Romantic Trapezoid. Victor L. Cahn
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Day weekend, as they dawdled over a lobster dinner on the tip of Cape Cod, when he broached the subject brazenly.
“Where do you figure we’ll be in five years?” he asked.
“Who knows?” she sighed. “Happy, I hope.”
“Do you ever plan more specifically?”
“Not really. Do you?”
“All the time.”
“Really?”
“Really. I even think about marriage. Do you?”
“Not if I can help it.”
For the rest of the weekend and through the next month, she resisted all speculation about making their arrangement full-time and permanent.
Today, however, he was determined.
Amidst the heavy heat of a Manhattan summer, he was ready to state his case. Unfortunately, as if to drive him over the edge, she was late once more, and as usual he was left to wonder whose company she was sharing. Was it Brendan, the real estate honcho? Or Marcel, the record promoter? Perhaps Tad, the tennis pro. Even more annoying, despite the air conditioning inside her apartment, hot blasts from outside seemed to envelope him, and under his sports shirt, sweat dripped down his arms.
The time was 4:40. She had promised to be home by one.
As Dave’s impatience grew, so did his resolve. He decided that as soon as she entered, even before dinner, he would present an ultimatum to the effect that he loved her, that they were meant to be together, and that further delay was unacceptable.
Yet how could he express these sentiments without resorting to repellent melodrama? How could he communicate that marriage would not crush her spirit but elevate it; that her flitting about with Lou or Jack or Biff (she actually knew someone named “Biff”) would eventually leave her not euphoric, but empty?
He had no idea.
At four-forty-seven, he was about to turn on the television to check the stock report, when he heard the elevator door, then the familiar click of her heels before they touched the corridor carpet.
At that sound, he was seized by an impulse, and without regard for consequences, he yielded to it.
He scurried to the bedroom closet, removed his suitcase, brought it to the dining room table, and laid it open. Then he approached the dresser drawer that held some of his apparel.
He heard the front door unlock.
He did not look up, but selected a pair of shorts that he carried to the suitcase.
“Hiya!” came her familiar lilt.
“Hello.”
From the corner of his eye he noted that she carried packages of clothing that she dropped on a living room table. He also observed that she wore the stunning combination of a short skirt, a tank top, and heels.
“Can you get the key from the door?” she asked.
“Of course.”
He walked to her, kissed her (and felt the customary tang of her response), withdrew the key, closed the door, lay the key next to her with an ostentatious “pling,” and returned to the dresser.
“This city was a madhouse!” she said.
“Was it?”
She kicked off her shoes, and began to open the boxes.
Dave’s instinct was to help, but instead he selected another pair of shorts that he folded inside the suitcase.
“Maybe it was the heat,” she continued. “But everybody was rushing and shoving. Bring me a glass of water, will you?”
“Right away.”
He paced nonchalantly to the refrigerator, poured a tall glass of Evian, and took it to her.
“Thanks.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Fighting the urge to embrace her, Dave returned to the suitcase and refolded his shorts.
“Hmmm! I needed that!” She exhaled and lay back against the couch until at last she noticed his activity. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
She sat up. “Yes, you are. You’re packing.”
Dave looked down. “Apparently I am.”
“What for?” She walked to him. “What’s all this about?”
The crucial moment had arrived. “I don’t know,” said Dave. “It just seemed like the thing to do.”
Melissa stared at him. “I don’t understand. Does this mean you’re leaving?”
“Well . . .”
“Are you?”
Dave gathered himself. “I guess so.”
To maintain momentum, and to avoid further queries, he retrieved the rest of his shorts, and placed them in the suitcase.
“But why?”
“Lots of reasons.”
“Like what?”
“No need to bother with them.”
“Yes, there is. I mean, you’re making a big move. Don’t I deserve an explanation?”
“I suppose.” He paused.
Her eyes opened wide. “Well?”
“Well . . .” What should he say? To delineate specifics would sound petty. Better to act as though he were burdened by a pervasive, yet indefinable melancholy.
Instead, Melissa filled the silence. “If it’s about my being late . . .”
“That’s only part of it—”
“Because I’m sorry, but traffic was murder.”
“Of course it was.”
“And I came all the way from fifty-ninth street!”
Sensing that she was off-balance, Dave stood still and smoothed the small pile he had created.
Meanwhile she persisted. “If you want me to explain—”
“Don’t bother.”
“Then I‘m sorry, but I don’t understand what’s happening!”
For a moment Dave weighed the intonation of her voice, which seemed to have acquired the hint of a quiver. Seeking to maintain his advantage, he turned to her. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Not exactly.”
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting?”
“A while, I suppose.”
“And do you have any idea how often this happens?”
“More than it should?”
“Every week.”
“Then why don’t you come later?”
“Because every week you promise that you’ll be on time, and every week you leave me sitting like a fool.”
“What can I say? Things happen.”
“Couldn’t you at least call me?”
“You don’t carry a cell.”
Dave pointed to a living room end table. “I believe that’s a phone right there.”
“But I didn’t know you were here.”
“I told you I’d be here.”
“You might have been late.”
“Have