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Authors: Orson Scott Card
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shower-head.
“This where you’re going to put the Jacuzzi?” asked Cindy.
“No, I’m going to keep it simple up here. I’m making the back of the south apartment into the master suite and the fancy stuff goes there.”
He didn’t even have to squat down to look at the toilet. A big crack in the bowl and serious waterstains around the base of it were all the information he needed.
“Toilet doesn’t look good?” she said.
“It ain’t a toilet anymore,” said Don.
“What is it?”
“Sculpture.”
She laughed. “I can see it on a pedestal downtown in the Arts Center.”
He liked her laugh. He wanted to listen to it again. He wanted to see if that moment would come again, when he’d actually want to be close to a woman, when the memory of his wife would disappear and he could see Cindy Claybourne as herself. “Listen,” he said, “you want to meet sometime, not in a bathroom?”
“I don’t know, I was just thinking that you bring a special je ne sais quoi to the discussion of plumbing fixtures.”
“OK, how about dinner in a place with really nice sinks?”
“The bathrooms at Southern Lights really have character,” said Cindy.
Don had taken his wife there the first time they went out to eat after the baby was born. He didn’t think he could go there without picturing that baby seat on the floor beside their table, the little face in repose, breathing softly as she slept. He quickly ran down the list of restaurants that he had gone to with clients but not with his family.
“Cafe Pasta,” Don said. “Art Deco.”
“I’ll go there, but only if you promise to share the sausage appetizer with me so both of us have garlic breath.”
Again she stood in front of him, looking up at him, smiling, and this time he seized the moment, reached up and touched her cheek, bent down and kissed her lightly, so lightly it was almost not a kiss, more of a caress of her lips with his. And then again, just a little more lingering, lips still dry. And a third time, his hand now around her waist, her mouth pressing upward into his, warm and moist. They parted and looked at each other, not smiling now. “I was just thinking that there’s more than one way for us both to have the same breath,” said Don.
“Who’s bending who, that’s what I’d like to know,” said Cindy.
“Bet you say that to all your clients.”
“After we close tomorrow, you’re not a client,” she said. “In fact you never were—you were a customer.”
“So what will I be when we go to Cafe Pasta?”
“A gentleman friend,” she said.
He liked the sound of it.
“When?” she asked.
“I’m not the one with an appointment book,” said Don.
“Tomorrow night?” she asked.
“Shower won’t be running by then.”
“Come over and use mine,” she said.
That startled him. It sounded like a come-on, and not for anything he thought of as romance. “No,” he said, perhaps too sharply. “Thanks, but let’s just make it Friday, OK?”
“If it’s Friday we’ll have to make a reservation.”
“You’re the one with a phone.”
“Glad to do it,” she said. She led the way out into the upstairs hall, and as she preceded him down the stairs, she said, “By the way, my offer to let you use my shower—that’s all it was. I’m not that kind of girl.”
“Good thing,” he said, “cause I’m not that kind of guy.”
“I know,” she said. As if she liked that about him. Maybe she wasn’t looking for the alpha baboon after all.
At the front door she stopped and held up a hand. “Don’t walk me to my car,” she said. “I’d just want you to kiss me again and we wouldn’t want to give the neighbors anything to talk about.”
“Fine,” he said. “See you in the morning.”
“Come by my office and we can drive to the closing together. The lawyer’s on Greene Street downtown and it’s hard enough to find one parking place, let alone two.”
“Eight forty-five,” said Don.
“Nice doing
“This where you’re going to put the Jacuzzi?” asked Cindy.
“No, I’m going to keep it simple up here. I’m making the back of the south apartment into the master suite and the fancy stuff goes there.”
He didn’t even have to squat down to look at the toilet. A big crack in the bowl and serious waterstains around the base of it were all the information he needed.
“Toilet doesn’t look good?” she said.
“It ain’t a toilet anymore,” said Don.
“What is it?”
“Sculpture.”
She laughed. “I can see it on a pedestal downtown in the Arts Center.”
He liked her laugh. He wanted to listen to it again. He wanted to see if that moment would come again, when he’d actually want to be close to a woman, when the memory of his wife would disappear and he could see Cindy Claybourne as herself. “Listen,” he said, “you want to meet sometime, not in a bathroom?”
“I don’t know, I was just thinking that you bring a special je ne sais quoi to the discussion of plumbing fixtures.”
“OK, how about dinner in a place with really nice sinks?”
“The bathrooms at Southern Lights really have character,” said Cindy.
Don had taken his wife there the first time they went out to eat after the baby was born. He didn’t think he could go there without picturing that baby seat on the floor beside their table, the little face in repose, breathing softly as she slept. He quickly ran down the list of restaurants that he had gone to with clients but not with his family.
“Cafe Pasta,” Don said. “Art Deco.”
“I’ll go there, but only if you promise to share the sausage appetizer with me so both of us have garlic breath.”
Again she stood in front of him, looking up at him, smiling, and this time he seized the moment, reached up and touched her cheek, bent down and kissed her lightly, so lightly it was almost not a kiss, more of a caress of her lips with his. And then again, just a little more lingering, lips still dry. And a third time, his hand now around her waist, her mouth pressing upward into his, warm and moist. They parted and looked at each other, not smiling now. “I was just thinking that there’s more than one way for us both to have the same breath,” said Don.
“Who’s bending who, that’s what I’d like to know,” said Cindy.
“Bet you say that to all your clients.”
“After we close tomorrow, you’re not a client,” she said. “In fact you never were—you were a customer.”
“So what will I be when we go to Cafe Pasta?”
“A gentleman friend,” she said.
He liked the sound of it.
“When?” she asked.
“I’m not the one with an appointment book,” said Don.
“Tomorrow night?” she asked.
“Shower won’t be running by then.”
“Come over and use mine,” she said.
That startled him. It sounded like a come-on, and not for anything he thought of as romance. “No,” he said, perhaps too sharply. “Thanks, but let’s just make it Friday, OK?”
“If it’s Friday we’ll have to make a reservation.”
“You’re the one with a phone.”
“Glad to do it,” she said. She led the way out into the upstairs hall, and as she preceded him down the stairs, she said, “By the way, my offer to let you use my shower—that’s all it was. I’m not that kind of girl.”
“Good thing,” he said, “cause I’m not that kind of guy.”
“I know,” she said. As if she liked that about him. Maybe she wasn’t looking for the alpha baboon after all.
At the front door she stopped and held up a hand. “Don’t walk me to my car,” she said. “I’d just want you to kiss me again and we wouldn’t want to give the neighbors anything to talk about.”
“Fine,” he said. “See you in the morning.”
“Come by my office and we can drive to the closing together. The lawyer’s on Greene Street downtown and it’s hard enough to find one parking place, let alone two.”
“Eight forty-five,” said Don.
“Nice doing
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