Kyle went to the library after work, hoping Renee might be there. She wasn't. He didn't want it to end like it had last night. They had made love. Afterwards, she cried. She cried for reasons he didn't understand at the time, didn't want to understand. But now, here, in the bright light of the third-floor Renaissance Lit section, where he'd met her for the first time three evenings previous, he was able to gain some clarity, some insight.
As far as he knew and could tell, he was the first person she'd ever cheated with. Though she had good reason to, and probably had for a long time, she had never strayed from her marriage. But what about him? He'd never experienced anything like last night. How could she share something like that with him, and just walk away, without a word? Without an explanation? How could she leave him hanging like this, dangling from the edge of yesterday, grasping onto the faint, receding hope of tomorrow?
But she had left him hanging, and he had no way to contact her. Hell, he didn't even know her last name, so he couldn't look her up online or in the phone book. He closed his eyes, and images of her, naked, on his lap, formed in his mind's eye. The way she closed her eyes as they made love, the way her golden hair fell away, over her shoulders, the way she moaned and purred with satisfaction he hadn't thought himself capable of giving her until he did it.
This was no good. He couldn't just sit here, daydreaming, wishing upon a star that in all probability didn't exist, or if it did, was burning on its last, feeble stores of energy, about to collapse in on itself and be snuffed out like a candle in a cosmic hurricane. He needed to get out of here, try to move on. Maybe even take Trista up on her offer to set him up with this Jennifer she spoke so highly of.
Yeah. That all sounded good. But he didn't get up. He just sat there, his head in his hands, thinking about Renee, seeing her smile right there, in front of him, close enough to touch, yet so far away. So impossibly far away. . .
♣
"So, you still gonna be the mystery man this morning?" It was Trista, standing at the mouth of his cubicle, hands on hips, 36DD breasts thrust forward in the pose she liked best. She was wearing a daring low-cut pink top this morning, exposing a healthy amount of cleavage.
He didn't want to deal with her probing, her questioning. Not today. "You know, we should set up a meeting this afternoon with Gerry," he said. "For the User's Guide. He has some schematics for his latest program I don't understand."
Trista shook her head. "Sure," she said. She stood there a moment longer, evidently considering whether or not to prod further. As usual with her, valor got the better part of discretion. "So, c'mon, Kyle. Tell me. Did you get lucky last night? The suspense is killing me. And Jennifer won't wait around forever, y'know."
How could he handle this delicately? Trista was the only other technical writer in the department. He didn't want to alienate her. And he valued her friendship, too—up to a point, anyway. But he couldn't deal with this right now.
"I'm . . . I'm just in a strange place in my life," he said. Which was definitely the truth. "I'll let you know about Jennifer soon, I promise. But right now, I just need a little more time. Okay?"
She shrugged, but didn't seem offended, and he was relieved. "Well, all right. But like I said, let me know soon. Jennifer is a real catch. If you don't act soon, someone will beat you to her. And, with all due respect, Kyle, more time is the last thing you need. You need to act on impulse once in a while. Jesus. You're twenty-five years old! What I'd give to be your age again. Don't waste it, Kyle. Live a little. Take a fucking chance."
Yeah. Take a fucking chance, like he had the other night, with Renee. But where had that got him? What good did it do?
♣
After work, he again decided to give the library another shot. He figured, if she wanted to see him again, she'd be more likely to go there rather than back to his apartment. He felt stupid, desperate, going back to the library—but he needed to see if she was there. He couldn't give up, not yet.
When he found a parking space near the library, he put eight quarters into the meter. That would give him two hours—just on the slim hope that he might need them. As he stepped out into the evening, the November air smacked him like a cold blast of water.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets, bowed his head against the wind, and walked toward the front steps of the library—a brown, four story building with wide, tall columns and a collection of stone gargoyles perched on the ledge of the upper roof. Sometimes, on warmer days, when the elements weren't making him curl in on himself like a human turtle, he would glance up at those gargoyles. They reminded him of guardians, ready, if needed, to swoop down and defend their territory. They—
"Hey, watch where you're goin', buddy," a husky guy in a black coat barked, as the two bumped into each other.
"Sorry," Kyle said, feeling disoriented. Was this an omen? Maybe it was a mistake to come here. She probably wasn't inside. And even if she was . . . what would they say? What would they do? He pictured long, awkward silences, embarrassed blushes, shame-laced small talk. Did he really want to deal with that?
Still, he found himself at the entrance now. He walked in, headed for the stairs, climbed to the third floor, and proceeded to the far end of it, toward the Renaissance Lit section. As he neared it, he again told himself it was pointless. There would be nothing but the usual assortment of dusty, neglected volumes, the table, unoccupied as always, the rhythmic hum of the heat blowing through the vents. . . .
But the table wasn't unoccupied. She was there. Sitting in the same chair she'd sat in three nights ago, her nose buried in a book, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, getting in the way. She brushed her hair aside, glanced up, pushed her thick wire-frame glasses up the bridge of her nose, and froze. She was looking at him, but didn't acknowledge him.
Finally, she smiled.
His legs felt like they weighed two tons each, but he managed to work his way to the table, pull out the chair across from her, and sit down. She held eye contact for a moment, then looked down, at her book. She was wearing a white, long-sleeved shirt and a gold necklace with a heart-shaped locket attached.
She glanced up at him again, then followed his eyes, to the locket she wore.
"It was a gift," she said. "My husband bought it for me on our first wedding anniversary. Seems so long ago."
His jaw stiffened at the mention of her husband. "I didn't think I'd see you here," he managed to say.
"I didn't think I'd be here," she said. Then, after a pause: "But I felt bad, leaving so suddenly the other night. I was hoping you'd come. We really need to talk, Kyle."
He was surprised by how easily she was able to talk to him. She wasn't acting like the guilt-ridden tortured soul he expected to see. Did she want to pursue a full-blown affair? Was that it? But then he told himself to cool it. That couldn't be what she wanted to talk about. Since when did such good fortune with women ever come his way?
