Bird in Flight? Bird Taking Wing? — which, if it isn’t a Brancusi reproduction, he thought, is a rip-off of his style. He picked it up carefully — all he needs, he thought, is to drop and break it, and on the coffee table? — oh, my God — and turned it over and looked at the bottom. Etched into it was “A ma Gwendoline cherie. Jean-Luc Bertrand, Paris, 23.10.74.” Cherie. Dear? Was he a lover, friend? Anyway, four years ago. He put it back on the coffee table. She came out—“Sorry,” she said — and sat at the end of the couch nearest the chair. “Think I should take the aspirins now? It’ll also give me something to drink. I don’t want you drinking alone. You okay, Martin?” and he said “Sure, why? Anything wrong?” “No; just asking.” She went into the bathroom, same squeak from before but this time he heard water running, came back with a glass of water. “Oh, I don’t want to drink from the glass I rinse my mouth with. Using it for the aspirins is another thing,” and she went into the kitchen, came back with a different glass of water, sat in the same place on the couch—“This is my third glassful; you said to drink a lot”—drank some more and they talked. Camus. The drawing. Who did it? He wouldn’t know the artist, she said. And the other works? Most of them are by friends. Some she bought; some are gifts. And the sculpture? “Is it a real Brancusi?” and she said “If it were, I’d keep it behind Plexiglas in a vault and wouldn’t be able to enjoy it,” and he said “I didn’t think so. I like it. A little bit of forgery, but it’s good. Gift too?” and she nodded. “You’re lucky to have so many good artist friends.” Her work, his. The meal tonight. “I’d go back,” she said. How she might have drunk too much beer and wine, “but I told you that; hence, the aspirins and drowning myself in water. Are you all right in the armchair? You seem to be squirming. At least you’re not sneezing and tearing up from all the cat hair. It’s their favorite place during the day.” “I don’t mind,” he said. “And I don’t seem to be allergic to anything. Where’d they go?” and she said “There’s a shelf in the back of the kitchen that they usually stop off at before climbing into bed with me. I always have it set up with towels for them to lie on. Also, it’s an uncomfortable chair you’ve chosen, Martin. You should move to the couch.” “To be honest, it is a bit uncomfortable, but it’s a lot more comfortable than the Morris chair I have at home. Do you mind?” and he got up, and she said “It was my suggestion,” and he sat at the other end of the couch. “And that’s right,” she said; “it’s called a Morris chair. I knew it was some name like that, but I thought ‘Melvin.’ Only kidding, but I really wasn’t sure what name it was. A friend gave it to me with worn-down cushions. I meant to get the chair reupholstered, but so much for what I want to do and do. I shouldn’t let anyone sit in it. I should put a rope across it, as they do in museums, and a sign on the seat that says ‘Please do not sit.’ Does yours also have an adjustable back?” and he said “I think they all do. It was designed and I think even first crafted by a nineteenth-century British poet,” and she said “I know. Melvin Morris. Quite the Renaissance man.” She’s funny, he thought. But why’d he have to act like such a pedant? Nineteenth-century. British poet. First crafted. What bullshit. She dealt with it nicely, though. He wanted to move closer to her and take her hand. It’d be a start. Wanted to end up kissing her. For the pleasure of it and to get the first out of the way. Does it mean anything that she invited him up here and then to sit on the couch with her? he thought. Doesn’t have to. Could be just what she said: that she wanted him to be warm before he headed home, and to get him out of an uncomfortable chair. Wasn’t that uncomfortable to him but it might be to her and other guests. Anyway, what should he say to get some action going? “Do you mind if I move a little closer, and not because this part of the couch is uncomfortable?” “Mind if I move closer to you?” he said. “I feel so far away.” “Sure, move closer,” she said, “there’s plenty of room,” and he moved to about a foot from her. He was on her right. She put her glass on the coffee table; it didn’t seem in anticipation of anything from him. He reached over for his brandy glass with his right hand and touched her right hand with his left. Did it intentionally, and immediately pulled it away. “Was my hand cold?” she said. “It feels cold,” and he said “No, it was fine. Actually, I barely touched it, so I really couldn’t tell. But funny you should bring it up, because it was something I was just wondering myself. If your hand could be cold from your glass. A thought that came out of nowhere.” “Oh, come on,” she said, “you didn’t think it,” and he said “I did, really; I don’t know why. Here,” and he sipped some brandy and put the glass back on the coffee table, “let me touch it once more.” “Why?” she said, and he said “I don’t know. To touch it. To make it warm.” “So it was cold,” and he said “No, it wasn’t, or only a little, but I only touched it a second, so I’m not sure. Let me make the definitive test. I’ll take your hand and tell you if it’s as cold as you think. Of course, it might be warm now and get cold from my hand having held the cold brandy, but I don’t think so.” “We’re being silly,” and he said “You mean I’m being silly, and I know. But is it all right? Your hand?” and she said “If you like.” He took her right hand in his and held it. “It’s warm,” he said. “Maybe it was cold before for some reason, but it’s warm now.” He put his left hand over his mouth like a megaphone and said “No cold hand, I have to report. And the other hand wouldn’t be cold because you didn’t hold the glass with it.” He put his left hand under the hand he held. “You have small hands. I do too, for a man my height, but mine are small and fat, while yours are not small, I’m saying, for a woman, and thin. Normal.” He took his left hand away, raised her hand to his face and kissed it. “I was about to say ‘You’re not going to kiss my hand,’” she said, “but you beat me to it.” “Did you mind?” and she said “Uh-uh.” “May I kiss it again?” and she said “No. Hands aren’t very clean, even after you wash them. They should be scrubbed with a brush and I didn’t do that.” “But is it still all right to hold it?” and she said “Yes, you can hold it.” “May I hold both?” and she said “If you want.” He took her other hand with his left. Then they just stared at each other and he smiled and she did and he inched closer to her, still holding her hands, and kissed her forehead a few times and then her cheek once or twice, all with his eyes open — she closed hers every time he kissed her — and then he closed his eyes and kissed her lips. When they came apart, he was no longer holding her hands. It had happened without him knowing it. Maybe she’d pulled her hands out of his. Maybe she did it without knowing it. They stared at each other again and then smiled at the same time. He put his arms around her, and she put her right arm on top of his left and around his shoulder and then took it away — it must have been uncomfortable for her or she thought it’d be uncomfortable for him — and they kissed again, a much longer one. Her lips were soft, breath sweet, skin soft, hair falling over her cheek smelled sweet. While they were kissing a third time, he opened his eyes and saw hers were closed. She looked like she was sleeping. They kissed some more. She said once when they were separated but he was still holding her “That was nice,” and he said “I know…I mean, it was.” During their last kiss — there must have been five, six — he put his hand under her shirt in back and rubbed her waist and lower back and then moved his hand to the side and up and a little over in front till it covered the left cup of her bra. She said “Please don’t,” and straightened up and took his hand out and held it and said “Too fast. And it’s getting late for me. And I don’t feel right about it just yet,” and he said “About me?” and she said “The fondling.” “That’s fine, there’s always another day, and this has been so nice, I can’t tell you how much. Being with you, the West End, dinner, having a brandy here; kissing, of course.” She let go of his hand and pulled down her shirt.” “The brandy was drinkable?” and he said “You bet. Not quite R.S.O.P., or whatever the initials are on the French brandy and Cognac bottles, but I’m hardly complaining. About anything, and it warmed me up for the outside.” “Want to finish what’s in your glass?” and he thought Should he? No, let it go so she’ll think he can leave some behind, and said “Thanks; I’ve had enough.” He stood up and said “I should get my coat.” “Let me get it for you,” she said, standing up. They went to the coat closet. She got his coat off its hanger and gave it to him and he put it on and buttoned up. “You should get a warmer coat,” she said. “It’s not even January,” and he said “I should; one down to my knees and maybe with a fleece-lined hood. So—” and then “My muffler,” and picked it up off the closet floor. “Sorry. I didn’t put it there. And your cap?” and he said “In my pocket. So, I’ll call you?” and she said “I’d like that.” “One more kiss?” and she said “Just one, a little one. Then you have to go.” They kissed, longer and deeper than a little one, but she let him. He should have just made it a quick little one, he thought; done what she’d asked. Well, it won’t ruin anything. He stepped back and said “I want you to know I really, really enjoyed myself tonight. I’ll even throw in another “really,’” and she said “Thank you.” “Now I have to, though it’s very difficult for me to, go,” and he turned around and tried opening the door. There were two locks and he tried several times but couldn’t get them unlocked at the same time. “It’s tricky,” she said, and unlocked and opened the door. “Bye,” he said, and touched her shoulder. “You don’t have gloves?” and he said “Did I leave them in the restaurant or bar, or did I even take them with me tonight?” “I don’t remember them,” and he said “I’m sure I left them home. If not, I have a duplicate pair, bought when I thought I’d lost the original one.” “Also,” she said, “thank you for not trying to push me into something. It wouldn’t have worked but I’m glad you didn’t try,” and he said “No, I like the way the evening ended.” “Goodnight. If you don’t mind, I won’t wait till the elevator comes. A breeze whooshes into the apartment from the broken window by the stairs there,” and he said “Not at all. Go inside. Stay warm. I’ll be fine.” He rang for the elevator a few feet away and she closed the door. The elevator came. Two women were on it. “Good evening,” he said, and one of the women said “Hello.” “It’s a nice night,” he said, as the elevator descended. “Brisk and clear and not harsh.” “Riverside Drive is always ten degrees colder than the rest of the West Side,” one of the women said, and he said “Is it? Probably because of the wind and river.” He stepped aside so the women could leave first. One of them said “Thank you,” and they both went through the revolving door. He said “Goodnight, Cal” to the nightman behind the cubicle’s window. Cal waved to him, and he went outside. I can’t believe I’m so lucky, he thought, feeling his jacket pocket to make sure he still had his book with him. Again: hadn’t gone to Yaddo, wouldn’t have met Pati, wouldn’t have met her. The girl of my dreams and a great kisser. He doesn’t remember if he took the subway or the Broadway bus home. Knows he thought of waiting for the downtown bus across the Drive, but that might mean a long wait and it was very cold.