A Working Theory of Love by Scott Hutchins Page A

encounter.”
    She doesn’t laugh, but she’s not blushing anymore. She sits up straight, growing back
     into my date. She eyes the oyster warily, but humorously, as if the rascal might fool
     her again. I lean back, absorbed in the roar of human chatter. I appreciate her quick
     recovery. It suggests a strength in her I wouldn’t have guessed. In my mind I draw
     a black box around her, framing the moment like a photograph. Her nervous, determined
     face; the gray dripping oyster; the hard bread; the yellow wine; from the open kitchen
     behind her, a burst of roiling steam. She puts the shell to her mouth and thinks better
     of it. With her finger she swabs out a grain of sand. Then she closes her eyes and
     tilts the oyster into her mouth, spilling the liquid down the side of her cheek, leaving
     a trail of grit. She chews once, gulps, and then brings the napkin to her face, eyes
     open again, surprised and amused, as if she’s just come up from a comical dive.
    I don’t know what mental album I’ll put this in. Probably one of the big ones: “At
     the Time It Seemed Meaningful” or “A Fond Memory with What’s-Her-Name.”
    Or an entirely new one, as behind Rachel the crowd parts and—like assassins—my ex-wife
     and a man emerge, fussing with their coats. I’ve heard she’s dating. I hold them in
     view for a second, hoping it’s a trick of the mind, but it’s not. You always run this
     risk in San Francisco, a big city that moonlights as a small town. I sometimes bump
     into Erin in our neighborhood, where she still lives. But the Ferry Building, I was
     thinking, would be safely distant. I look down, feeling a flash of guilt, as if by
     that recollection in the taxi I thumbed my nose at Fate. Of course Erin can’t be summoned.
     She’s not a ghost or a punishment. She’s just an ex-wife—surely one of many in the
     restaurant—beautiful as always and a fan of oysters and parsimony. Happy hour is just
     ending.
    “Okay, your turn,” Rachel says.
    I look down and rub my forefinger on the menu, pretending to read about our oyster
     selection. “Washington State,” I say. “Japan, New Zealand, Vancouver, Portland.” It’s
     no use. They’re going to have to walk right past us, and my acting skills aren’t good
     enough to feign shock.
    “Erin,” I say, pushing out my chair and standing to wave. She looks up, and I know
     in a second that she is acting, too. She’s already seen me. The beau on the other
     hand looks alarmed, threatened. He’s handsome but not too, wearing a suit with no
     tie and an elegant trench coat. Square of jaw, wide of shoulder.
    “What a surprise.” She comes forward for a hug. We started hugging about a year after
     the divorce and we’ve always kept to this form: we tilt into each other from far away,
     not touching anywhere below the chest, as if we’re separated by a short, disagreeable
     child.
    “This is Rachel,” I say. “Rachel, this is Erin, my ex-wife.”
    Rachel holds her napkin in front of her mouth, chewing, gulping. She does not stand
     up, and I wish she would.
    The beau shakes my hand. He barely acknowledges Rachel.
    “Are you enjoying the oysters?” Erin asks.
    “The Kumamoto are very good,” I say.
    “Aren’t they,” she says.
    “This is my first time,” Rachel says.
    Erin and her date are very still. They don’t seem to know what to make of this comment.
    “And she lives in Bolinas,” I say.
    “What do you think?” Erin asks Rachel.
    Rachel looks from Erin to the beau. She seems panicked. “Verdict’s out?”
    “It took me a while as well.” Erin nods. I don’t know if this is mercy or just Erin.
     She
is
a true-blue, literalist Californian. Maybe she hadn’t even considered a savage remark.
    “We prefer them at Swan’s,” the beau says. With relief, I see what I can dislike about
     him: he has a voice I don’t think Erin would have put up with ten years ago. Self-satisfied,
     aggressively confident.
    Of course, ten