A waiter appears: Drinks?

Not for her, Keisha murmurs; then, relenting, “D’you have soft drinks? I will have a Coke.”

Coke! Have to bite my tongue to keep from making a sardonic remark about toxic chemicals manufactured for mass consumption.

Determined to remain sober, I order a glass of dry white wine. A single, singular glass.

Now, conversation! Excitement rushes through me like adrenaline through a pathologist about to make the first, exquisite incision in a fresh corpse sprawled before him.

“What a—an—occasion! We will celebrate …”

In my gentlemanly guise I ply my self-conscious companion with low-keyed questions—background, family, how long has she lived in Herrontown, PA—(“Forever”)—how long has she worked at McGuire’s?—(“Seems like forever”).

Discreetly, I don’t ask Keisha about her health. Not yet, about her marriage.

Is she unhappy, does her husband abuse her?—no. Not yet.

As she answers my questions in a halting, hoarse voice, like one unaccustomed to conversation, Keisha glances nervously about the faux-elegant restaurant as if she fears being observed, overheard. I am made to realize that this is a person who is rarely asked such questions, or perhaps any questions at all of a general nature. I am made to suppose that this is a person at whom no one, certainly not a well-dressed stranger, has actually looked, with interest, in a long time.

Though uneasy, Keisha is also flattered. The fact of the “award” has made her think differently about herself, perhaps—Yes. You are special. Did you ever doubt you were special?

Keisha is wearing a lemon-colored satin blouse with a floppy bow and white plastic buttons; her jacket is a coarser fabric, a wool-synthetic blend, dark beige. I seem to know that these “dressy” clothes are not new purchases, but years old—from a time when she’d been much younger. Her ears are unusually small, waxy-pale. Her throat is pale, in contrast to the rosy cosmetic face. On the fourth finger of her right hand is the wedding band, still loose; on her right wrist, which is very thin, a loose-fitting, inexpensive woman’s wristwatch. Touchingly, her short, brittle fingernails have been polished fire-engine red, to match her lipstick.

For some days I’ve brooded about how much cash to give Keisha. A dramatic increase seems plausible, but not too dramatic; better to whet her desire for more money, and then more, to keep her interested and involved—even, to a degree, mildly anxious. And so Keisha’s envelope contains ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.

Am I in love? Ridiculous!

Our drinks are brought by the waiter. Wondering who we are, what relationship. Well—let him wonder!

“Again, dear Keisha—congratulations!”

Ceremoniously I lift my glass, click it against Keisha’s glass. Dry white wine clicking against a vile dark chemical concoction. Keisha laughs, breathlessly. She is making a valiant effort to be gay, festive—a woman for whom surprises are (probably) not often happy.

Well, how frequently are surprises “happy” in any of our lives? When was the last time someone rushed up to you crying Good news! Happy news! You won’t believe this!