pants instead.”
“No. When someone is as hot as you, leggings make sense.”
“That’s nice. But I don’t want other men to think I’m hot. Only you.”
“Not something you have control over. Other men would think you’re hot even if you wore a four-man, REI expedition tent.”
Street bit the side of her bottom lip. “I’ve never even tried one on. Is that a new fashion?”
“It will be if you start wearing one.”
Street put on her long, black, summer-weight coat. We left Spot and Blondie in her condo and walked outside.
“Like boarding the emperor’s chariot,” Street said as she got into my dented, bullet hole-ventilated Jeep.
“My thought exactly,” I said.
She continued, “Only it’s missing the velvet cushions and the silk window coverings and the cello accompanist and the four white stallions rushing us off into the night.”
“Is not my Jeep the modern, romantic equivalent?”
She frowned and shook her head.
“Oh,” I said.
We drove south, turned up Kingsbury Grade, went past her lab and my office, and climbed up the winding drive to the Chart House Restaurant. They gave us a table by the big windows, and we looked across Lake Tahoe as the sun lowered behind the Sierra Crest. Street had shrimp, and I had salmon, and the Russian River Valley pinot noir was perfect with both.
Of course, Street declined sharing the chocolate lava cake, so I had to eat it all myself.
Through it all, she was my dream date, charming and smart and engaging. And while she always protests my attentions to her beauty, putting an unconscious fingertip to the acne scars, she was gorgeous in every way that I care about.
On the way home, there was a delicious Mozart piece on the NPR station. I pulled off at an overlook on the East Shore. There was a first quarter moon above the lake, its reflective stripe shimmering on the water. The snow fields on the distant peaks were spectacular.
“What is this?” Street said as I came to a stop. “My knight is looking for a nightcap?”
“Would that I shine my armor such that you should want to help me out of it.”
“Working on a poem?” she said.
“No. Mere mumblings of a man besotted with love.” I put my hand on her thigh.
“You mean lust.”
“One leads to the other.”
Street didn’t respond.
“I sense the trouble is back,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“Over the last few weeks, you’ve been distracted. This morning, especially, you seemed introspective.”
“I’m always introspective.”
“This time it’s different.” I rubbed my hand down her leg to her knee and cupped her kneecap. “I know something’s bothering you, but I can’t figure out what.”
Street was silent, her face staring ahead, at the lake, at the reflected moon stripe. In time, I heard her inhale and then slowly let the air out.
“I haven’t talked about it because I haven’t known what to say,” she said. “Yes, I’m troubled. But just thinking about it makes things worse. It’s a subject that worries me at best and terrifies me at worst.”
“No pressure,” I said. “Anytime you want to talk, I’m here.”
Mozart had given way to one of the romantic 19th century composers. Anton Bruckner maybe.
“Three months ago,” Street began, “I got an email from the Missouri Department of Corrections. I’m on their victim notification list.”
I knew what that meant. “Your father is coming up for parole?”
“Yes.” Street took some heavy breaths. “Missouri law allows me to make a statement at the parole hearing. But I couldn’t bear the idea of seeing him in person. So I made a video statement on my computer. I hated having to do it. Just thinking about him or talking about him is the essence of misery. Recalling how he beat up my brother…”
She breathed some more.
She continued, “The idea that Tom Casey would eventually be listening and watching my video statement made me sick. I could imagine his snide, mocking grin. I’ve
“No. When someone is as hot as you, leggings make sense.”
“That’s nice. But I don’t want other men to think I’m hot. Only you.”
“Not something you have control over. Other men would think you’re hot even if you wore a four-man, REI expedition tent.”
Street bit the side of her bottom lip. “I’ve never even tried one on. Is that a new fashion?”
“It will be if you start wearing one.”
Street put on her long, black, summer-weight coat. We left Spot and Blondie in her condo and walked outside.
“Like boarding the emperor’s chariot,” Street said as she got into my dented, bullet hole-ventilated Jeep.
“My thought exactly,” I said.
She continued, “Only it’s missing the velvet cushions and the silk window coverings and the cello accompanist and the four white stallions rushing us off into the night.”
“Is not my Jeep the modern, romantic equivalent?”
She frowned and shook her head.
“Oh,” I said.
We drove south, turned up Kingsbury Grade, went past her lab and my office, and climbed up the winding drive to the Chart House Restaurant. They gave us a table by the big windows, and we looked across Lake Tahoe as the sun lowered behind the Sierra Crest. Street had shrimp, and I had salmon, and the Russian River Valley pinot noir was perfect with both.
Of course, Street declined sharing the chocolate lava cake, so I had to eat it all myself.
Through it all, she was my dream date, charming and smart and engaging. And while she always protests my attentions to her beauty, putting an unconscious fingertip to the acne scars, she was gorgeous in every way that I care about.
On the way home, there was a delicious Mozart piece on the NPR station. I pulled off at an overlook on the East Shore. There was a first quarter moon above the lake, its reflective stripe shimmering on the water. The snow fields on the distant peaks were spectacular.
“What is this?” Street said as I came to a stop. “My knight is looking for a nightcap?”
“Would that I shine my armor such that you should want to help me out of it.”
“Working on a poem?” she said.
“No. Mere mumblings of a man besotted with love.” I put my hand on her thigh.
“You mean lust.”
“One leads to the other.”
Street didn’t respond.
“I sense the trouble is back,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“Over the last few weeks, you’ve been distracted. This morning, especially, you seemed introspective.”
“I’m always introspective.”
“This time it’s different.” I rubbed my hand down her leg to her knee and cupped her kneecap. “I know something’s bothering you, but I can’t figure out what.”
Street was silent, her face staring ahead, at the lake, at the reflected moon stripe. In time, I heard her inhale and then slowly let the air out.
“I haven’t talked about it because I haven’t known what to say,” she said. “Yes, I’m troubled. But just thinking about it makes things worse. It’s a subject that worries me at best and terrifies me at worst.”
“No pressure,” I said. “Anytime you want to talk, I’m here.”
Mozart had given way to one of the romantic 19th century composers. Anton Bruckner maybe.
“Three months ago,” Street began, “I got an email from the Missouri Department of Corrections. I’m on their victim notification list.”
I knew what that meant. “Your father is coming up for parole?”
“Yes.” Street took some heavy breaths. “Missouri law allows me to make a statement at the parole hearing. But I couldn’t bear the idea of seeing him in person. So I made a video statement on my computer. I hated having to do it. Just thinking about him or talking about him is the essence of misery. Recalling how he beat up my brother…”
She breathed some more.
She continued, “The idea that Tom Casey would eventually be listening and watching my video statement made me sick. I could imagine his snide, mocking grin. I’ve
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