This time her hesitation and her stare had a clear import: it was my turn to make a move, and quickly. It was my turn to be awkward. “Would you, would you like to have dinner tonight? Or do you have better things to do? I bet you do.”

Somewhat to my disappointment—I foresaw complications—she was not busy. “Sounds good to me,” she said, brushing her hair back from one ear in a thoughtful way. “How about to you? You don’t sound too sure.”

“What about the boy?”

“I’ll get a sitter.”

“Really? On such short notice?” In Buffalo, sitters were inscrutable pubescent girls, off in a thirteen-year-old’s dream world, or else grandmotherly women, widows and spinsters, who were highly valued and had to be signed up weeks in advance. I did feel dubious, but the haze between Jane and me had thickened.

“Really,” she insisted. “Eight o’clock too late for you? I’ll feed him and tuck him in. Here’s the address—it’s a walk from here. Don’t be shy, Stan. It’ll be fun.”

Jane lived on the West Side, twenty blocks north of where she worked. That night, or one not long thereafter, I was amazed to discover that a number of cabs were cruising those streets at three in the morning. I had been fearful, stepping out onto Columbus Avenue, drowsily emerged from the warmth of her bed. Our whispers of farewell still hissed in my ears; her last kiss was evaporating under my nose. My whole body felt as defenseless as a slug’s. I had left because of the boy, so he wouldn’t find me there when he awoke, and because of my wife, who might have been telephoning the hotel, frantic with some domestic emergency. Carole had a nervous, clinging streak beneath her practical-minded aplomb. I had led her into multiple motherhood and then kept hitting the road.