I called the next day. It had been nice to see him in the park. His daughter was lovely, his grandkids adorable. Listen, I had some questions. I didn’t want to put him on the spot, but maybe we could get together. Have dinner. Just once.

I could hear his reluctance. But he was a decent man, so his decency won out, brought him to me.

I gave him the address of the studio apartment I had moved into that fall, a baby step in my preparations for college. I implied he would pick me up and we’d go out to dinner. I already knew otherwise.

I folded up my futon bed. Pulled out the card table and topped it with my favorite floral print. I set a nice table, coordinating red and yellow stoneware plates set against a rich backdrop. A shock of purple flowers in the middle. Two long white tapered candles in the crystal candlestick holders my mother had once received as a wedding gift and probably opened with a sense of joy and optimism.

She couldn’t have known. I told myself that all the time. She couldn’t have known.

I wore low-rider jeans and a white buttoned top. I left my dark hair down. I liked how it looked, a jolt of dark against the light.

Beneath, I wore the world’s tiniest champagne-colored demi-bra and a lace thong. I’m not the world’s biggest-built girl, but I know how to use what I have.

When Sheriff Wayne arrived, I could tell he was dismayed by the scene. The pretty table in the middle of a very small apartment. The scent of bubbling spaghetti sauce and cooking pasta.

I didn’t give him a chance to think about things.

Come in, come in, I said at once, all bright smiles and youthful exuberance. Sorry for the small space. It’s different living in the city. I took his coat before he had a chance to blink, hung it on the coatrack as I prattled away. I know we’d talked about going out, but I was a little nervous about having our conversation in public, so if he didn’t mind, I’d decided to throw together a little pasta and gravy. Not the best cook, still learning, yada yada yada.

What could the poor man say? What could the poor man do?

He assured me my apartment was very nice. The sauce smelled good. Of course we could eat in. Whatever made me more comfortable.

I sat him at the table, poured him a liberal glass of red wine. Nothing for myself; that would’ve been inappropriate. I added some music. He didn’t strike me as a Nine Inch Nails kind of guy, so I went with light jazz.