Frog by Stephen Dixon Page A

thought why not? I see him every other weekend, or every weekend if that’s what he wants, but he so far hasn’t, and get him for a month in the summer. Lots of people disapprove, but they’re not me. Many of them are hypocrites, for they’re the same ones who feel so strongly that the husband—so why not the ex-husband who’s the father of your child?—should take a much larger if not an equal role in the partnership. Well, it’s still a partnership where our son’s concerned, or at least till he’s eighteen or twenty-one, isn’t it? Do you disapprove too?” He says “No, if it works for you all and it’s what you want and no one’s hurt. Sure. Of course, there’s got to be some sadness or remorse in a divorce where there’s a child involved,” and she says “Wrong again, with us. Having two parents was just too confusing for Riner. He thinks it’s great having only one at a time to answer to, and another to fall back on just in case.”
    He takes her phone number, calls, they have dinner, he sees her to her apartment house after, shakes her hand in the lobby and says he’ll call again if she doesn’t mind, “for it was a nice evening: lively conversation, some laughs, many of them, if fact, and we seem to have several similar interests,” and she says “So come on up. Even stay if you want; you don’t seem like a masher.” They go to bed and in the morning over coffee she says “I want to tell you something. I like you but don’t want you getting any ideas about my being your one-and-only from now on. You should know from the start that I’m seeing several men, sleeping with three of them—they’re all clean and straight, so don’t worry. And you can be number four if you want, but I’m not for a long time getting seriously connected to anyone. You don’t like the arrangement—no problem: here’s my cheek to kiss and there’s the door.” He says he doesn’t mind the arrangement for now, kisses her lips just before he leaves, but doesn’t call again.
    He sees a woman on a movie line waiting to go in. He’s alone and she seems to be too. She’s reading quite quickly a novel he liked a lot and never looks up from it at the people in front and behind her, at least while he’s looking at her. Attractive, intelligent looking, he likes the casual way she’s dressed, way her hair is, everything. He intentionally finds a seat two rows behind hers, watches her a lot and she never speaks to the person on either side of her. On the way out he does something he hasn’t done in about twenty years. He gets alongside her and says “Pardon me, miss, but did you like the movie?” She smiles and says “It was a big disappointment, and you?” “Didn’t care for it much either. Listen, this is difficult to do-introducing myself to a woman I’ve never met—like this, I mean, and something I haven’t done in God knows how many years. But would you—my name is Howard Tetch—like to have a cup of coffee someplace or a beer and talk about the movie? That book too—I read it and saw you reading. If you don’t, then please, I’m sorry for stopping you—I already think you’re going to say no, and why shouldn’t you?” “No, let’s have coffee, but for me, tea.” “Tea, yes, much healthier for you—that’s what I’ll have too.”
    They have tea, talk—the book, movie, difficulties of introducing yourself to strangers you want to meet, something she’s wanted to do with a number of men—“I can admit it,”—but never had the courage for it. He sees her to a taxi, next day calls her at work, they meet for tea, meet again for lunch, another time for a movie, go to bed, soon he’s at her place more than his own. She’s thirty-three and also