“What’s yours?”
He looked at her and, trapped in her eyes again, felt impelled, but his name caught in his throat. He had not told it in so long that it felt too intimate to reveal it, like giving away a portion of his true self. Yet her eyes were intimate also, stealing into him, opening locked doors.
He breathed his name. “Simon.”
“Good night, Simon,” she said gently, and turned.
He reached for her urgently, “Wait.”
She halted and glanced back, worry flickering in her features.
He calmed himself. “If I come to see you here, will you invite me in?”
She gazed at him a moment, assessing him. “Yes, I think so.”
He could smile now, and perhaps that was why she still hesitated. She was very close. He leaned closer, mouth parted to inhale the scent of her. Was it dark veins that called to him, or her soft lips? He didn’t know. It made him dizzy. She almost swayed to meet him, her eyes drowning him, but she blushed and turned to the door again.
“Good night.”
“Until next time,” he whispered as she closed the door.
Walking back to the shops, he saw the boy with his mother. They had stopped so that she could adjust the scarf around his neck. I’d like to tighten it, Simon thought, and slipped into the shadows.
“Christopher,” the mother said, “you’ve been to the store several times now. I don’t see how you could get lost. When I saw all those policemen, I was really worried. Please don’t wander off like that.”
They began to walk again, and Simon followed. The child looked around as if he felt something. Simon let more distance come between them.
“We’ll have to bundle you up better tomorrow, when we go to school. That was a nasty burn. Your poor skin. It’s so delicate.”
The boy didn’t seem to be paying any attention to her, but looked all around him as if seeking something.
“That was a long nap you took today,” the woman continued. “Mrs. Cohen said she could hardly wake you. What a sleepyhead you are. You should sleep at night, like a good boy. Maybe some hot milk will help tonight.”
The child grimaced. The first sign that he had heard. They turned the corner.
“I’ve bought some yummy liver for dinner. You like that, don’t you?”
Simon let them go. The boy was well occupied now. He would check again later.
Simon wandered the streets. He looked in at the all-night Laundromat, but it was deserted. Eventually he went to the 7-Eleven. He sat on a wall outside and watched the people come and go.
Teenagers screamed up in worn but well-loved cars, to grab a six-pack and a package of Marlboros. A husband hurried in for next morning’s milk and left with a Playboy carefully secreted under his overcoat. Young men discussed The Game, in the light of windows plastered with signs touting ninety-nine-cent hot dogs, then slid off into the night in new machines. A drunk argued over the change from his five-dollar bill, mistaken lout. A girl pleaded with someone at the pay phone outside and stamped her feet either with cold or frustration, he couldn’t tell.
He made up stories about them—what he might say to them if he deigned to talk, where they might go. The multicolored, overpriced stock became the scenery on his stage, and he was the only audience.
Sometimes he drifted in and out of now, reminded of previous stories he had seen or been a part of. On one such time, drifting into focus again, he saw the back of a girl with long dark hair at the counter. Zoë, he thought hopefully. But she turned, and it wasn’t her.
When she left, he followed her anyway, out into the night. Nowhere else to go.
7
Zoë
Zoë was awakened by the phone ringing. It went on and on. When her father didn’t answer, she got up groggily and made her way to her parents’ bedroom. The door was open and the bed unmade. She picked up the phone. It was her father, and she was momentarily confused. Then she remembered with the rush of full awakening. He had been called away, late last night, to the hospital.
“Hi, Zo,” he said. “You did get back to sleep, then?”
“Yes.” She flushed guiltily at having to answer that way.