Several days later, Alan was in the break room, fixing his coffee. He had started getting his own coffee since Miranda returned to work injured. He offered to get Catherine Piper to fill in for her, but Miranda wouldn't hear of it. She insisted on coming in, though her injurly slowed her down considerably. He stirred his coffee thoughtfully, slowly. He had to admit, though, he liked it when she brought it to him. There was something loving and intimate in the act—like they were living together or...

"Well, you lost sport."

"Excuse me?" Alan was shaken from his reverie. He looked at Brad, confused.

"Our bet? About the new girl?"

"Oh yes!" Alan said, recalling the bet, dropping his stir stick in the trash.

"You wear a size 9 right?" He set a bag on the countertop. Alan peeked inside to find a pair of bright pink heels and feather boa. "I thought you might like to match."

"You're right, I would, but I think we should start the game over since her ex came back into the picture, stalked her, forced us to TRO, whereupon he was finally shot in a desperate attempt to win her back or kill her. Seems to me the deck was unfairly stacked against me."

"Too bad, sport. Sometimes it's the luck of the draw. A bet's a bet. You were supposed to get a date with her in two weeks and you didn't. Now it's time to pay the piper."

"Such a stickler for the rules, aren't we, Bradley? Is that what they teach you in the military?"

Brad smirked. "Rules are a good thing—especially when I win. And don't mock our troops."

"No, never!" Alan threw his hands up in phony defensiveness.

"You lost."

"Very well." Alan grabbed his coffee and the bag. "The heels had better be comfortable." He started toward the door.

"Hey Shore," Brad said.

Alan turned slowly to face him, annoyed, but refusing to let it show.

"Don't forget we still have two more points to bet on—and the stakes are higher this time; not only do you still have to get that date, but you've got to get her into bed, too."

"How are you going to know I've slept with her?"

"Evidence."

Alan laughed. "Of what sort?"

"You're a smart guy, you'll figure it out."

Alan moved closer. "You know, Bradley, I was thinking we could up the stakes a little."

"What did you have in mind?"

"I was thinking that in addition to the pink heels and pink boa, we should add a pretty wig—blonde, with a little glittery tiara, makeup, and a dress—the whole shebang. I can help you with the eye shadow. You look like you'd wear warm tones."

"You're such a perv."

"Yes, I think we've established that. But I really think you would look best in the makeup and wig—like a glittery Barbie doll."
"Fine. You're on." Brad pushed passed him.

"Fine." Alan watched him walk away.

When Miranda came into work that morning she found Alan sitting on the sofa, legs crossed; he was wearing hot pink heels and a pink feather boa, reading a newspaper. He looked up from his paper and smiled. "Good morning, Miranda."

"This is…an interesting new look for you, Alan," she said, approaching him cautiously.

"I lost a bet." He folded up his paper and cast it aside. "I don't like to lose, but, well these were the terms."

Miranda laughed. "Really? Hold on just a second. She pulled her phone out of her purse. "I just have to have a picture of this."

"Only if you promise to keep it between us."

She snapped a picture. "Of course it's between us. Well, unless I need to blackmail you for anything."

"That's my girl. I would expect nothing less."

"It's lovely. Would you like to see?"

"I would."

She sat down and leaned near to show him. "So can you actually walk in those heels? They're pretty high."

He laughed. "I can. I can dance in them too." He reached over and touched her skirt. "I think, however, I'd much rather see you in the heels and boa…and nothing else on."

Their faces were very close together; their lips moving closer, eager for a kiss.

There was a light knock on the door and it opened.

"Alan?" A female voice said.

Miranda moved back quickly.

"Vera," he said happily. "So good to see you." They hugged. She was a leggy, busty blonde in a white pants suit, dripping in jewelry and makeup—a little overdone, Miranda thought.

"Vera Reynolds," he said, turning to Miranda, "This is Miranda Houston. Miranda is a friend of mine who needs a new place to live. I told her you could probably help."

Miranda stood and shook her hand. Vera's bangles clanged together.

"Of course. I would be happy to. Do you have a few minutes to talk about it?"

They went to the break room to look through Vera's portfolio of listings. Miranda selected a few and they discussed them. They arranged to meet on Saturday morning if Miranda found something she liked.

On her way out, Vera ran into Alan in the hall.
"So do you think you can help?"

"I think so," she said.

Vera touched the lapel of his suit jacket, lowered her voice seductively. "So Alan, how have you been?"

He showed no reaction to her obvious come on. "I've been good. You?"

"A little lonely."
"That's a change. I used to have to compete for your attention, ultimately losing out to a financier. What was his name?"

"Jack."

"Right. Jack. And how's that going?"

"It's gone. Not long after you and I split actually. I've often thought about calling you."

"Why didn't you?"

"I don't know. I got distracted."

"I recall it was rather easy to distract you."

She smiled, pressing herself closer to him. "So how about, tonight, you and me, a candlelight dinner, and a night of athletic love-making? I remember you had some particular skills that I have found other men grossly lacking in."

A flicker of a smile crossed over his lips. "I don't think so, Vera." He gazed at her steadily.

"Oh." She ran her long red nail lightly down his cheek. "So there's nothing I could do to convince you?"

He scoffed. "No."

She searched his eyes then stepped back. "I see. Miranda, right? You know, she is an incredibly sweet girl."

"She is."

"Too many sweets can make you sick though and as I recall you never had much of a sweet tooth."

"It's a good thing then she's actually quite substantial—more like a juicy steak I can…sink my teeth into."

She laughed. "Hardly! C'mon, Alan. I mean she seems bright, I suppose. She's certainly pretty; but she seems to be more like an ice cream cone—certainly sweet, but only something you indulge in occasionally—not every day for every meal."

He was no longer amused. Who did this woman think she was talking about Miranda this way? Obviously, she was jealous. "I think I'll be the judge of that," he said flatly. "And, as I recall you never had the ability to judge anything beyond the most superficial qualities in a person. So, it's really not surprising you would see her in an artificially sweet light."

"All this talk of food is making me hungry. How about we go for just a quick lunch then? Just for old times' sake?"

"Vera if you're hungry then get something to eat. I've never stood in the way of your satiety."

"You used to be a big part of that."

"Funny, that's not how I remember it. Seems you rather preferred Jack's particular brand of fulfillment at the time. Now that he's no longer around and you have apparently seen how well I've done for myself, your recollection of the past seems to have grown rather hazy."

"Fine then. Have it your way."

"I usually do."

She started to walk off, and he added, "However, I hope this jealousy of yours won't affect your ability to do right by Miranda. I was certain you would be able to give her the best deal, despite your venom for me—that's why I called you."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Don't worry about that Alan. My relationship with money has always been my strongest one."

"I haven't forgotten."

She huffed and walked away.

He returned to the break room for a cup of coffee.

"Any luck?"

"I think so," Miranda said, coming over to get her own cup of coffee.

Alan fixed her a cup of coffee too.

She pointed at the sheet in the middle. "I really like this one."

He looked over her shoulder, taking in the scent of her hair in the meantime.

"It has a fireplace," she said. "I really like that."

He glanced at the paper. "Hmmm. Me too." He pulled her hair back and whispered into her ear. "Already my mind is unfolding a variety of fantasies involving you and me in front of the fireplace, the orange and yellow glow of the fire against your pale naked skin."

She giggled. "So it's your favorite, too. Maybe I shouldn't bother looking at any of the others."

"I'm sure the others have their charms as well."

"You want to go with me?"

"To look at the place?"

"Sure, why not? I value your opinion."

"When are you going?"

"Saturday morning around 9 or so."

"I can do that. Do we get to use fireplace right away?"

She chuckled. "Oooh, built in bookshelves, too. Aren't they nice?"

"Mm-hm," he said, nuzzling her hair.

"Oh, my goodness, I'm in love."

He was startled and pulled back a little. "You're what?"

"In love….with the wood floors…look."

"Oh, yes, very nice." He pressed fully against her, speaking lowly into her hair, "After you pick out your new home, I'll take you someplace for brunch. I imagine it will have a fountain, lush greenery and white tablecloths."

"Mmm. That sounds good." She melted against him. "And then maybe after we can check out the art museum? There's a new Renaissance exhibit I'd like to see."

"Certainly." He touched her shoulders to feel the soft rayon material of her dress, fingertips trailed lightly down her arms. So," he ran his hands down her the sides, resting on her waist. "So, I suppose it would be our first official date."

She grew warm under his touch. "Yes. I think it would be—officially. And Alan?"

"Yes?"

"It seems you've forgotten some of the terms of the contract."

He paused then stepped away. "You're no fun at all."

Cool air hit her back through the thin material of her dress when he removed his warm body. For a brief moment she regretted making him stop.

She turned to him, a glint of mischief in her eye. "Not at the office." She ran her hand down his tie, "Okay?"

"Right. And why is that? I've forgotten," he said, squinting in mock confusion.

"Because I like to keep life in here separate from life out there as much as possible. Do you have any distinctions like that in your life, Alan? Have you become such a workaholic that you no longer separate your private life from your work life?"

He scoffed. "I have plenty of separation…I am not a workaholic."

"Hm," she said in disbelief.

"You don't believe me?"

"I need to get back to work—as do you." She walked briskly from the room and he left slowly so as to be behind her, and enjoy watching the sway of her hips beneath her dress all the way down the hall.

That night on the balcony Denny and Alan gathered with their scotch and cigars.

"Alan?"

"Yes, Denny?"

"Do you have mad cow, too?"

"No, why do you ask?"

"Well you're wearing pink heels and a pink feather boa."

"I lost a bet with Brad."

"What was the bet?"

"He said I couldn't get a date with Miranda in two weeks time."

"No you couldn't," Denny laughed gnawing his cigar. "I've never seen such a spectacle."

"Well there were obstacles which prevented me; otherwise I would have. But I don't care. We have two more bets on the table; I think I'll win because now I'm annoyed and the heels have given me blisters."

"What are the stakes?"

"The loser has to wear the heels, the boa, a blonde wig with a tiara, dress, and makeup."

Denny laughed, "Brad will look cute in that getup."

"Indeed," Alan chuckled.

They sat silently for a moment looking out across the skyline.

Alan broke the silence. "She's giving me some trouble Denny."

"Who?"

"Miranda. She's just so…" he struggled to find the right words.

"What?"

"Her scent, her hair, her laugh…God that laugh." He blew a smoke ring into the air. "And the hint of the south in her voice—she's just…phenomenal." He shook his head.

"You know what I like?" Denny said.

"What's that?"

"I like relationships in the very beginning, when everything is fresh and new and they look at you with this little spark of admiration in their eye—that's when I feel most like a man."

Alan's jaw dropped a little. He was shocked by Denny's seeming ability to read his mind; he recovered. "Exactly."

"It makes you feel good," Denny said, "To feel like you're the center of their world, to feel like they admire you, respect you. That feeling—that high—it's addictive."

"Indeed."

"Does she make you feel that way?"

"I hate to admit it, but she does."

They sat silent for a moment.

"I think I would like to be exclusive with her," Alan said.

"Exclusive? Oooh, serious," Denny said, sipping his scotch. "What does she say?"

"I haven't mentioned it to her yet."

Denny grunted.

"I haven't had an exclusive relationship, not a serious one, since Tara, I guess." Alan rolled his cigar in between his thumb and finger, watching it.

"Are you that serious about her already?"

"No," Alan chuckled. "Not really…well, kind of. I'm just learning about her, Denny."

"You think it could be serious?"

"Maybe. In her eyes and her smile I see all the hope and promise that it could be…more." He took a drag from his cigar and released the smoke into the air. "I'm going Saturday to help her pick out her new townhome."

"Townhome? Are you moving in with her? We won't be able to have our sleepovers." Denny moved to the edge of his seat.

"No," Alan laughed. "I'm not moving in with her, Denny. I haven't even had a date with her yet. I'm just helping out. Our sleepovers are safe."

"Did you tell her that I come first?"

"I did."

"What did she say? I bet she got mad." Denny said eagerly.

"No, actually, she was very understanding. She said she wouldn't dream of coming between us."

"Ooh, she's a tricky one," Denny said, sitting back puffing his cigar, staring at the sky. "At first, she'll pretend she's all understanding and it's okay to be with your friends and then suddenly, one day—whoosh!" He swept his hand through the air. "She'll pull the rug right out from under you."

Alan laughed, looking at Denny. "I really don't think so, Denny. She really doesn't seem to have an alternative agenda."

"Keep your eye on her." Denny took a drag from his cigar. He paused and added lasciviously, "Better yet, I'll keep an eye on her."

"You can look, but no touching or coming on to her. I mean it."

"I won't. I swear." Denny leaned back in his chair, "You lucky devil. I hope you realize how good I am to you."

"I count my blessings every day."

The next morning Alan and Miranda were in the break room getting their morning coffee and chatting. Brad walked in and grabbed a juice from the refrigerator.

"Bradley!" Alan cried sarcastically joyful.

"Morning, Brad," Miranda said.

Brad swigged the juice. "Miranda, Alan. So, Miranda, how do you like it here, so far?"

She glanced at Alan. "I like it a lot. I've received a very warm welcome from everyone."

Brad looked at Alan. "I bet."

Alan smiled.

"I feel like one of the family already."

Alan raised his eyebrows and smiled, looking Miranda up and down. "Then perhaps you and I should get together and play house sometime."

She smiled into her coffee.

Alan turned to Brad. "We would invite you, Bradley, but there's usually only one Daddy and I've already called dibs."

"He could be our bouncing baby boy."

Alan beamed at Miranda. In this moment, the way she helped him harass Brad, he almost loved her.

"Indeed," he said smoothly. "Of course, we will have to decide who punishes him when he is…" he turned to look steadily at Brad, and stroked the word, "naughty."

Miranda chimed in. "Well, in this day and age, I think it's important that both parents share the disciplinary role. Otherwise, he might not take me seriously as a parent."

"Wonderful point! There you have it, Bradley. We both shall spank you when you're naughty."

Miranda nodded sincerely. "It's only fair."

"Okay," Brad put out his hands. "The two of you need to cut it out, right now." He twisted his neck to loosen his collar and smoothed his tie. "You're creeping me out."

Alan smirked.

"We just want what's best for you, Brad," Miranda said.

"Okay. I see what you're doing and it's not going to work. I'm glad you like it here, Miranda. That's good. If you need anything, just let me know." He put his hands in his pockets and assumed a wide stance.

"Actually," Alan said, "She'll let me know."

Brad glanced at Miranda.

She said, "He is the daddy."

Alan said to her, teasingly, running his eyes down her body, "With a little luck I'll be your daddy."

She bit at him and growled playfully.

Brad looked at them with faint disgust. "Yea but what you seem to forget sport is that, like it or not, I'm senior partner, so I actually have more pull around here."

"Ha! And we're all so impressed." Alan said. "That settles it then. Brad, you can be my daddy because I'm such a whore for power and authority, but I require multiple spankings every day."

"Gross." Brad glared at him then lifted his juice bottle to Miranda. "Miranda."

She lifted her coffee cup in return as he turned to leave.

"Bradley wait," Alan said. "There's something, as senior partner, I think you should know about."

Brad turned. "Yea?"

Alan turned to Miranda and took her coffee cup from her and placed it on the counter. He took her hand in his and said, "Miranda, this Saturday, will you honor me with your presence on our first official date?"

Miranda's eye glittered with laughter then she said, following his lead, "Alan, I would love to." Then out of a sheer coincidence that caused Alan's heart to leap for joy, she added, "But I can't decide: should we have sex at the beginning or the end of the date?"

Alan smiled. "Well, I personally prefer to wait for sex until we've really gotten to know each other. I really don't put out so easily. But Brad does, though. Don't you, Brad? Maybe he's your man. Office gossip has it that he's a bit of a tramp." Alan looked Brad.

Brad made a mocking face. "That's not true and you know it."

"It occurs to me," Alan looked at Miranda, "that perhaps we should defer the question to our senior partner since he's certain to have some valuable insight to share in this matter. Brad? Should Miranda and I have sex before or after the date?"

They both turned and looked at Brad—hers was a look of amusement while his was smug victory.

Brad sneered. "Have fun on your date, Alan. Let's see how you do on that other thing. Miranda, good day." He nodded and left the room.

Miranda giggled and Alan smiled at her. "I can't express how happy you have made me this morning. What you did to Brad on my behalf, was truly a thing of beauty."

"And a thing of beauty is a joy forever."

"Indeed."

"Doesn't take much to make you happy then, does it?" Miranda picked up her coffee and sipped it.

"It really doesn't."

"So what's the other thing he mentioned?" Miranda asked.

"Oh, nothing; it's just another bet."

"What are the stakes this time?"

"The works: boa, heels, blonde wig, tiara, makeup, dress."

"I can't wait to get a picture of you in that get up."

"You think I will lose?"

"Well, I don't know what you're betting on, but the first time didn't go off so well for you, did it?"

"No it didn't." He frowned. "I do so hate to lose." With a lighter air he added, "But I like the boa. I might keep it when the bets are over. I still would like to see you wearing it."

She laughed aloud, tossing her head back.

He ran his eyes down her neck. He swallowed hard—such a lovely neck; how desperately he wanted to touch it, taste it. "Nevertheless," he said, forcing himself to look away before he pounced on her. "I refuse to lose this one. There's too much at stake."

"Really? So what are you betting on?"

"I'd rather not say."

"You can tell me. I'm not going to say anything."

"I really can't."

"Is it about a case?"

"Miranda, I can't; it wouldn't be wise to reveal the details."

"So you don't trust me. Okay. I see how it is." she said, cocking her eyebrow; she picked up her papers and headed toward the door.

"You know that's not true." He watched her walk away.

She stopped and turned around. "Alan," she said.

He raised his eyebrows in answer.

"I don't think I'll let you watch me walk away today."

He flinched, shocked.

She motioned for him to turn around.

"You can't be serious."

She put her hand on her hip and said with irritation, "Turn around."

He put his back to her.

Miranda said in a patronizing voice, "Now stay. Good boy."

When he tried to catch a glimpse on the sly, she was gone.

"Hm," he mused to himself. He wondered what her reaction would be if he told her. He liked to think she would accept it in the spirit of the game and play along. Maybe he should call off the bet. Try to get under Brad's skin another way. But the satisfaction of seeing Brad, that super straight-laced, homophobic prig, dolled up in women's garb would be quite satisfying.

On Saturday Alan met Miranda in the lobby of their hotel.

"Morning," she said. His eyes ran up her knee high black boots, her short black corduroy skirt her snug maroon angora sweater.

"Oh dear," he whispered under his breath. His mind buzzed with all the textures she wore.

He stood to greet her. Though she found him incredibly appealing in his suits, she was pleased to see him in a shirt layered with a dark gray V-neck sweater and khakis.

He kissed her cheek. "Where's your sling?"

"It's in here," she patted her purse. "In case I need it. But I thought I'd try to go without it today. My arm is a little tender still, but mostly better"

He ran his eyes over her body. "I really like the boots. Maybe you can wrap them around me later?" He ran his finger down her arm to feel her sweater.

She giggled. "You look so collegic in your V-neck sweater and khakis. The only thing missing is the tweed jacket with the elbow patches."

He smiled warmly, gazing into her eyes. "Is this a particular fetish of yours?"

"It is actually."

"I'm intrigued."

She ran her hand down the front of his sweater. "You remind me of this college professor, I once had an affair with. We would often rendezvous in his office on his leather couch or his desk—in my little plaid school girl skirt."

"Oh my. You wore uniforms in college?"

"No I just threw the skirt in for your…amusement—something to keep that active mind of yours mind busy."

"I'm impressed." He looked down her face to her lips. "I always wanted to sleep with one of my professors—especially my French professor. She was…delectable—graceful, lithe; never got around to it though."

"Why?"

"I was a little awkward in college. I've told you that."

She put her good arm through his and they walked toward the door. "I always liked the awkward boys—the ones who sat in the back of the class, moody, quiet—Byronic."

"You're just saying that."

"I'm not." She laughed, shaking her head, her earrings dancing. "But my professor, he used to wear sweaters like the one you have on, and tweed blazers with the elbow patches—so very cliché, but so very effective."

It was windy and brisk outside, but sunny.

"Did you get a good grade?"

"Top of the class. But that's not why I slept with him. I would have gotten good grades any way."

"I have no doubt. If you don't mind I will tuck this little gem away for future use."

"It's all yours."

He opened the car door for her. "So, what subject did this professor teach?"

She looked up at him. "British Romantic poets, of course."

"Of course."

They looked at her favorite townhome first—the one with the fireplace, the built-in bookshelves and hardwood floors.

Vera greeted them coolly and stood silently as Miranda looked through the rooms, opening closets and cabinets. She immediately liked the vaulted ceilings and the amount of light the tall windows allowed in. She knelt on a window seat and looked on the street below. She turned to Alan.

"Alan, this place is amazing! The rooms are a little smaller than I thought they would be, but still—it's amazing!

Alan was struck by the sunlight framing her body, illuminating her; he imagined her there in the mornings, in a bath robe or in one of his shirts—the thought cut through him.

"I have to have it."

"Me, too," he said. He shook his head. "I mean, I agree. You should get it."

"So you like it?"

"I do."

She sat down on the window seat and looked out the window.

"Vera," he said, "May we have a minute?"

"Sure."

Alan stood beside her. "What's wrong?"

She looked up at him. "I've never owned a house. I've always rented; it was easy, temporary. I knew that I could leave whenever I wanted; this…this is so permanent."

He sat next to her and looked out across the empty room. "Perhaps it's not as temporary as a rental, but that doesn't mean you can never get out of this house if you need to."

"Yea, but it would be a lot more difficult than leaving a rental—you know that—this is more of a long term commitment. It's an older place, so I'll have to put some work into it, dedicate time to it. I can't just leave whenever I want."

"That's true. I guess you just need to decide if it's worth it—if you like it enough to put the work and time and commitment into it."

She thought about it for a moment, envisioned where the furniture would go, the books on the bookshelf, the fire in the fireplace. She even pictured herself and Alan having a glass of wine in front of the fire. She immediately chastised herself for thinking that though. She cannot allow herself to believe that he would be around for long. She couldn't let herself get in too deep.
Her eyes met his and she searched them. "I believe it is worth it. I'll take it." She though she recognized something resembling happiness in his eyes—or, at least, he didn't let his eyes go empty to veil his true feelings as he so often did.

She arranged a meeting with Vera and then she and Alan left for their date.

Alan took Miranda to an exquisite restaurant inside a hotel.

He held her chair for her before taking his own.

"I think I'm going to like my new place."

"It seems very comfortable and cozy," he said, putting a napkin in his lap.

"Do you trust Vera? Do you think she will be fair?"

"I do."

She hesitated. "Did you date her at one time?"

He sipped his coffee then looked at her steadily. "I did."

"How long?"

"Nine, ten months, not quite a year."

"So it wasn't serious."

"Probably not. We dated when I first started out as an attorney, before I became successful. She wasn't patient enough to wait for me to become successful, so she moved on to a more powerful financier."

"I've sensed a coolness from her since yesterday."

"She's a little jealous, I think. She came on to me in the hallway, wanted to re-ignite the flame…" Alan paused to gauge her response.

"Oh." Miranda blinked rapidly, shocked.

He watched her lips mold around the flesh of a strawberry as she bit into it.

Miranda continued. "Well, that's very…honest. Thank you for that. I have always appreciated the truth, regardless of the consequences."

"Ha!" he scoffed. "I've heard that one before."

She cocked her head to the side as a faint smile crossed her lips, "You doubt me?"

"I do," he said. He leaned back in his chair, one hand on the table. He looked up at her and caught that all too familiar glimmer in her eye, the one of admiration with a hint of mischief; it tugged at him, chipped at his wall.

She spread marmalade onto an English muffin and bit into it, washing it down with water. He watched her keenly, breathing in each movement. His body grew tight all over.

"So, are you interested in re-igniting the flame with Vera? She's intensely pretty."

"She's also intensely vain, self-absorbed and shallow. I have enough shallow people in my life, Miranda. I find, as I get older, and now that I'm more comfortable in my career and status, that I need to surround myself with people of substance."

"So you turned her down."

"I did."

Miranda smiled to herself and bounced a little in her seat, biting into her bread.

"That makes you happy?"

"Well, it makes me happier than the thought of you not turning her down."

"And what if I had accepted? I could have, you know. You and I are not exclusive."

She swallowed her food and lifted her blue eyes to his. She grew very still and serious. "I know that, but that doesn't negate the fact that I would have been a little hurt and deeply disappointed."

A half-smile played across his lips. He looked away first and toyed with the edge of the cloth napkin.

"About a week ago, when you were wounded and they were putting you into the ambulance, you said something…" he trailed off.

"What did I say?"

He wavered then shook his head. "Never mind. It's not important. You were under the influence of a lot of pain medication. I'm sure you didn't mean it. It just shocked me that's all."

"If you tell me what it is…was I mean?"

He chuckled. "No. Never mind. I shouldn't have brought it up. I'm sure it's nothing."

She pressed her mind to remember. What was it? What did I say?

As usual, whenever his emotions became too tumultuous for him, he deflected the charge with light-hearted sexual banter. "That little story you told me earlier about you and your literature professor, on the couch, the desk—was that true?"

A sly smile crossed her face. "Literature was my favorite subject in college. You know why?"

"Do tell."

"The passion. Sometimes, especially with the poets, it climbed to such heights that you felt as though it would rip you open from within. I loved the way the words were strung together to create these amazing images and sounds to carry me away to another place and time, to pull me directly into the author's essences. I've always loved words—they way they taste, the feel of them in my mouth, the sound of their voices like an orchestra."

He felt the same way about words. He had never met anyone who expressed his own most intimate relationship with words so perfectly. This was too good to be true. He knew it—this could not, would not last. He wanted to hold on to her tight, but he was certain that like water, the tighter he attempted to hold her, she would simply flow out between his fingers. He wondered if the universe had some grand conspiracy against his happiness. He mocked himself. Ridiculous. He was his own worst enemy when it came to women and he knew it.

She continued, running her finger around the rim of her glass. "Most of all I was passionate about picking apart the threads of human beings and the human psyche, scrutinizing the cogs and wheels of humanity to see what makes people tick. Writers, philosophers have their fingers on the pulse of that. The words, the psyches that created them were such an….aphrodisiac; by the end of class I would be completely fired up."

Alan was utterly taken in. But for the first time in a very long time, in fact, since his wife died, he was interested in holding on to a woman. But what if she didn't want to be held? He wasn't sure he could so expose himself like that again; it was much too painful. It was easier to seduce and run. But he suddenly found himself not wanting to run and that scared him even more.

"I guess my professor sensed that. I guess I cultivated his interest. I could talk to him about the readings in way that I couldn't with my peers. I was always a little different than my peers, a little on the fringes, a bit of an odd ball."

Alan chuckled, sipped his water. "I can certainly relate to that."

He considered her for a moment. "So the story is true?"

"Absolutely."

He shook his head in wonder, smiling dreamily. "I can just imagine you: younger, but looking much like you do now, in your jeans and turtlenecks—maybe your hair in a ponytail—with all your fresh idealism and youthful exuberance for life—diving into the grand, seductive idealism in literature and philosophy, while exploring your first experiences with passion and sex. Maybe you even recited poetry while making love. My God, what I wouldn't give to have known you then." He chuckled, looking into his water glass. "I imagine you would have had me wrapped quite tightly around your finger."

"What were you like in college—with girls?"

"Oh!" he chuckled, shaking his head. "Extremely shy at first, but I always somehow seemed to have girlfriends. We would start out as pals and then fumble our way into sex."

"So what happened? You're anything but shy now."

"My wife."

Miranda was shocked. "You were married?"

He nodded. "She instilled a confidence in me which I had never known before."

"How long?"

"Ten years."

"What happened?"

Looking at the table, he cocked his head and hesitated, then added flatly. "She died."

One of his hands was resting on the table. She wanted to touch his hand, to console him. She hesitated. He put up such thick walls, she wondered if it would just send him deeper inside himself to touch him at this vulnerable moment. But she could see he was wrestling with maintaining his stability, with maintaining the wall. She decided to go for it, just to see his reaction. She reached across the table and placed her hand on his and squeezed it gently. He looked away. But as she was about to remove her hand, he opened his up and squeezed her hand.

She allowed him a moment then said, "Someday, when you can, maybe you'll tell me something about her. I'm sure she must have been an incredible woman in order to capture your heart." She hesitated for a few moments; then to draw him out and lighten the air she said, "I would really like to go see the new exhibit at the museum. Are you still in?"

"Of course," he said, quietly.