Comfort Zone

(continued)

By Marta Palos

Nobody could replace Samantha. In refreshing contrast with his tendency to brood, she had this rare gift for seeing the comical in any situation. "If I die first, throw my ashes into a lake or scatter them in the woods somewhere," she once said. "No, wait. Forget the lake. I just remembered I can't swim."

Life with her was like a long, amusing play without intermission. Some-times he wished for an intermission, but he still found the play amusing.

The woman he met some weeks ago couldn't be more different from Samantha. She worked at Dalton books. Carmen, he'd read on her nametag, but a Carmen she was not. Her blond hair was graying, her dreamy eyes were also gray. Could she help him find the book he was looking for, she asked, blushing. She had a fine figure though, and he attributed her unassuming manners to a range of surprising qualities waiting to be discovered. Closing time only minutes away, they ended up in the café next door. She hardly spoke. In the course of an hour he learned only three things about her: she was a divorcée, she lived in a duplex on Prospect Street with a cat, and she liked poetry. Out on the sidewalk he lit his pipe, she lit a cigarette. The cigarette a definite plus from his point of view, he asked if he could see her again. Sure, she said, gave him a timid smile and walked away. After two silent dinners together, he stopped seeing her.

He glanced at Lily. She looked pathetic. Black blotches of smeared mas-cara circled her eyes, her yellow hair hung limp around her face. To conceal his sudden compassion, he pulled his pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket.

"Put that thing away," Lily slapped his wrist.

"Come on now. Do you know how many cubic feet of fresh air surrounds you here?"

"You're killing yourself. Your cheeks are hollow. Your skin sags, and that's from tobacco. You used to be a handsome guy, and now look at you."

He lit his pipe. "The issue here is not me. If he's still alive, your Andor is a married, middle-aged man with two or three children. He is balding, he has a potbelly. His warm lips are framed by wrinkles, and his wife confides to her best friend that his mouth feels like a snail."

"Slug. You just say this because you want to shake me off."

"Listen to reason, Lily. You forget you're getting old yourself. How come you never told me about this man before?"

"Because about true love you don't talk. You just can't. You never talk about Samantha."

"Leave her out of this, will you?"

"You could still find someone."

"I don't recall asking your advice."

"You should focus on the living, David. On life. So, how about it?"

"How about what?"

"Asking Hoffman's wife if I have Andor's name right."

David sighed. "How old were you when you met this man?"

"Eighteen. He was twenty."

"Okay, let's assume the impossible happens and you find him. What do you expect him to do? Fall in love with you all over again?"

"We could build a new life on the memory of what we had together. For your information, it wasn't just his lips, he was also gentle and caring. He encouraged my plans to be a ballet dancer."

"That's right, I remember. What happened to that idea?"