The First Warm Evening of the Year by Jamie M. Saul Page A

faded.
    One afternoon, while I was having my lunch, I noticed a couple sitting a few tables away from mine. I watched the man reach across the table and touch the back of the woman’s hand with the tips of his fingers; with a graceful sweep she pushed a few strands of hair away from his forehead; when they spoke to each other, how enthusiastic their faces were. It made me think of Simon talking about Laura and Steve. Telling me: “They were so in love, I found it unbearable.”
    I thought of the way Marian’s hand had brushed against my wrist while she introduced me to her friends. And how I liked the way we touched when we spoke to each other. Then I was thinking of the way Rita’s legs lay exposed in the gray light of her bedroom after we made love, and would I ever want to make love to her again?
    T hat afternoon I went back to New York City. I’d always liked coming home to my apartment after a trip, whether I’d been gone a few weeks or a few days; the perfunctory greetings from the men in the garage, the doormen. The comforting rituals, gathering the mail, playing back messages on the answering machine, reading e-mail. Just like that, the routines of life waiting inside the apartment, like an obedient dog.
    One of the messages was a last-minute invitation to a friend’s apartment for a party, and I decided to go. I wanted the distraction.
    It was a relaxed Sunday gathering in the apartment of Richard Davidson, whom I knew through work. It was nothing very formal, Bloody Marys, Mimosas, and finger food, in one of those spacious Upper West Side apartments with long hallways and high ceilings, a view of the Hudson River and, on this particular night, filled with dozens of people and that exhilarating sound of tinkling ice cubes and adult conversation.
    I was sipping my drink and talking to Felicia Robeson, a choreographer I’d known for a few years. She’d come back from Mexico about a week ago, and was telling me, “My mind just refuses to leave the beach,” when Amy Brennan came over, kissed Felicia on the cheek, then me, and wanted to know, “How’s that executor business coming along? I still think it’s so intriguing.”
    â€œNot that intriguing,” I said.
    â€œWhat’s intriguing?” Felicia asked.
    Amy answered the question.
    â€œYou know,” Felicia said, “I’d trust Geoffrey with my last remains.”
    â€œThat’s a grim thought.” It was Richard, our host.
    â€œAre you still going on about that?” Amy’s husband, Nick, had now joined us. “What’s happening with it, anyway?”
    â€œWe’re about to find out,” Amy said.
    â€œIs there something I should know?” Richard asked.
    â€œAbsolutely nothing,” I said.
    â€œThen why is everyone talking about it?”
    â€œWho’s every one?” Felicia answered.
    Richard squeezed Amy’s arm, said, “I’m too sober for this conversation,” walked to another circle of people, while Felicia and I went over to the bar for refills.
    I asked her, “What’s the occasion, anyway?”
    â€œRichard’s celebrating his daughter’s divorce.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œHe never liked the son-in-law.”
    â€œThe daughter must have come over to his side.”
    â€œShe’s quite happy about it.”
    â€œHow long were they married?”
    â€œEight years. She’s in Maui. Having her own celebration.”
    There was laughter coming from somewhere down the hall, and laughter closer to us; a gentle swirl of perfume . . . a woman’s hand resting on my shoulder . . . a voice introducing itself . . . “How have you been . . .” “What have you been doing these days . . .” “I haven’t seen you since . . .”
    Outside the open window, the setting sun floated above the New Jersey Palisades, holding off the dark for a few