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Authors: Valerie Martin
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temperature of 30 degrees, with rain and wind by midnight. And here it was, eleven-thirty and 65 degrees. The sky was clear, black, and fathomless overhead.
She followed Aaron, who didn’t look back until he had reached the far end of the patio. When he turned she came up to him slowly. “Is this far enough, do you think?” she asked, teasing.
“No,” he said. “But there’s a wall here.”
She stood near him and they looked back at the house. It was so brightly lit that it seemed to be ablaze, and the noise of voices and music poured out the windows and doors like a liquid. Anne detected a melody she knew. “Oh, I like that record,” she said.
“Who is that?” Aaron listened, then smiled. “Oh, that’s Gato Barbieri. Do you like him?”
“I like that record,” she said dreamily, for the music, even at this distance, was languorous and exotic. “It’s pretty romantic though.”
She met his eyes but he looked away. He had his hand on a branch of a crape myrtle tree, and his arm was so raised that Anne stood in the shadow of it. “I’m going to have to leave soon,” he said, shaking the ice in his glass. “As soon as I finish this drink.”
“I’m a little tired too,” Anne lied.
Then he didn’t move, nor did he speak. She stood looking down into her drink. She could feel his eyes on her hair and on her shoulders and she thought that he would touch her, but he didn’t. She looked back toward the house, taking in the whole patio of people, none of whom, she saw, was looking in their direction. Say something, she told herself, but she couldn’t think of anything. Aaron lifted his drink and sipped it; she heard the clinking sound of the ice, but she didn’t look at him. The music was growing more emotional; it exacerbated her desire. She put her drink down at her feet and turned so that she faced the young man, so that she was very close to him, but she didn’t meet his eyes because, she thought later, she didn’t think it was necessary. Instead she placed her hands lightly on his shoulders and raised up on her toes, for he was several inches taller than she. She had barely touched his lips with her own when he pulled away. “No,” he said. “No, thank you.”
She dropped back on her heels.
“I’m really flattered,” he said. “I really am.”
She shook her head, hoping that this moment would pass quickly, that she could shake it away, but time seemed to seep out slowly in all directions like blood from a wound.
“Now I’ve hurt your feelings,” he said.
She looked at the wall past his shoulder, at the bricks between her own feet. She could not look at him, but she moved out of his path. “Please go,” she said, and he agreed. Yes, he would go. He apologized again; he had no wish to hurt her feelings; he was really so flattered…She cast him a quick look, enough to be sure that he was as uncomfortable as she. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m all right. But please leave now.”
“Yes,” he replied. “I’ll go.” And he walked away. She didn’t watch him cross the patio. She waited for what seemed a long time, without looking at anything or thinking of anything, as if she were stone. Then she was aware of being cold. The temperature had plummeted in a few minutes, and the other people on the patio were moving indoors, looking about, as they went in, at the trees and the empty air, as if they could see the difference they felt. Anne followed them, but no one spoke to her. Inside, her friend caught her by the arm and pulled her into the kitchen. “What happened?” she asked. “Aaron just left in a hurry. Are you meeting him somewhere?”
Anne smiled; she could feel the bitter tension of her own smile. “I made a pass at him and he turned me down.”
“He did what?” Her friend was outraged.
“He said, ‘No, thank you.’ ”
“That little prick!”
“I’ve never made a mistake like this.” Anne paused, then added, “I was so sure of
She followed Aaron, who didn’t look back until he had reached the far end of the patio. When he turned she came up to him slowly. “Is this far enough, do you think?” she asked, teasing.
“No,” he said. “But there’s a wall here.”
She stood near him and they looked back at the house. It was so brightly lit that it seemed to be ablaze, and the noise of voices and music poured out the windows and doors like a liquid. Anne detected a melody she knew. “Oh, I like that record,” she said.
“Who is that?” Aaron listened, then smiled. “Oh, that’s Gato Barbieri. Do you like him?”
“I like that record,” she said dreamily, for the music, even at this distance, was languorous and exotic. “It’s pretty romantic though.”
She met his eyes but he looked away. He had his hand on a branch of a crape myrtle tree, and his arm was so raised that Anne stood in the shadow of it. “I’m going to have to leave soon,” he said, shaking the ice in his glass. “As soon as I finish this drink.”
“I’m a little tired too,” Anne lied.
Then he didn’t move, nor did he speak. She stood looking down into her drink. She could feel his eyes on her hair and on her shoulders and she thought that he would touch her, but he didn’t. She looked back toward the house, taking in the whole patio of people, none of whom, she saw, was looking in their direction. Say something, she told herself, but she couldn’t think of anything. Aaron lifted his drink and sipped it; she heard the clinking sound of the ice, but she didn’t look at him. The music was growing more emotional; it exacerbated her desire. She put her drink down at her feet and turned so that she faced the young man, so that she was very close to him, but she didn’t meet his eyes because, she thought later, she didn’t think it was necessary. Instead she placed her hands lightly on his shoulders and raised up on her toes, for he was several inches taller than she. She had barely touched his lips with her own when he pulled away. “No,” he said. “No, thank you.”
She dropped back on her heels.
“I’m really flattered,” he said. “I really am.”
She shook her head, hoping that this moment would pass quickly, that she could shake it away, but time seemed to seep out slowly in all directions like blood from a wound.
“Now I’ve hurt your feelings,” he said.
She looked at the wall past his shoulder, at the bricks between her own feet. She could not look at him, but she moved out of his path. “Please go,” she said, and he agreed. Yes, he would go. He apologized again; he had no wish to hurt her feelings; he was really so flattered…She cast him a quick look, enough to be sure that he was as uncomfortable as she. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m all right. But please leave now.”
“Yes,” he replied. “I’ll go.” And he walked away. She didn’t watch him cross the patio. She waited for what seemed a long time, without looking at anything or thinking of anything, as if she were stone. Then she was aware of being cold. The temperature had plummeted in a few minutes, and the other people on the patio were moving indoors, looking about, as they went in, at the trees and the empty air, as if they could see the difference they felt. Anne followed them, but no one spoke to her. Inside, her friend caught her by the arm and pulled her into the kitchen. “What happened?” she asked. “Aaron just left in a hurry. Are you meeting him somewhere?”
Anne smiled; she could feel the bitter tension of her own smile. “I made a pass at him and he turned me down.”
“He did what?” Her friend was outraged.
“He said, ‘No, thank you.’ ”
“That little prick!”
“I’ve never made a mistake like this.” Anne paused, then added, “I was so sure of
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