Romantic Trapezoid. Victor L. Cahn

      Dave sighed with dramatic dejection. “I suppose the time has simply come.”

      “Time for what?”

      “Time for me to leave.”

      As Melissa searched for words, Dave sensed that she was suffering one of her rare bouts of befuddlement. Finally she spoke. “Could I just tell you that—”

      “Don’t, please.”

      “Can’t I explain—”

      “No excuses.”

      “I just want to say that—”

      “Hey!” Dave sliced the air with a horizontal chop. “Enough!” Then, to soften the blow, “It’s okay. Really.” He paused. “We’ll still see each other.”

      He turned to the dresser and withdrew more underwear.

      “Wow,” said Melissa. “I don’t know what to do.”

      Dave walked back to the suitcase, and laid down his T-shirts. “You don’t have to do anything. We’ll be fine.”

      She drew close to him, sipped sensually, then brought the glass to his lips. “You might feel better if we talked it out.”

      Dave smiled. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

      “Nothing?”

      “Nothing.”

      “You won’t let me say anything?” said Melissa.

      “You can say anything you like,” said Dave, repacking a t-shirt. Then he stopped and looked at her. “Although I’d like to hear one thing in particular.”

      “Name it.”

      “Who were you with?”

      “Today?”

      “Today.”

      “I was trying on clothes.”

      “Who were you with?”

      “They had a sale.”

      “Who was it?”

      “And I lost track of time. Before I knew it—”

      “Who was it?”

      “Then traffic jammed up—”

      “Who . . . was there?”

      Melissa turned away. “No one.” She sipped. “Sort of.”

      “WHO . . . was there?”

      She turned to him. “All right. Mickey was there.”

      “I knew it!” Then Dave strode to the dresser.

      “But only to help pick things out.” Melissa followed him. “That’s his business. And he is not the reason I was late!”

      “It’s all right!”

      “We’re just friends.”

      “I understand!”

      Dave brought his socks to the table.

      Melissa moved silently next to him, still sipping. When at last she spoke, her voice wavered. “Does this mean we’re splitting up?”

      “In one sense. But as I said, we’ll still see each other.”

      At that moment, Dave felt in command, even when Melissa leaned against the table, sipped, and licked her lips. “Hmmm!”

      Dave had anticipated a more emotional response. Nonetheless, he sought to retain his leverage. “There’s no need to make a scene.”

      “I know.” With those words, her voice steadied. She walked to the kitchen, refilled her glass, and padded back next to him. “Any idea where you’re going?”

      Her combination of perfume and perspiration was nearly overpowering. “My house,” he said.

      “Of course.” She sipped. “Although I hate to see you lose your place in the city.”

      “Don’t worry about it.”

      “Anywhere else you can stay?”

      “No. But you know me. I’m a homebody at heart.” He reasoned that a hint about settling down couldn’t hurt.

      In response, however, she merely mused.

      What was she thinking, Dave wondered. How much did she care? Was she unnerved? Frustrated? Relieved? He couldn’t read her.

      Even more confounding, how did he expect Melissa to respond to his packing? For that matter, how did he want her to respond? Agree to abandon her career? Relinquish all other friendships? Swear fidelity? Propose marriage?

      Finally she spoke. “Can I say just one thing?”

      “Of course.”

      “Whatever happens, I want you to know that you’re always welcome here.”

      What did she mean?

      “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”

      “I understand, but I want you to know that—”

      “I’ll be fine.”

      She meandered next to him. “The door is always open—”

      “I said I’ll be—”

      “But just in case—”

      “Please! Don’t worry about me.”

      He patted her hand and held it. Melissa kissed his index finger, then walked dejectedly to the sofa and sat. She moved some of her packages to create a space for her legs, which she stretched across the table.

      Dave could not help staring at those impossibly long limbs that extended from under that impossibly short skirt. She touched her forehead with the cold glass, leaned back, and sighed.

      “Are you as hot as I am?”

      Under normal circumstances, Dave would have interpreted this line as an irresistible invitation. Today, though, he responded blandly. “It is a bit humid.”

      “A bit? My God, I’d give anything for a swim.”

      Dave removed some shirts from the closet.

      “Are you really leaving in this heat?” she said.

      “That’s the plan.” He folded the sleeves of one turtleneck, and placed it meticulously in the suitcase.

      “Well . . . as long as you’ve thought everything out.”

      “I have.”

      No, he hadn’t.

      She sipped again. How could she make a single glass last so long? “You know what I was thinking on the way home?”

      “No.”

      “Remember two weeks ago when it was hot like this?”

      Dave said nothing.

      “Remember?”

      “Hm-mm.”

      “And I lay down on the bed naked. Remember?”

      “Yes.”

      Against his will, the image blazed across his mind. He envisioned the glorious arch of her back and the slope of that perfect bottom . . .

      “Then you massaged me with an ice cube. One little cube. You covered every inch of me. At least that’s what it felt like.” She let the thought pervade his consciousness. “I’ll never forget it. Will you?”

      Dave swallowed. “No.”

      Melissa flexed her legs and toes. “I’m glad. I’m also glad that we’ll always have our memories. Like that week in Mexico, exploring ancient ruins. Performing