"I was the one who pulled out. I misjudged him. I left because I thought he was guilty of something. Turns out, he wasn't. I still feel badly about that."

"Because why?"

"I didn't have a chance to tell him I was sorry before he died. I'd have liked to clear that. Husband number two was a musician, a pianist, very talented. Also, chronically unfaithful and a pathological liar with the face of an angel. It was a blow when he left. I was twenty-four years old and probably should have seen it coming. Later I found out he'd always been more interested in other men than he was in me."

"So how come I don't see you around town with other guys? Have you given up on men?"

I nearly made a smart remark, but I caught myself in time. Instead, I opened my mouth and said, "I've been waiting for you, Cheney. I thought you knew that."

He looked at me, waiting to see if I was making light of him. I returned his gaze, waiting to see what he'd do with the information. I couldn't imagine what would happen next. There were so many wrong moves, so many dumb things that might come out of his mouth. I was thinking, Don't mess this up... please, please don't ruin it... whatever it is...

Here are two things I hate to have men do:

(1) Tell me I'm beautiful, which is bullshit manipulation and has nothing to do with me.

(2) Look into my eyes and talk about my "trust" issues because they know I've been "hurt."

Here's what Cheney did: He put his arm up on the seat back and picked up a strand of hair from the top of my head. He studied it with care, his expression serious. In the split second before he spoke, I heard a muffled sound, like gas jets igniting when a match is struck. Warmth fanned up along my spine and softened all the tension in my neck. He said, "I'll give you a proper haircut. Did you know I cut hair?"

I found myself staring at his mouth. "No. I didn't know that. What else do you do?"

He smiled. "Dance. Do you dance?"

"Not very well."

"That's all right. I can teach you. You'll improve."

"I'd like that. What else?"

"I work out. I box some and lift weights."

"Do you cook?"

"No, do you?"

"Peanut butter and pickle sandwiches."

"Sandwiches don't count, except for grilled cheese."

I said, "Any other talents I should know about?"

He ran the back of his hand down along my cheek. "I'm an especially good speller. Fifth grade, I came in second in the school spelling bee."

I could feel a hum forming in my throat, the same strange mechanism that causes cats to purr. "What'd you screw up on?"

"'Eleemosynary.' It means 'of or for charity or alms.' Should be e-1-e-e-m-o-s-y-n-a-r-y. I left out the third e."