We sit still. Cars pass on the road behind us, the wind blows, then stops. Just as the man is nearly out of sight, he starts coming toward us again. “Oh God,” I say, and take Chip’s hand. The irony, that this is the way we’ll die. The absurd thought comes to me that I wish I’d finished my dessert.

When the man is before us again, he asks Chip, “You really got a brain tumor in there?”

“Yes.”

He stands there, considering. Then, “What kind?”

“It’s called glioblastoma … I forget the other part.”

“Multiforme,” I say. “Glioblastoma multiforme.” Let us live, we’re being so cooperative.

“Huh. Sounds like some Italian food or something.” He pronounces it “eyetalian,” and I have a terrible urge to start laughing.

“I tell you what.” The man hands Chip’s wallet back to him.

Chip puts it back in his pocket. “Thanks.”

The man shrugs. “What the fuck. My mom died of cancer. Of the boobs, that kind.” He takes a watch from his pocket, holds it out toward Chip. “Might as well take that back, too.” He turns to me. “Yours I gotta keep. Sorry.”

“That’s all right.”

“Uh … this isn’t my watch,” Chip says.

“What’s yours?”

“Mine’s an Omega.”

“What do you got there?”

Chip squints at the face of the watch. “I believe it’s a knock-off Rolex.”

“Well, which one you like better?”

“Mine.”

The man reaches in his pocket, pulls out a watch. “This it?”

“Yes.”

“Gimme the other one back.”

They make a trade, and then the man straightens. “I expect you to let me walk away. I expect you to sit there for a while after you can’t see me anymore, and then walk out of here, you’re idiots for being here in the first place.”

The man walks backward into the darkness. Finally, we can no longer see him. “Can we leave now?” I ask Chip.

“I guess so.”

We start out of the park slowly, then quickly cross the street.

Back in the hotel, I say, “Should we call the police from the desk?”

“Let it go,” Chip says.

I turn to him, start to say something, then stop. Together, we wait for the elevator. When it arrives, the ding of it sounds so innocent. Preposterous.

Chapter 20

On Sunday night, we’re back at home, lying in my bed and holding hands. The breeze through the window is enough to make us need a light blanket. “August is almost over,” I say.

“It went fast,” Chip says. “Well, of course it did.”

“Yes.”

“I’m thinking about doing it on Friday, Myra. Arrive in heaven for the weekend, they probably have great weekend activities up there.”

I say nothing, close my eyes. I feel him turn toward me. But I keep my eyes closed.

“Maybe Janis and Jimi perform on the weekend. And Elvis. Maybe Liberace.”