Late Stories by Stephen Dixon

same age. She was very mature looking. Didn’t act like the other girls she was with. Nothing loud or exaggerated about her. Quiet; self-contained, or so it seemed. Maybe she was even older than I. Maybe by a year. I never thought of that before. That sure would have stopped anything from happening, if it had ever come to that. Because I never met her—never even approached her, though I wanted to—but I also never forgot her. She looked like you in that photo. The blond hair. Long and light and combed back. The face; shape of it. Even the eyes.”
    â€œSo she also had my color eyes? They’re fairly unusual, though maybe not for a Jewish blond.”
    â€œThat’s true. Her camp was Jewish, like mine. But I never got close enough to her to see what color they were. I was talking about their shape. Even her long graceful neck—you know, swan-like, was like yours, and her cheeks. What I’m saying is I have no idea why I never forgot that face and what I described about it and the one glance and little smile she gave me—no, she didn’t smile. Not to me, anyway. She did clap at me—a little clap, twice, very fast, from the bleachers she was sitting in with these other girls while she was watching a softball game between the camper waiters of mycamp in New Jersey and hers in Pennsylvania. I’d just hit a triple—a three-base hit—that I could have stretched into a home run if the camp director of my camp, who was coaching at third base, hadn’t stopped me. I guess, being fair-minded, she was saying ‘good show’ or something. But you’re not really interested. And I’m getting the details of that day all mixed up. And why am I telling you it? Maybe telling you is wrong.”
    â€œWhy? It’s all right. I like hearing about you when you were young. And telling me this could be you saying she set the standard for the type of woman you were physically attracted to later on.”
    â€œIt wasn’t just physical,” he said. “It was her expressions too. She seemed smart and sweet and poised and serene. Like you are today and probably were at her age. Sixteen; seventeen. And I’d think the standard must already have been set if I was that immediately attracted to her, which never happened like that with a girl before. Though you could be right. I’m not saying you’re not. Maybe it did all start with her.”
    â€œThen let’s say it’s possible she confirmed, or reinforced, the type of woman you were attracted to from when you were even younger than sixteen, but in a big way. You liked blondes. From what you’ve previously told me of your love life, you always have, though that didn’t keep you from also liking brunettes. Would I be wrong in saying that most of the women you’ve fallen for in your adult life have been blondes?”
    â€œAbout half; yes.”
    â€œWas she built like me too? You know, from what you can make out from that photograph and the one in my high school twentieth-year reunion book I’ve shown you, where I’m on the field hockey team.”
    â€œI don’t remember,” he said. “The body of a young woman wasn’t as important to me then as the body of an older womanbecame to me later on. If she had been a lot overweight, that would have been different. But she was lithe; trim. I remember her legs. She was wearing shorts. And a T-shirt, but I remember nothing about her breasts. I wanted to meet her. I thought of ways I could, but never got the chance. She left before the game was over. We lost, by the way. I even fantasized about going over to her during the game when my team was up. Or after the game, in the short time I’d have before the whole team had to get back on this old army truck to return to our camp. And introducing myself and somehow saying, without turning her off, that I had been looking at her and don’t have much time to talk and