Starting Over by Dan Wakefield Page A

month.”
    â€œIt must be tough on the boy. Especially.”
    â€œOn me, too. When Daddy comes now it’s a big occasion, like a holiday. He’s Santa Claus, and I’m the wicked witch who makes them do all the things they don’t want to do.”
    â€œYeah. It’s really tough, I guess. I guess I’m lucky, in a way. I’m divorced, but we didn’t have any children.”
    â€œYes,” Renée said, “that’s probably fortunate. If the marriage didn’t work.”
    Potter agreed. They drank to his good fortune.
    By the end of the meal, Potter had a sharp headache over his left eye. He had asked for a booth when he called for reservations, but they got there late and had to either stand and wait for another twenty minutes or be seated at a table in the midst of the room. It was too bright, and the talk and clatter all around them made conversation more difficult. You had to really concentrate.
    Renée ordered coffee and flan for dessert, and Potter had a brandy.
    â€œThis is a real treat,” she said.
    â€œI’m glad.”
    Potter liked her. She was gentle, kind, intelligent, sometimes funny; but over it all was a fringe of sorrow that clung to whatever she said and did; outlined her, defined her. It was not self-pity. Potter thought it was justified, and yet it unnerved him. Sadness is not an aphrodisiac. He wished that he wanted to fuck her, and hoped that perhaps he still could work himself into such a desire.
    When he asked her to come by his place for a drink she studied her watch, longer than it took to figure out what time it was, and said, “Well, just for one.”
    â€œSure,” he said. “A nightcap.”
    He put on a cheerful-sweet Joni Mitchell album, popped a couple of Excedrin, and fixed them each a drink; his strong, hers weak. An act of chivalry.
    â€œIs that Judy Collins?” she asked.
    â€œJoni Mitchell.”
    â€œI get them confused. All those pretty young girls singing their love songs.”
    â€œYeah. I know what you mean.”
    He knew that she meant she hated their guts. He put on a classical guitar record, and Renée smiled, and leaned her head back on the couch. Potter put down his drink and kissed her, gently, tentatively. At first she hardly moved and then she leaned into him with full force, her mouth wide and hard on his with a sudden, fierce hunger. He pressed her against him and then she suddenly pulled away and averted her eyes. “I’d better go.”
    â€œCan’t you stay—a while?”
    She sat for a moment, drawing her lips in. Then, without looking at him she clutched his hand in hers, pressing it tightly. “If you don’t mind running DeeDee home, and you still feel like it, you could come have a drink at my house.”
    It would happen, then.
    He took a half a fifth of Scotch with him, and had a stiff one when he got back from driving the mute, gumchewing baby sitter home. Renée had changed into a blue nightgown, a quilted housecoat, and big, floppy comfortable slippers whose fur was soiled grey. The radio was tuned to a symphony.
    Potter took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and sat down beside Renée on the couch. Her hand squeezed his and she leaned against him. He closed his eyes and took a burning swig of his drink, then turned to match his mouth with hers. She came alive all over, digging her nails in his back, squirming and sobbing and gasping. Potter struggled out of his clothes, still keeping his mouth on hers, yanking and jerking his way out of shirt, belt, slacks, and Renée wrenched free of her robe. Potter, now only in socks and shorts, fell upon her.
    She whispered “Wait,” and swiftly pulled her nightgown over her head; it floated to the floor, making a blue puddle. Potter pressed down on her, feeling himself grow, and she started tugging down his shorts, when she suddenly froze.
    â€œWhat—”
    â€œShh.”
    There was a