In the two interviews, the ostensible research for a profile David was writing in a regional art magazine, they had covered plenty of topics besides Jen’s artistic career. They had talked about their mutual friends, of which there were many; and their families, which were profoundly unsimilar; and movies, which they more or less agreed upon, barring his affection for post–Animal House boob-and-poop vehicles, which she explained she had personal reasons for objecting to, namely that her father looked remarkably like Chevy Chase and had poisoned a certain genre of smarmy, slapstick comedy for her simply by loving it so much. They had talked at length about their city, now seemingly evolving from its almost premodern slumber; they had talked about drugs. It all seemed like a prelude to something, the precise nature of which remained deliciously unclear. To night, if there was any logic whatsoever to their unfolding relationship as artist and critic, and if he wasn’t gay, they would have their first kiss.

They were having dinner at Jen’s house, though whose idea that had been was hard to recall. Jen tried to reconstruct the sequence of invitations while putting some mesclun in the lettuce spinner, but it was impossible to figure out. Had he invited himself over? Had she suggested it? In any case, he was coming, and she was glad. She had on her favorite safari shirt, with the embroidered daisies on the pockets, and her highwater denim pants, which she was happy to find she fit into this week. Her black hair was pulled back into two coiled pigtails, which she knew flattered her high cheekbones. She spun the lettuce spinner and listened to the plastic mechanism whir satisfyingly. What time was it? How prompt might he be?

Just as the last clicks of the lettuce spinner finished off, Jen heard the screen door rattle back and forth and David’s deep voice delicately query the empty front room.

“Hello? Anyone home?”

“In here!” she said, and swung her head and shoulders into his line of sight. His shadowy outline hovered in the brightness of the doorway.

“I can come in?”

“Come in! Yes!”

David entered shyly, though not unconfidently, carrying a container of gourmet ice cream and the movie he had described to her a few nights before. That was the excuse, she remembered, to watch the movie, an obscurity from Canada. He was tall and lean, a fairly typical specimen of the gangly, brown-haired boys who flocked to her town like finches each year, and who generally got bored soon enough and left. The only difference being he was a native, and had no interest in going elsewhere. His eyes were slow-moving but alert, and beneath his jawline spread a rough, welted splotch of razor burn. His black pants and faded black T-shirt were a little wrinkled, his blue Adidas well-worn. He looked slightly flushed from his bike ride.