Writers & Lovers - Lily King Page 0,50

he’s gone I wish I’d been a little slower.

I put my key in the lock. I’m in the mood to call my mother, that happy, shift in the wind mood. I calculate the time in Phoenix. Nearly noon. Perfect. The bolt retracts, and I remember she died.

Oscar calls me that afternoon at Iris during setup. ‘I’ve got my mother here on standby,’ he says. ‘She’s willing to give up her auxiliary meeting to help her smitten son.’ There’s a covered pause. ‘She wants me to tell you that it is not an auxiliary meeting. It’s a film group. Made up of very smart women with PhDs like herself she’ll have you know. Tomorrow night. Can you get free?’ He lowers his voice to an exaggerated whisper. ‘She thinks you’re too young for me.’ A howl in the background. ‘She says she did not say that.’

He has a mother, and I do not.

The calendar’s on the wall in front of me. Marcus just made the new schedule. I’m off tomorrow night. ‘Let me check.’

I cover the phone. I’m alone in the office so no one sees me. I stand there a long time. I can’t think. I want to go out with Silas one more time before I see Oscar again. I feel like there’s a misshapen ball in my lungs that isn’t leaving much room for air.

Marcus swoops in. ‘Get off my phone.’

I uncover the receiver. ‘Yeah. I’m free.’

On the way back to the kitchen I think about a scene in my book. Dana is telling me to help her set the twelve-top, but I go to the bar instead and write out a new idea on a cocktail napkin and shove it in my apron pocket. I have a whole stash of notes on napkins and dupes in my desk drawer for my next draft.

I can’t shake the anxiety that night. Usually I can run it off on the floor. On a busy night there’s no time for awareness of the mind or the body. There’s just extra vinaigrette to 21 and drinks to the deuce and two tables of entrées up at the same time. There are little jokes with Harry and Victor and Mary Hand as we collide at the computer or the food window. I can always lose myself in the rush. But that night I don’t. I stay apart. For the first time the stress of the job does not obliterate my awareness of the stress in my body. It enhances it.

When it’s over and we’re doing our totals, Harry pats my head. ‘What is going on in there?’

I can’t explain, so I say, ‘I feel like I should tell Oscar about Silas. I mean, he’s got kids.’

‘You’ve had a walk and a beer with him. I would be wary of the guy who locks in too soon. It’s a sort of premature commitulation.’ He laughs at his own joke then gets up to tip out the kitchen. He has a new crush on a surly line cook. I watch him push hopefully through the kitchen door. He can sound wise in love, but he’s bad at it, too.

I meet Oscar at a small restaurant called Arancia off Brattle Street. I didn’t want him to pick me up and see where I live. He’d want to come in and have a look around.

He’s talking to a couple outside on the sidewalk. He breaks away from them when he sees me coming.

He kisses me on the cheek. ‘Third date.’ He kisses me on the lips. ‘I have something for you. Shut your eyes.’

I feel something hard cover my head.

‘Perfect fit.’

I reach up. A bike helmet. I take it off. It’s silver and sleek and must have cost a lot.

‘Thank you. It’s lovely.’

He laughs. ‘I promise I will buy you something lovelier. But at least now I don’t have to worry about you cracking your head open.’ He slides his arm through mine, and we walk down the brick steps into the basement restaurant. It’s tiny. Eight tables. On the far wall a velvet curtain separates the dining room from the kitchen. The smells are Mediterranean: heated balsamic, shellfish, fig. I’m hungry. I hope he orders two courses. We wait at the door for someone to greet us.

‘Who were those people you were talking to?’

‘Tom and Phyllis McGrath. They were out for a stroll.’ He hesitates. ‘She was reading my book. Recognized the mug.’

‘That photo looks nothing like you.’ I harden my face and squint like a