`Although I told Lil yesterday that I'm going to Westchester to see my Aunt Miriam.'
She was off again with a full whiskey and two pieces of chewed celery, and before she returned again Lil had arrived and I was trapped in an infinite analysis with a man named Sidney Opt of the effect of the Beatles on American culture. It was the closest I came to poetry that night. I didn't even talk to Arlene again until, well, that Tuesday afternoon.
'Arlene,' I said, trying to rope in a scream as she pressed the door convincingly against my foot, `you must let me in.'
'No,' she said.
`If you don't let me in I won't tell you what I plan to do.'
'Plan to do?'
`You'll never know what I'm going to say.'
There was a long pause and then the door eased open and I limped into her apartment. She retreated decisively to the
telephone and, standing stiffly with the receiver in her hand with one finger inserted into presumably the first digit, she
said `Don't come any nearer.'
`I won't, I won't. But you really should hang up the phone.'
'Absolutely not.'
`If you keep it off the hook too long they'll disconnect the phone.'
Hesitantly she replaced the receiver and sat at one end of the couch (next to the telephone); I seated myself at the other
end. - After looking at me blankly for a few minutes (I was preparing my declaration of Platonic love), she suddenly
began crying into her hands.
`I can't stop yon,' she moaned.
`I'm not trying to do anything!'
'I can't stop you, I know I can't. I'm weak.'
'But I won't touch you.'
`You're too strong, too forceful…'
'I won't touch you.'
'She looked up.
`You won't?'
'Arlene, I love you..-.'
`I knew it! Oh and I'm so weak.'
`I love you in a way beyond words.'
`You evil man.'
'But I have decided [I had become tight-upped with annoyance at her] that our love must always be Platonic.'
She looked at me with narrowed, resentful eyes: I suppose that it was her equivalent of Jake's penetrating squint, but it
made her look as if she were trying to read subtitles on an old Italian movie.
`Platonic?' she asked.
`Yes, it must always be Platonic.'
'Platonic.' She meditated.
`Yes,' I said, `I want to love you with a love that is beyond words and beyond the mere touch of bodies. With a love of
the spirit.'
'But what'll we do?'
`We'll see each other as we have in the past, but now knowing we were meant to be lovers but that fate seventeen
years ago made a mistake and gave you to Jake.'
'But what'll we do?' She held the phone to her ear.
`And for the sake of the children we must remain faithful to our spouses and never again give into our passion.'
`I know, but what will we do?'
`Nothing.'
`Nothing?'
'Er . . . nothing . . . unusual.'
`Won't we see each other?'
`Yes.'
'At least say we love each other?'
'Yes, I suppose so.'