It was a few months after they first met. He was having two wisdom teeth extracted under gas at a specialist’s office on West 57th Street. “I just don’t want to hear the bones again, or whatever they are, crunch when the teeth are being pulled out.” She asked if he wanted her to come along with him. “Thanks, but I’ll be all right.” “You always say you’ll be all right,” and he said “Believe me, I’ll be fine, once the teeth are out.” She came anyway. He was in the recovery room when a dental assistant said “There’s someone here for you. Good thing, too, as we were worried how you’d get home.” “Why? I’m not driving. And I know who it is.” He was escorted out of the room. Gwen was sitting in the waiting room, reading a magazine. She said “Oh, my poor darling,” and was about to kiss him and he said “Don’t. That’s my bad side. Actually, both sides are bad, but that one’s beginning to hurt. It’s so nice of you to come here. Am I talking funny? I seem to sound it. And I now see I can use your help. You’re so considerate. So nice. So nice. We’ll get a cab to my building and then you can continue in it to yours.” “No, you’re coming home with me and staying the night. You’re a bit shaky and I want to make sure you’ll be okay.” As they were walking to the elevator, she holding his arm and saying “Lean on me if you need,” he said “This is real service. Did I ever tell you what Diana did when I was in the hospital after an operation on my leg?” “What she didn’t do, you mean. You were living with her in the Village then.” “East Tenth. I don’t mean to bad-mouth her, but she never came to visit me. I was there for two days. Memorial, so just a bus ride up First or Second. I didn’t have insurance then — I still don’t — and it was costing me plenty out of pocket, but they wouldn’t discharge me till I was able to walk out of the hospital — at least to the elevator on my floor — on my own. And she also didn’t come to the hospital to help me get home, and I could barely walk. I went in there with them thinking it was cancer — neurofibromatosis; one of the things my father had but didn’t die of. But after they cut me open and sent a piece of me to the pathologist, it turned out to be a Baker’s cyst, which all they needed to do was drain. To top it off, it was Diana’s former father-in-law I went to, whom she got to examine me gratis, and he diagnosed me and sent me to this surgeon. A double doctor screw-up. So what am I saying? I forgot.” “I think it was about my picking you up here. Diana. That I acted differently.” “That is what I’m saying. You’re everything I ever wanted. I’m so glad it took me this long.” “What a nice thing for you to say. I’ll remember it if we ever have an argument and you say about me what a mistake you made.”
