“Come on, he’s the catcher … you don’t know anyone, you’re lonely, it’s New York, this guy’s kneeling at your feet, you’ve got your nice, firm bat there … I get it. It’s symbolic …”

“No, come on …” He hesitates now, unsure about her. Is she being ironic? “We were just …”

“What? You what?”

“It … it was an experiment, that’s all. Just … guy stuff. Kind of, like, you know …”

“No, you’re right. It happens. It does. In ‘Manhattan,’ anyway …”

“We were only … see, I met him before we, I mean, you and me …”

“… I hope you’re very happy.” Before he can say anything else she is gone, the door clicking shut downstairs a moment later. Normally, he would follow her, do the dramatic run down the block to the train station, but he’s got the swimsuit on and it would just look ridiculous now. He’s sure of that. No, better to talk tomorrow, let things cool down a bit. Take care of the kids, maybe get a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken and watch a movie. Face the rest of it in the morning. Yes. That’s it.

“It’s OK, it is, it’s OK, this is gonna be … it’s all right. Things’ll be fine. It’s … OK, this is all O-K …” He says this aloud but more to himself than anything, a kind of masculine mantra as he strips off his damp trunks. He shivers slightly, then begins to wander around the room naked, hunting down a pair of discarded Levi’s in the oncoming twilight.

Boo-Boo

They remind him of those girls from that John Updike story, the one about the guy in the supermarket. It’s really great, although the title of it doesn’t come easily to mind. It has the same name as one of those East Coast stores, probably because he’s from up around there. Updike. True, this is a bookstore he’s in and there are only two of them—girls, that is—and Updike’s little tale had three, but they are the same kind of breed. Cut from the same cloth, as it were. After all, girls will be girls will be girls.