“I know I’m supposed to think I’m supposed to say this, but it doesn’t seem possible she could be that old.”
“If she was like me at her age she’d have had her first by now and leaving it at wild parties too — but with her brains, forgetting where to go back for it. Fortunately, I’ve kept her a child.”
“Probably a good idea. I’d both love and hate to be a father today, maybe something else I’m supposed to think I’m supposed to say.”
“Why? And you were never a father?”
“Did I say that? Even if I did, it’s true. And you’re about to say something like how I’m missing the best—”
“You are. And if you were a father but the right kind, you’d have it with someone else to help bring it up, which I never had the luck to have. And unless you’re ten years younger than you look, you shouldn’t wait.”
“You’re right, I will. The right woman, she gets proposed to right away, no time-wasting, from me and our future child.”
“If you’re laughing to yourself, you’re making a big mistake.”
“I’m not. I’ve just about made up my mind. No, I’ve made it. This second. All my women and no women before — the heck. I’m getting too old. I’m beginning to taste the grit between my teeth. I don’t know what that means. But yes, I met a girl — a woman — I’m sure she’s a good seven or eight years younger than I — tonight — at that party — one with the left sweater — left and right, both sleeves — that, who I’m going to pursue to try to marry and have a child by. I will. The woman. Will and try.”
“You could be a little high now, so don’t jump to quick decisions. Girls still say yes to marriage proposals even if they keep their maiden names, and get depressed if the man suddenly backs out.”
“No, I’ve decided. I’m tired of living alone. Being — etcetera, and getting old, gritty teeth. I want a kid under my feet. By my feet with a little silky head to pat and a wife sitting on the floor with her arms or head on my knees or lap, all while I’m seated in an easy chair, or any but some hard wooden chair, just enough lamplight over my shoulder so as not to coarsen the scene with its glare, and a rug so my wife doesn’t bruise her knees while reclining beside me and my child doesn’t get hurt when it falls. I mean it. Carpet or rug. And me even in a hard wooden fold-up chair if that’s what it has to take to succeed. I’m game. So done.” Same piano piece comes on after a half minute being off. “You didn’t have a jukebox before. Not a jukebox. What’s that machine called again?”
“Jukebox, what else could it be?”
“All right, jukebox. But music to my ears. Before, remember when I snapped my fingers? Well it’s not like me to forget a famous piece’s name that I also love. It’s something like études, though I’ve always associated those with Chopin. Preludes, that’s what they are and I’m sure this one is. Deedle leedle lee. Like that. Deedle leedle leedle lee, leedle dee. Like leaves, rippling trees. You hear it?”
“Sort of. So what drink will it be?”
“Goddamnit,” slapping my head. “Brahms. An intermezzo, for piano — one in B? No, I always forget the number and key. I know Chopin’s Waltz C-flat in D-minor or something, but this which she played as much? I used to love to unlock the door to her place, woman before the future mother of my child to be, and with my own keys, ones that go in the holes, when she was practicing this piece — coffee?”
“Saving it for my Irish coffee and serious Black Russian drinkers and it’s been sitting on the hot plate so long it’d be too bitter to drink straight. I know I could make more, but I’m too lazy.”
“I’ve done time behind counters. I could make it.”
“Strictly you know what. Maybe you should go to a real coffee shop.”
“Can’t. I’m here, drying off. Running across some hitherto unseen but intriguing things about myself, and it’s still drizzling and now that I know my sweater’s gone I’ll be even colder on the street. And if it’s just the tip, I’ll give you as much as for those sickening mixed drinks.”
“Okay, I’ll be honest.” She empties an ashtray and wipes it clean though it only had a broken swizzle stick in it. “Though the boss is at his busier place he might drop in and see your coffee and how much your tab is and that you’re not a regular to do favors for like that and say to me how come I’m not peddling the drinks better even with this weather and the pianist away? So how about it? An Irish coffee would warm you up quicker than anything and the bitter coffee in it sober you up a little also if that’s what you think you need, or keep your high even. And I make them with real whipped cream I whipped myself, so you get some food value from it too just when you might have to use it.”
