Romantic Trapezoid. Victor L. Cahn

not have characterized himself with so extravagant a word, but he still appreciated it.

      As he related such drama, his passions occasionally crested, but the touch of Melissa’s hand always soothed him. When he became truly overwrought, she’d slip off her shoes, and wrap her legs around his, and thereafter nothing else seemed of import.

      After Dave had related his stories, Melissa reciprocated with news of her own: interviews she had conducted or articles she was writing. Dave enjoyed these accounts about prominent figures in finance, politics, or entertainment, but only after he had exhausted his own tales.

      Melissa never objected to the order of recitation.

      After a movie or show, they’d return to her place and dive into bed, where Melissa’s participation was nothing short of volcanic. Other women might claim to be aroused, but their mood could be extinguished by as minor an intrusion as a phone message, a street noise, or a news bulletin. Once Melissa proclaimed her readiness, however, she brooked no distractions, and thereafter participated with more exuberance than any other woman he had known.

      Unlike Margot, who refused foreplay until he remade his bed with clean linen.

      Or Camilla, who prohibited relations unless an athletic competition was running in the background.

      Or Wendy, who forbade contact unless the refrigerator was stocked with popsicles to prevent her overheating.

      Melissa, however, was forever amenable.

      Whatever contortion he proposed, she attempted.

      Whatever gimmick he conceived, she embraced.

      Whatever awkwardness he experienced, she assuaged.

      After one memorable night, she labeled him “Houdini.” Thereafter in preparation for each visit, he researched assiduously, and such study always paid off.

      By winter break, weekly infusions of Melissa became insufficient, and he craved a constant fix.

      He wanted to watch her apply makeup and brush her hair. He wanted to approve her outfits, including the omnipresent hats she drew from a collection that contained something whimsical for all occasions. He wanted her to share his simple but elegant culinary treats, then join him to wash and dry the dishes. He wanted to accompany her as she laundered clothes in the basement, conveyed apparel to the dry cleaner, and shopped for supplies. He wanted to watch her traipse about the apartment in her underwear. Or nothing at all. He wanted to savor her every word and gesture.

      At night, he wanted to love each centimeter of her body, then fall asleep with his arm wrapped around her, and wake up with hers wrapped around him.

      He wanted her to share his triumphs, and he wanted to exalt in hers. He wanted to tell her his dreams, and he wanted to hear hers.

      Thus during the first week of January, he had tried to impel matters. “Would you mind if I left some of my stuff here?”

      “Are you kidding? I’d love it!”

      By the time he arrived the next week, she had emptied half a closet and a full dresser drawer. In the former he hung shirts, jackets, and trousers, while the latter became the repository for underwear, socks, and less formal garb. She had also cleared two shelves in her medicine cabinet, where he stored a shaver, cologne, toothpaste, floss, mouthwash, combs, and various creams and pills.

      From that moment on, he hoped that she would eventually seek his presence full-time, and, indeed, her level of comfort seemed to rise.

      Whatever commercial establishment they visited, she smoothed dealings with salespeople and clerks, alleviating his pique over any inefficiency. At restaurants, she ensured that no matter the hour or capacity, the maitre d’ would find a suitable table. At two professional conferences, she applauded his presentations, all the while attracting hungry stares from his colleagues. At more popular fare, such as plays, movies, concerts, and exhibits, she listened to his evaluations, then contributed provocative opinions of her own.

      In sum, their life together sparkled.

      Except for one increasingly vexing source of worry.

      Like a precious volume on library reserve, she was often overdue. True, she always had an excuse. Sometimes one of her articles required a last-minute rewrite, or occasionally a printer demanded that she review proofs. The most frequent reason involved an interview subject who suddenly became available.

      Yet no matter how outlandish any explanation might initially seem, Dave eventually believed every word.

      Lateness, however, was only part of the difficulty. Another was that every narrative involved a man for whom she provided support.

      Never a woman. Always a man.

      In fact, many different men.

      Equally unsettling, when circumstances required him to remain on campus overtime, she never protested: “Don’t worry! I have plenty to keep me busy!” And when he showed up late with apologies, she swept them aside: “Forget it! I met the most incredible man. And we had a fantastic time!”

      Such generosity was comforting, yet irksome. What was she doing?

      The question was foolish. He knew exactly what she was doing.

      Well, not exactly, nor with whom she was doing it. But he understood that whenever he and Melissa were apart, including half of every week, her time was filled by other companions.

      She never willingly furnished details of these experiences. Yet his questioning revealed that she and her chums visited places (such as a gun club) and pursued activities (such as bungee jumping) that Dave could not abide. Even more unnerving, most of these men followed professions that could be categorized as more glamorous than his. Thus Dave heard about Roy, plastic surgeon for the stars. And Aubrey, auctioneer for the elite. And Dexter, broker for the well-heeled.

      Most painful, too many of these episodes left her giddy, and too many partners left her glowing.

      The inescapable truth was that no matter how much she claimed to bask in Dave’s presence, she basked with comparable joy in the presence of at least several others.

      How well can we know anyone? “Ah, sweet mystery of life,” as Nelson Eddy had sung to Jeannette McDonald.

      The ultimate frustration was that Melissa seemed oblivious to his agitation. Perhaps she knew that she could always allay his doubts, that all she need offer was a hug and a kiss, and his anxiety would dissipate.

      During January, they shared their first extended vacation, this to St. Maarten, where along a deserted beach they sunned, swam, and strolled. Romantic fluff, to be sure, but memorable romantic fluff.

      The highlight of the holiday was a riotous afternoon when Melissa urged him to try snorkeling in the pure waters off the island. Unfortunately he became so tangled in his tanks and tubes that she had fallen over laughing, while Dave, too, could not help guffawing. At that moment of semi-awareness, he recognized that he would never meet anyone whose spirit of fun was so irresistible.

      More than ever, he wanted to marry her.

      “Ever think about taking a larger apartment?” he asked.

      “When I can afford it.”

      “The two of us could afford it right now.”

      “Aren’t you comfortable?”

      “Well . . .”

      “Because I certainly am.”

      “But if we pooled our incomes . . . ?”

      “Yes?”

      “And took a lease together . . .”

      “Yes?”

      “That is, if we signed up as a team—”

      “It sounds great, but why bother?”

      If she understood his implication, she never indicated as much. Indeed, even after one more extended trip over