The Toynbee Convector

Husband and wife marched toward the door.

“Where are you going?” cried the wife.

“To answer it, of course.”

“Oh, no you don’t! And cover up!”

“Cover what up?”

“Liar! Gangway!”

And she left him in her dust. He went back to the bar and drank heavily for thirty seconds.

Only to see her standing in the doorway at the end of thirty-one seconds. She seemed stunned or frozen or both. With her back to the door, she summoned one hand to gesture strangely toward the entranceway. He stared.

“It’s Constance,” she said.

“Who?” he shouted.

“Constance, of course!” a voice whooped.

And the tallest and most beautiful woman he had ever seen charged into the room, looked around as if evaluating everything, and loped at a good pace to squeeze his elbows, grab his shoulders, and plant a kiss in the middle of his brow, which grew an extra eye immediately.

She stood off and looked him up and down as if he were not a man but an athletic team and she was here to award medals.

He looked into her great bright face and whispered:

“Constance?”

“You’re damn tootin’!”

The tall woman spun about to give a similar regard to the wife, and the wife, if not an athletic team of winners, was at least a mob of admirers come along for the game.

“So this is—?” she asked.

“Annette,” said the husband.

“Anne,” said the wife.

“Yeah, that’s it,” said the husband. “Anne.”

“Anne! What a great name. May I have a drink, Anne?”

The tall and beautiful woman with the huge halo of blond hair and the steady early morning fog gray eyes and the marching stride and the dancer’s arms and hands, folded herself neatly into a chair and stretched out her from-here-to-there-and-happily-back-again legs.

“My God, I’m martini famished. Can it be possible?”

The husband stirred but his wife cried, “Don’t move!”

The husband froze.

The wife leaned forward to gauge this creature, top to bottom, even as the creature had gauged her.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“What are you doing here—ah—”