The cash register clattered and rang. He shoved the cart forward mechanically.
“Why the long face?” she asked.
“Huh?”
“You’re frowning.”
“No I’m not.”
“Want to bet?”
“I was just thinking, that’s all.”
“Well, it looked like a frown.”
“Um. Sorry.”
She shrugged it off. “What for? What were you thinking about?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Just about our different attitudes on things. You’re more of a homebody than I am.”
“It’s an occupational hazard. I’m a woman.”
“I’d noticed.”
“I certainly hope so.”
The clerk checked them out then, a steady pattering of packages and prices, punctuated by the electronic coughs of the register. “Nine forty-three,” she said.
David Auberson handed her a ten dollar bill; then, noticing there was no boxboy, he stepped down to the end of the stand and began putting the groceries into a bag. He was able to put them all into one sack and hefted it once to test its weight. He looked back to the clerk. “My change?”
“I gave it to your wife.” The clerk gestured at Annie.
“Oh, we’re not—” they both said at once and stopped. They looked at each other and laughed. “Come on,” grinned David. The clerk turned to the next customer.
As they exited into the neon-lit night, she said wistfully, “Mrs. Auberson…”
“Is that a hint?”
“Um, sort of. I was just wondering, if there were a Mrs. Auberson, what she would be like.”
“You’ll have to ask my mother that — she’s the only Mrs. Auberson I know.”
He swung the car out of the parking lot and onto the street.
Annie said, “I wasn’t thinking of your mother.”
“I know. I was sidestepping the issue.”
She laughed at that. But not too heartily.
Once inside the apartment, she tossed her coat on his couch and followed him into the kitchen. “Let me unpack them,” she said, referring to the groceries. “You fix the drinks.”
“Screwdriver okay?” he asked, pulling orange juice out of the refrigerator and ice out of the freezer.
“Fine,” she said. “Unless you know how to make a wallbanger.”
“I do, but I think I’m out of Galliano — no, here’s some.” He rummaged around in his liquor cabinet, pulled out two tall glasses and dropped ice cubes into them. A little vodka, then some orange juice—
“A little more vodka than that,” she hinted.
—a little more vodka, then a healthy jigger of the sweet yellow Galliano, a maraschino cherry in each, and a hasty stir.
He handed her the drink and she pecked him on the cheek. A moment later she pulled away from the resultant embrace. “Um, I have to finish putting the roast in the broiler.”
“Broiler? I thought you put a roast in the oven.”
“Boneless shoulder,” she explained. “Flat cut. You broil it. It’s quicker and it tastes as rich as steak.”
“Oh,” he said. He sipped at his drink, then sat down to watch her. He took another sip.
For a bit there was silence — only the tinkle of ice in their glasses, or the slide and scrape of the broiler pan in the oven as Annie adjusted the meat. She sampled her drink, then began shredding lettuce into a bowl.
He said, “I think I may be setting a record.”
“Oh? What kind?”
“We’ve been together for an hour or more now, and I haven’t mentioned HARLIE once.”
“You just did.”
“Yes, but that was only to tell you I hadn’t — and I’m not going to say anything more about him tonight.”
Expertly, she sliced a tomato into neat little chunks. “Okay, fine.”
He sipped his drink again. He found that he was enjoying this. There was a homey atmosphere about the scene, and he had a sense of — belonging(?). A sense of something — he couldn’t quite place it, but he felt more relaxed now.
She dropped a plastic pouch of vegetables into a pan of boiling water, fiddled with the roast a bit, then quickly set the table. She worked with a minimum of fuss and frills. She plopped the salad bowl before him. “Here, you toss.”
“With my bare hands?”
She was already reaching for salad fork and spoon. She handed them to him, then put out the small salad bowls. Clumsily, he filled them.
Before he had finished she was seated at the table, looking at him. She took a bit more of her drink, then said, “Want to eat your salad now, or wait a bit? The meat needs another ten minutes.”
“Oh, we can wait, I guess.” He stared across the table at her sea-green eyes. They were glowing as if translucent, as if there were tiny gems deep within them, catching the light and sparkling it. Her smile was warm and inviting, her lips were moist. Her face was a glow of trust and love—