A Quiver Full of Arrows

“No, thank you, just coffee.”

“Black?”

“Black.”

“Coffee for two, please,” Michael said to the hovering waiter.

“I wish I had taken you somewhere a little quieter and less ostentatious,” he said, turning back to Debbie.

“Why?”

Michael took her hand. It felt cold. “I would like to have said things to you that shouldn’t be listened to by people at the next table.”

“I don’t think anyone would be shocked by what they overheard at Elaine’s, Michael.”

“Very well then. Do you believe in love at first sight?”

“No, but I think it’s possible to be physically attracted to a person on first meeting them.”

“Well, I must confess, I was to you.”

Again she made no reply.

The coffee arrived and Debbie released her hand to take a sip. Michael followed suit.

“There were one hundred and fifty women in that room the night we met, Debbie, and my eyes never left you once.”

“Even during the film?”

“I’d seen the damn thing a hundred times. I feared I might never see you again.”

“I’m touched.”

“Why should you be? It must be happening to you all the time.”

“Now and then,” she said. “But I haven’t taken anyone too seriously since my husband left me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need. It’s just not that easy to get over someone you’ve lived with for ten years. I doubt if many divorcees are quite that willing to jump into bed with the first man who comes along as all the latest films suggest.”

Michael took her hand again, hoping fervently he did not fall into that category.

“It’s been such a lovely evening. Why don’t we stroll down to the Carlyle and listen to Bobby Short?” Michael’s ABC friend had recommended the move if he felt he was still in with a chance.

“Yes, I’d enjoy that,” said Debbie.

Michael called for the bill—eighty-seven dollars. Had it been his wife sitting on the other side of the table he would have checked each item carefully, but not on this occasion. He just left five twenty-dollar bills on a side plate and didn’t wait for the change. As they stepped out onto Second Avenue, he took Debbie’s hand and together they started walking downtown. On Madison Avenue they stopped in front of shop windows and he bought her a fur coat, a Cartier watch and a Balenciaga dress. Debbie thought it was lucky that all the stores were closed.

They arrived at the Carlyle just in time for the eleven o’clock show. A waiter, flashing a pen light, guided them through the little dark room on the ground floor to a table in the corner. Michael ordered a bottle of champagne as Bobby Short struck up a chord and drawled out the words: “Georgia, Georgia, oh, my sweet…” Michael, now unable to speak to Debbie above the noise of the band, satisfied himself with holding her hand and when the entertainer sang, “This time we almost made the pieces fit, didn’t we, gal?” he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She turned and smiled—was it faintly conspiratorial, or was this just wishful thinking?—and then she sipped her champagne. On the dot of twelve, Bobby Short shut the piano lid and said, “Goodnight, my friends, the time has come for all you good people to go to bed—and some of you naughty ones too.” Michael laughed a little too loud but was pleased that Debbie laughed as well.

They strolled down Madison Avenue to 68th Street chatting about inconsequential affairs, while Michael’s thoughts were of only one affair. When they arrived at her 68th Street apartment, she took out her latch key.

“Would you like a nightcap?” she asked without any suggestive intonation.

“No more drink, thank you, Debbie, but I would certainly appreciate a coffee.”

She led him into the living room.