the local color crowd. We got together, chastely, a month ago and took in a traditional Irish dance troupe at the Silver Legacy, but I don’t plan to look her up again. Anita had ugly opinions about the Asians who patronize her table, and though I humored her bigotry at first, I hated myself for it afterwards. She’s one of those
women who take up right-wing views as a substitute for a pistol or can of Mace—in self-defense, as a warning to creeps and stalkers. It’s tiresome armor. Time-consuming, too. The Kennedy family this, the World Bank that.
In truth, I don’t have much time for Alex, either, assuming that we have prospects, which I doubt. No, the challenge for us will be to separate without so much as a gesture toward this evening. We’ll have to use the descent to drift apart and retract any curiosity we’ve shown. To confirm to ourselves that we worked best as strangers.
It’s time to bore each other, if possible.
“California tomorrow,” I say when she returns, rosy-cheeked and smelling of moist towelettes. “You know how, in magazine food surveys you read, it rivals New York now? I think that’s wrong.”
“How so?”
“I just think it’s wrong. Where you headed after Reno?”
“Back to Salt Lake City. I just moved there.”
“Are you a Mormon?”
“No. They’re trying, though. I like having people coming to the door.”
“They wear undergarments they claim are bulletproof. I swear it. They’ll tell you stories of stopping bullets.”
“I haven’t heard that one yet.”
“Just date a Mormon.”
“I thought they didn’t date.”
“They date like mad. And they’re ready with the engagement ring, first night.”
I stop. This is getting too interesting, too personal.
“You’re sure it was
my
cat you saw, not someone else’s? They lose them, I’ve heard. People’s pets wind up in Greece.”
“What’s that movie called,
Amazing Journey
? The one where the family relocates to a new town and their dog walks a thousand miles or something to find them? I think it fights a bear along the way.”
“There are more than one of those movies. It’s a genre.”
“I know that word, but I’ve never quite spit it out. Pronunciation anxiety.”
“I know. I’m like that with ‘cigarillo.’ Hard
l
?”
“For me.”
“I don’t think that’s right, though.”
“I’ll check sometime.”
It’s working: we’re barely looking at each other and there’s the Reno skyline. Ten more minutes. The only threat is our pride; mine smarts a little. Our agreement—the one I drew up for both of us—called for a tender, reluctant edging away, not total detachment. Can’t we reassess this? After all, this is Reno we’re visiting, a city whose whole economy is founded on errors in judgment and doomed trysts. Can’t we at least acknowledge the bitter tang of having grown so prudent with our bodies?
No, because now the drunk is acting up again, heckling the flight attendant for cutting him off. He flicks an ice cube at her, cackles, snorts, his face a chaotic red clown’s mask. Alex flinches. Given how much she flies, she should be used to this—these outbursts of entitled rage—but she cowers like a baby rabbit. My chance to put a fatherly arm around her? I’m considering it when the copilot strides up, cinematically handsome in his uniform and cutting such a capable male figure that any protective move on my part would only come off as puny and derivative. He threatens the drunk with arrest when we touch down. He raises one arm. The drunk sputters, then falls silent. The copilot orders the man to fetch the ice cube and stands there, hands on his hips, while he bends down.
The miniature drama has sealed us in our own skins. Alex retrieves her inhaler. She looks spent. She’s ready to pick up her kitten, hail a cab, and curl up in bed to the sound of
Headline News
. She’ll eat a room service salad with the curtains drawn, then sneak a Snickers from the mini-bar. She’ll
women who take up right-wing views as a substitute for a pistol or can of Mace—in self-defense, as a warning to creeps and stalkers. It’s tiresome armor. Time-consuming, too. The Kennedy family this, the World Bank that.
In truth, I don’t have much time for Alex, either, assuming that we have prospects, which I doubt. No, the challenge for us will be to separate without so much as a gesture toward this evening. We’ll have to use the descent to drift apart and retract any curiosity we’ve shown. To confirm to ourselves that we worked best as strangers.
It’s time to bore each other, if possible.
“California tomorrow,” I say when she returns, rosy-cheeked and smelling of moist towelettes. “You know how, in magazine food surveys you read, it rivals New York now? I think that’s wrong.”
“How so?”
“I just think it’s wrong. Where you headed after Reno?”
“Back to Salt Lake City. I just moved there.”
“Are you a Mormon?”
“No. They’re trying, though. I like having people coming to the door.”
“They wear undergarments they claim are bulletproof. I swear it. They’ll tell you stories of stopping bullets.”
“I haven’t heard that one yet.”
“Just date a Mormon.”
“I thought they didn’t date.”
“They date like mad. And they’re ready with the engagement ring, first night.”
I stop. This is getting too interesting, too personal.
“You’re sure it was
my
cat you saw, not someone else’s? They lose them, I’ve heard. People’s pets wind up in Greece.”
“What’s that movie called,
Amazing Journey
? The one where the family relocates to a new town and their dog walks a thousand miles or something to find them? I think it fights a bear along the way.”
“There are more than one of those movies. It’s a genre.”
“I know that word, but I’ve never quite spit it out. Pronunciation anxiety.”
“I know. I’m like that with ‘cigarillo.’ Hard
l
?”
“For me.”
“I don’t think that’s right, though.”
“I’ll check sometime.”
It’s working: we’re barely looking at each other and there’s the Reno skyline. Ten more minutes. The only threat is our pride; mine smarts a little. Our agreement—the one I drew up for both of us—called for a tender, reluctant edging away, not total detachment. Can’t we reassess this? After all, this is Reno we’re visiting, a city whose whole economy is founded on errors in judgment and doomed trysts. Can’t we at least acknowledge the bitter tang of having grown so prudent with our bodies?
No, because now the drunk is acting up again, heckling the flight attendant for cutting him off. He flicks an ice cube at her, cackles, snorts, his face a chaotic red clown’s mask. Alex flinches. Given how much she flies, she should be used to this—these outbursts of entitled rage—but she cowers like a baby rabbit. My chance to put a fatherly arm around her? I’m considering it when the copilot strides up, cinematically handsome in his uniform and cutting such a capable male figure that any protective move on my part would only come off as puny and derivative. He threatens the drunk with arrest when we touch down. He raises one arm. The drunk sputters, then falls silent. The copilot orders the man to fetch the ice cube and stands there, hands on his hips, while he bends down.
The miniature drama has sealed us in our own skins. Alex retrieves her inhaler. She looks spent. She’s ready to pick up her kitten, hail a cab, and curl up in bed to the sound of
Headline News
. She’ll eat a room service salad with the curtains drawn, then sneak a Snickers from the mini-bar. She’ll
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