Early, since I first met you at Pati’s birthday party in late November — that night also turned out to be your parents’ wedding anniversary — waited a week before I called you for our first date — that mostly had to do with nerves on my part — but I called you for our second date the next day. By the way, you had liver and onions and I had an omelet at the restaurant. Because it was so cold out, I wanted to share a soup with you, but you didn’t want one. I think you thought it was too early in our knowing each other to share the same bowl — spoons I could have got two of — so I didn’t order it. You invited me up for a nightcap, you called it — your father’s brandy from Israel. I poured myself one. When you were in the bathroom I secretly poured myself another, a much larger shot — you didn’t know that,” and she said “Because you never told me, but it’s not important. You like your liquor — I know that.” “You mean all alcohol — wine, beer, aperitifs, and such — but never to excess. It’s true, and it’s not something I’m saying I like about myself, and I’m grateful you never made an issue of it, that there haven’t been many evenings in my adult life that I haven’t had a drink or two. We kissed, at the end of our second date, though didn’t fondle. Then you sent me home — out into the cold — but said before I left that you were glad I didn’t put any pressure on you to make love.” “That I remember — the liver and onions and soup I don’t — and I didn’t think it was an act. I was impressed by the respect you showed my wishes and your self-control. And our third date?” and he said “That was the night we first made love.” “After only three dates?” and he said “Two and a half, really. The first was just for coffee and tea and a short stroll, so I don’t know if we should consider it a full date.” “Consider it,” she said. “Otherwise, I come off as being too easy.” “Also, the third wasn’t a date. I called from the street. It was late. Ten. More like eleven. I doubt I would have called you later than that. I think I had a couple of drinks in me, not that I needed them to want to call and be with you. You told me, after I asked if you’d like to meet at the West End for a quick beer, that if I can make it to your apartment fast, then come. If not, call again, but at a more reasonable hour. So maybe it was a little before twelve and I called you later than I thought I should,” and she said “It seems like I never should have let you up. I don’t know what was in my mind. Probably the same as was in yours. But why didn’t you phone me earlier that night?” and he said “I was out, at a party—” and she said “You were at a party? I don’t remember that either. Haven’t we ever talked about this?” and he said “I guess we haven’t. Or we did when I got to your place but it was a very quick conversation, you might have been tired, me too, and we both forgot it. How I got to the party’s a bit complicated. My friend Manny had been invited and asked me to go with him. It was in the Twenties, Chelsea area, off Ninth Avenue. The couple who gave it lived in the entire three- or four-story brownstone and were giving a fundraiser for a new literary magazine that was going to, they said, pay major-magazine fees for fiction, poetry and articles. I don’t know how Manny, not your biggest reader, got invited. Maybe one of the hosts or editors worked at the same company as he — Pfizer — and he thought I’d be interested because of the type of magazine and its fees, and he also didn’t want to go alone.” “What magazine was it?” and he said “No name yet, and it never got off the ground. I suppose the fundraiser was a bust — I know I didn’t contribute any money — or the couple lost interest. But Manny seemed all right there. I was bored. The other guests were business people — lawyers, professionals, financial advisors, a college president…dull. So I left, started home — maybe now it was around eleven — but wanted some fresh air and exercise first, and after about half an hour into my walk uptown I thought of you — oh, I was probably thinking of you the whole walk — but why in hell I haven’t called you, so, quite simply, I called. That’s how I ended up at your place our first love night. Not a date, you see, or even a meeting, really. But a spur-of-the-moment something, or a whim or fancy, and I didn’t want it to be one, that ended up being agreeable to both of us, it seemed, and everything after that turned out to be okay. Well, not everything — we had our big breakup — but almost.” All but the end of that was a lie, and he never told her what really happened. Didn’t think it smart to, even after they’d been married a few years and had kids and their marriage, for the most part, was solid. And he still doesn’t know why he didn’t call her sooner — two days after he last saw her, at the most three, but best the next day. “Said I’d call. Even if I didn’t, you knew I’d call. Wanted to see you again. So here I am. You busy tonight or tomorrow night, and if not, the day after?” That’s all he had to say. It wasn’t that he was too busy to see her. All he was doing with his time was writing during the day and a little at night, but mostly reading at night, listening to music, seeing his mother at her apartment every other day around five for a drink, and sometimes around eight or nine meeting Manny for beers at O’Neal’s. He could spend his time like that, without holding down a regular job, because he was still living off the advance for his last book and the sale of a story to