people and tell them why you weren’t coming. I didn’t have a clue. Don’t put me in that position again.” The waiter was walking toward us, but Cynthia waved him off. “God, Andy, you didn’t even call to tell me you were leaving,” she whispered fiercely, her brow furrowed, arms thrown forward in agitation. “How hard is it to pick up a goddamn phone?”
I leaned forward and said calmly, “I was burned-out. I needed a break, and I didn’t feel like calling to ask permission. Now, that was my reasoning then, it was wrong, and I’m sorry. It won’t ever happen again.” She took a long sip of wine. I finished my glass and felt the glow of warmth in my cheeks. Reaching out, I touched her hand. Her eyes gasped.
“Cynthia. I’m sorry, okay? Will you forgive me?”
“You better smooth things with your editor, too.”
“Will you forgive me?”
A faint smile overspread her lips. “Yes, Andy.”
“Good. Let’s order.”
Cynthia had ordered the braised lamb shank with red-pepper sauce, and as the waiter set her plate down, her glassy eyes lit up. Then I watched with pleasure as my main course—mostaccioli, sun-dried tomatoes, capers, and seared bay scallops—was placed before me. Beneath the bed of pasta shimmered a vodka pink sauce. Before leaving, our waiter uncorked a second bottle of Bordeaux and refilled our wineglasses.
The scallops had taken on the flavor of the sweet tomatoes, and as one melted across my tongue, a grain of sand crunched between my molars. I sipped the wine—glimmers of plum, meat, and tobacco. It went down like silk. Experiencing the perfect balance of hunger and its satisfaction, I wanted to linger there as long as possible.
As the night wore on, I became preoccupied with the city. Drinking exceptional wine in one of New York’s finer restaurants, and watching a multitude of lights shining from the skyscrapers and boroughs, is one hell of a way to spend an evening. In the center of the constant twinkling, I knew that millions of people surrounded me, and in this way, the city became inhospitable to the lonely fear that threatened me.
“Andrew?” Cynthia giggled with a feigned English accent. “Too much wine for you.”
Turning slowly from the window to Cynthia, the restaurant swayed with my eyes. I was getting drunk. “That’s a beautiful city,” I said warmly.
“You ought to get a place here.”
“Hell no.”
“Are you implying there’s a problem with my city?”
“I don’t have to imply. I’ll just tell you. You Yankees are in too much of a damn hurry.”
“And that’s an inferior state of existence in comparison to the comatose South?”
“We southerners know the value of an easy day’s work. Don’t fault us for that. I think it’s just a little Yankee jealousy—”
“I find the word Yankee to be an offensive term.”
“That’s ’cause you’ve got a muddled definition in your head.”
“Clarify, please.”
“All right. Yankee: a noun defining anyone who lives north of Virginia, especially rude, anal northerners who talk too damn fast, don’t understand the concept of sweet tea and barbecue, and move to Florida in their golden years.” Cynthia laughed, her brown eyes glistening. I looked into them.
They hemorrhaged, and I turned toward the window, my heart throbbing beneath my oxford shirt and saffron tie.
“Andy?”
“I’m fine,” I said, trying to catch my breath.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” Staring out the window into Queens, I grasped for composure, telling myself the lie again.
“You seem so different lately,” she said, bringing the wineglass to her lips.
“How so?”
“I don’t know. Since this is the first time we’ve been together in almost a year, it may be an unfair assessment on my part.”
“Please,” I said, stabbing a scallop with my fork, “assess away.”
“Since your vacation, I’ve noticed a change in you. Nothing drastic. But I think I’ve known you long enough to tell when something’s wrong.”
“What do you think is wrong, Cynthia?”
“Difficult to put into words,” she said. “Just a gut feeling. When you called me after you returned this summer, something was different. I assumed you were just dreading the book tour. But I feel the same detached vibe coming from you even now.” I finished another glass of wine. “Talk to me, Andy,” she said. “You still burned-out?”
“No. I know that really worries you.”
“If it’s a woman, tell me and I’ll drop it. I don’t want to pry into your personal—”
“It’s not a woman,” I said. “Look, I’m fine. There’s nothing you can do.”
She lifted her wineglass and looked out the window.
Our waiter came for our plates. He described a diabolical raspberry-chocolate soufflé,