Frog by Stephen Dixon

“No, she didn’t mention you that I can remember. Wait a second. Are you the fellow who saw a man dancing on the street with his baby and decided that you wanted to be that man?” “I didn’t think she’d tell you that part, but yes, I am. It was through an apartment window I saw him. I was just walking. Anyway, I’m not much—I’m sure you’re not also—for meeting someone blind like this, but Freddy seemed to think we’ve a lot in common and could have a good conversation. Would you care to meet for coffee one afternoon or night?” “Let’s see, Howard. This week I’m tied up both at work and, in the few available nonwork hours, in my social life. It just happens to be one of those rare weeks—I’m not putting you on. Or putting you off, is more like it. Would you mind calling me again next week—in the middle, let’s say?” “No, sure, I’ll call.”
    He calls the next week and she says “Howard Tetch?” “Yes, I called you last week. Freddy Gum’s friend. You said—” “Oh, right, Howard. It’s awful of me—please, I apologize. I don’t know how I could have forgotten your name a second time. Believe me, it’s the work. Sixty hours, seventy. How are you?” “Fine,” he says, “and I was wondering if there was some time this week, or even on the weekend, we could—” “I really couldn’t this week or the weekend. What I was doing last week extended into this one, and maybe even worse. Not the socializing, but those sixty-seventy-hours-a-week work. I’m not stringing you along, honestly. But I do have this profession that’s very demanding sometimes—” “What is it you do?” “Whatever I do—and I wish I had the time to tell you, but I haven’t. We’ll talk it over when we meet. So you’ll call me? I can easily understand why you wouldn’t.” “No, sure, next week then. I’ll call.”
    He doesn’t call back. A week later another friend calls and says he’s giving a dinner party Saturday and “two very lovely and intelligent young women, both single, will be coming and I want you to meet them. Who can say? You might get interested in them both. Then you’ll have a problem you wish never started by phoning around for possible brides and mothers for your future kids, right?” “Oh, I don’t know,” Howard says, “but sounds pretty good so far.”
    He goes to the party. One of these two women is physically beautiful, all right, but unattractive. Something about the way she’s dressed—she’s overdressed—and her perfume, makeup, self-important air or something, and she talks too much and too loudly. She also smokes—a lot—and every so often blows smoke on the person she’s talking to, and both times she left her extinguished cigarette smoldering. He just knows—so he doesn’t even approach her—he could never start seeing or not for too long a woman who smokes so much and so carelessly. The other woman—seems to be her friend—is pretty, has a nice figure, more simply dressed, no makeup or none he can make out, doesn’t smoke or isn’t smoking here, talks intelligently and has a pleasant voice. He introduces himself, they talk about different things, she tells him she recently got divorced and he says “I’m sorry, that can be very rough.” “Just the opposite. We settled it quickly and friendly and since the day I left him I’ve never felt so free in my life. I love going out, or staying in when I want to, and partying late, meeting lots or people, but being unattached.” She has a six-year-old son who lives with his father. “One child, that’s all I ever wanted, and now I think even one was too many for me, much as I love him. Since his father wanted to take him, I