Jack and Susan in 1953 by Michael McDowell

said Jack.
    â€œMay I come inside?” said Rodolfo, gently pushing away Woolf, who was industriously licking his brushed-leather shoes. The man dressed perfectly, even on a Saturday afternoon. Wearing an oatmeal-colored sport jacket and light brown flannel trousers. His oxford shirt was perfectly complemented by a brown silk tie. The ideal outfit to intimidate a rival in love. In his tousled hair, bare feet, wrinkled shirt, and his too-short trousers, Jack felt grubby.
    â€œHave you recovered yourself?” Rodolfo asked, dropping into a chair with perfect ease, without invitation.
    â€œI’ll be fine,” said Jack, taking a seat on the couch. “Someday.”
    Rodolfo smiled. The smile seemed genuine. “I am glad you were not injured.”
    â€œLucky for me—and lucky for you as well,” Jack agreed. “Foreign nationals running down native pedestrians is not looked on with favor here.” He considered offering Rodolfo something to drink, then decided against it.
    Rodolfo smiled again. “Shoo!” he said quietly to Woolf, now licking the cuffs of his trousers.
    Jack remained offended by Rodolfo’s presence. Whatever his motive in coming was, it was sure to be underhanded, sneaky, unworthy of a man. Jack had decided that one thing about Rodolfo was effeminate: not his appearance, not his carriage, or mannerisms, but his mode of treachery. Jack didn’t know what Rodolfo intended to say or do this Saturday afternoon, but he was certain this visit constituted some sort of attack. He may not have had his arm raised high above his head, and there was no knife visible, but it was an attack all the same.
    â€œSusan was very worried,” said Rodolfo after a moment of silence.
    â€œShe telephoned a while ago.”
    â€œDid she?”
    â€œYes,” said Jack.
    â€œShe said she intended to. I’m glad she did,” said Rodolfo. “She also said you two were once in love.”
    Jack remained silent, but he could feel what must have been an entire pint of blood surging up out of his heart to suffuse his face with color. Rodolfo smiled. The smile enraged Jack. But he still refrained from speech. The last time he’d gotten into one of these bewildering conversations, he’d asked questions, and he’d ended up engaged—or, rather, engaged to be engaged.
    â€œI am glad,” said Rodolfo. Still Jack did not speak. He tried to will the blush to fade. Blood began to flow downward through the veins in his neck. He was beginning to look less like a beet, he hoped. “I do not like to be the first man that a woman has loved,” Rodolfo went on. “A woman, when she loves for the first time, does not see clearly love. She does not love, she only imagines that it would be sweet to be in love. It is not she who loves, it is her heart. But the second time…”
    The sensation was peculiar—to sit in his own apartment, attending to a Cuban making a disquisition on love. It made Jack squirm. “The second time?” Jack prompted, and then wished he hadn’t.
    â€œâ€¦the second time, a woman loves not only with her heart. But with her soul. And with her mind. It is the second love that is the stronger.”
    â€œWould you like a drink?” Jack said, getting up and heading for the kitchen.
    â€œNo thank you,” said Rodolfo politely.
    Good , thought Jack , that leaves more for me . He poured three fingers of scotch into a glass.
    Jack didn’t talk about such things as love, neither aloud nor silently to himself. That was why it had taken him so long to realize that he still cared for Susan Bright. That was why he had gotten so entangled with Libby Mather. And now here was Rodolfo, employing love as a theme, and Jack had no idea how to respond.
    â€œMiss Mather is very beautiful,” said Rodolfo, when Jack had returned to the couch.
    â€œPardon?” asked Jack in surprise.
    â€œSusan says she is also