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

minutes more, for we had entered the time of longer days. I listened to the jagged noise of the city lifted on the air and into the room, adding its voice to the conversations.
    A dark-haired man came up behind Felicia, wrapped his arms around her waist, kissed her on the neck, and said, “You’re just going to have to have dinner with me soon. It’s been way too long.”
    â€œYes.” She turned to face him. “Much too long.”
    â€œYou come, too,” he told me.
    â€œI’ll make sure of it.”
    Then he whispered in Felicia’s ear and walked away.
    â€œI have no idea who that was,” Felicia told me.
    â€œNever saw him before,” I said.
    â€œHe has very soft lips.”
    Amy came back to tell us, “When you two are ready to leave, find Nick and me.”
    None of this was alien to me, not the noise, not invitations from strangers, nor the conversations going on around me, and if I didn’t know the evening’s subject, I was no stranger to the context.
    â€œAre you having a good time?” Felicia asked me.
    â€œI always have a good time.”
    â€œYou do . Why is that?”
    About an hour later, Felicia and I found Amy and Nick, and the four of us took our small piece of the party downtown to Nick and Amy’s place, where we had a few more drinks, some Chinese takeout, and more conversation.
    Then Felicia told us about her new show, a flashy musical. Amy was excited about the work they were doing on their apartment. Nick thought there was nothing wrong with the apartment the way it was . . . and they talked about a trip they were planning, Oslo, Copenhagen . . . and did Felicia and I want to go with them, and of course, I should bring Rita.
    Felicia said she’d be too busy with the new show. I said I’d have to see what I had scheduled, and was my choice of companion limited to Rita. Everyone laughed, but a quick, discernible sense of discomfort and regret passed through me because I wasn’t making a joke. For a moment, I wanted to tell my friends about what had happened between Marian and me in Shady Grove and to declare, “I’ve met someone under the most unusual circumstances, and I can’t get her out of my mind.”
    T he next morning, I phoned Rita. That night we were in my apartment, sitting together on the couch, Rita wearing a gray sweater and black stretch pants, hair pulled back and tied in a French knot. Her shoes were off, her bare feet were tucked under her legs. She was sipping a glass of wine, her lipstick traces stained the rim.
    She put the glass on the coffee table, and moved closer to me.
    I told her, “You’re looking very chic tonight.”
    She said, “Don’t try sucking up to me. You took your sweet time returning my call.”
    â€œI was out of town. I drove up to Shady Grove.”
    She turned and brushed her lips against my cheek, laid her head on my chest, then pressed her hand against the back of my neck; her flesh felt soft against my flesh. She raised her face to mine, her mouth parted. Her dark red lipstick appeared like liquid in the lamplight.
    â€œIt’s good to be back,” I said.
    â€œHow long were you gone?”
    â€œA couple of days.”
    â€œThat’s not very long.”
    â€œIt seems longer than that.”
    She moved her mouth close to my ear. “You should have told me you were going.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œThen I could have missed you. It’s nice knowing someone misses you when you go away.”
    She uncurled her legs and stretched them past the edge of the couch. I turned and when I kissed her it was one of those moments when in an instant the mind flashes a myriad of considerations—when all that was happening was nothing but a kiss. Just a kiss. Something we’d done countless times before. Only now I was aware of both the assurance in our actions, and the assumptions, and I wanted to reacquaint