m saying,” she said, or at least something like this, “is that I think I would have remembered you, as you said, from your shirt. I don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable, either. I certainly hope I’m not. Your shirt is just fine, and that it has long sleeves, even better for a late-fall party. But it does stand out in its own way and would have contrasted with all the jackets and ties and dress shirts. Were we ever in the same room together?” and he said “Oh, yeah. And by the way, you were very diplomatic just now and I don’t at all feel uncomfortable in what you said. At first I felt a bit odd at the party in this shirt, but I quickly got over it. But I even got so close to you in a couple of rooms — I’m afraid to even admit this bit of snooping, but here goes; I’ve just about told you everything else except, maybe, how surprised and disappointed I was when I saw you were suddenly gone from the party — that I… where was I? That I was able to see — that’s it — that you only half-finished your glass of red wine and left it on a coaster on a credenza and that you seemed to favor the smoked salmon and carrot sticks, but with no dip on them, of all the hors d’oeuvres and crudités on the food table. I also like carrot sticks, but with the dip. Anyway—” They had to be outside by now because he said something like “So, here we are. Which way you going? I live on the Upper West Side and was going to take the Broadway train.” “So do I,” she said, “—Upper Upper. But I’m taking the Lexington Avenue line to meet someone on the Upper East Side.” “Someone important?” and she said “If you mean in my life, a good friend.” “Which subway station, the one on Astor Place?” “There’s a closer one near Prince. I know how to find it from here.” “Would you mind if I walked you to the subway?” and she said “It isn’t necessary and would take you too far out of your way. And the streets down here on weekends are always crowded at this time, so I feel perfectly safe going alone.” “No, I’m sure you do. It’s just I only suggested it because I’ve enjoyed talking to you and I’d like to — you must’ve known this was eventually coming — for us to meet again. And not meet accidentally, at a future Pati party, let’s say, but intentionally. Willingly. Something. Prearranged. For coffee. Would that be okay with you? You can check with Pati first to see what she thinks of me. But she wouldn’t have invited me to her party — the only acquaintance from Yaddo there, as far as I saw, though maybe the others couldn’t make it — if she thought poorly of me. Oh, I don’t know what I’m saying. I’ve killed it, haven’t I?” “Why do you say that?” and he said “Because I’m just bumbling, bumbling.” “Really, you’re too tough on yourself. Sure, we can always meet for coffee one afternoon when I’m not teaching or busy with something else and you’re also free.” “Afternoons are good. Mornings too. I’m pretty much unemployed now except for my writing and what I make off of it, so I can meet anytime. It’s easy, and I don’t mind, breaking up my workday, because I can easily get back to it and usually with fresh ideas and better ways of saying what I was working on that I wouldn’t’ve had if I just continued writing without that break. I don’t know if that was clear, what I said, but I call them, these breaks, constructive interruptions. Anyway, I’m holding you up. So, great, we’ll meet. How should we arrange it?” and she said “Call, since I won’t know till I get home what my schedule’s like the next few weeks other than for my classes and office hours.” She gave her last name and the spelling of it and said he doesn’t need her address to find her in the Manhattan phone book since she’s the only Gwendolyn Liederman in it. “Nice to meet you, Martin. You go by Martin and not Marty, am I right?” “Always Martin. Kids called me Marty when I was young and I never liked it. I always pictured this tubby shlub, which I never was. Otherwise, I’m not so formal. Then I’ll call you, Gwendolyn. ‘Gwendolyn’ and not ‘Gwen’? They’re both nice.” “‘Gwen’ is fine,” she said, “although I like Gwendolyn better. But either. Goodnight.” She put her hand out, he shook it, and she started for the Prince Street station. “Sure you don’t want someone to accompany you?” he said. And she stopped and turned around. “I absolutely don’t mind going out of my way. It’s not that cold and I like to walk and I’ve nothing to do now but go home. Oh, that must sound ridiculously pathetic. Or pathetically ridiculous. Neither is what I intended it to be. It’s just that it’s still so early.” “Go back to the party, then,” and he said “No, I’ve already said goodbye to Pati. It’d seem too peculiar, coming back, ringing up to be let in, putting my coat on the bed again, etcetera. I’m happy to go home. I’ve plenty to do.” She nodded and resumed walking and he headed for the subway station on Canal Street. He looked back a short time later and she was gone. He remembers thinking she walks fast and disappeared as quickly as she did at the party. He hoped she wasn’t hurrying to meet up with a boyfriend. Weekend night; it makes sense. But if she was, why would she agree to meet him? Maybe to get rid of him and when he calls she’ll say she changed her mind and doesn’t think it necessary to give a reason why. Or the reason is that she’s seeing someone or she’s too busy with her work to meet anybody now, even for coffee. Or she might have agreed to meet him because she likes to take a break herself and the boyfriend she can always see in the evening. It’s all innocent, in other words, he thought, walking to the subway station: tantamount to nothing. She has no plans whatsoever in getting to know him better than as someone to meet once, and if she finds him interesting enough, maybe meet for coffee a second time, but just for talk. But he was so inarticulate and clownish with her, what could she have thought they could talk about? Her authors, for one thing, but she must know ten times as much about them than he does. He should have asked if she was presently seeing someone, he thought. Well, he sort of did, she skipped around it, and anything more on his part would have been prying. Later — a couple of months or so — he was thinking about the first time they met and said to her “If you were seeing some other guy when we first met, would you have agreed to meet me for coffee or even told me how to get your phone number?” “I doubt it,” she said. “I knew you were interested in me and I wouldn’t have wanted to lead you on. Of course, it all would have depended on how serious a relationship I was in.” “As serious as the one you’re in now?” and she said “Then, no.” “Semi-serious?” and she said “Maybe. Or maybe it would have had to be several notches below ‘semi.’ A relationship that wasn’t going anywhere or I was coming out of, with no chance of going back.” “Can I ask why you did agree to meet me?” and she said “The usual reasons. I wasn’t seeing anyone, hadn’t in a while, and I found you attractive and pleasant and smart—” “Smart? You thought I was smart? I acted like a complete putz.” “No, you didn’t. Let’s just say I saw past what you called that night your bumblingness.” “I didn’t say it that way exactly, but you were close. I’m surprised you remembered even that much of it.” “I also liked your nervous approach. You weren’t cocky or presumptuous or anything like that. But another thing that interested me was that you were a writer.” “Writers turn you on, eh?” and she said “No. But writing about them and their work is a lot of what I do. So I think I was interested in talking to you about your work and what got you started at it and how you go about doing it and what keeps you at it, and so on. I didn’t at the time have much of an opportunity to speak to a live writer.” “I’m sorry,” he said, “that was a stupid thing for me to say.” “It wasn’t one of your brightest remarks,” she said, “especially because you knew the answer.” “Okay, I won’t make that mistake again, or I’ll try not to.”