It was a journey of approximately five miles for Bill from the church to his apartment. In his poor state of fitness, such a distance was a long one, a very long one. He couldn’t remember the last time he had walked so far. In addition to the length, the way was mostly along multiple-lane roads, without much shade, and it was a warm, cloudless day. He had only gone a mile before he was dripping with perspiration and panting. Conveniently forgetting the part he had played, he vowed never to talk to Helen again, who had put him in such misery.
The shortest route would not take him past Donna’s hair salon, but when he came to the locale in which her business was, he suddenly decided to make a detour. He wanted to revisit the place where so many happy memories, foreshadowing great future happiness, had happened yesterday. Walking at a slow pace, wet with sweat, he was slightly hunched over from exertion and dragging his feet. Finally, he reached the storefront, which he had been so reluctant to enter the day before. He didn’t think about his past fear in entering that building, though. He only thought of Donna. Smiling with pleasant memories of how good she looked, he put his hands on the plate glass window and peered in. Although he saw the shop was closed, he hoped to glimpse a ghost of her and be gratified with that pale resemblance. But no, the salon was deserted. He stood awhile leaning against the glass, panting. When he had caught his breath and felt able to continue walking, a wave of euphoria came over him, as he remembered the upcoming date with Donna. In anticipation, he kissed the window lovingly, as if it were her.
Pedestrians going in and out of restaurants along the street stared at him, as he stood by the salon’s window, making a strange display of himself. Some of the people thought that urban blight was taking root in their idyllic suburban town, and something had to be done. Oblivious to them all and their criticisms, Bill turned from the salon window, smiling, and proceeded on his way with a lighter step.
Back home, after showering and gorging on bologna and cheese sandwiches to replenish all the calories his trek had burned, he was still elated by his visit to the empty hair salon and the train of thoughts it had triggered. He had such an emotional high that there was only one sensible thing to do: Swing dance. As the tunes of big-band dance music filled his apartment, he jittered and jived, dipped and spinned.
He imagined he was dancing with Donna in the ballroom of the famous Waldorf Astoria hotel in Manhattan, with a crowd of other young people. In his mind, everyone was whirling and twirling around, trying to out-dance him and Donna, but they were the best dancers on the floor. They were raising smoke all over the place. They were on fire. They were hot and unstoppable.
“Ow!” cried Bill, as he turned too quickly for the comfort of his lower back. He fell onto his couch, holding his hand back there. His dancing for the day was over. The momentary pain, however, could not erase the happy expectation he had for next Saturday. On that day, he would see his darling Donna again.
The next morning, on Monday, the first of five long days before the Saturday he could hardly wait for, Bill brought cupcakes to the office as a surprise treat for his coworkers. Infrequently, he did this when his personal life seemed to be on the up and up; an irrational, exuberant, abnormal urge would seize him, and, to share his momentary contentment, he’d splurge on something he knew his coworkers would eat. When he placed the box of ten cupcakes, each topped with a thick inch of frosting, on a table, he invited them all to help themselves. Claire had not yet arrived, but Katie and Debbie jumped up and hurried to the cupcakes, oohing and aahing and examining the assortment. Matt watched them. He wasn’t a cupcake aficionado like the women. However, if there were any left after lunch, he would claim it was a waste to throw out such fat and sugar mounds and finish them off, even the crumbs.
“This beats the oatmeal that I was going to have,” said Katie, taking her choice back to her seat. “Thanks, Bill.”
“Three-day-old cupcakes are better than oatmeal?” remarked Matt