Taxi to Paris by Ruth Gogoll

have other things to do - a little work, for instance. This forced distraction was to my advantage. Otherwise, the day would have dragged on forever. And it was true: after a dreary weekend spent in self-imposed isolation - why did I do this to myself? - Wednesday had at last rolled around. No, no, no! I forbid myself to call her all afternoon. Who knew what awaited me?
    It occurred to me that she was probably "booked up" more often in the mornings. One went to the hairdresser, another grocery shopping...
    I wondered how the other women felt about that, about fitting her in between the butcher and the greengrocer. Did that kind of frivolity have a special attraction for them? Or was it just more of what they always did: passing the time? The more I thought about it, the more I became aware that this was not part of my world. And yet I'd fallen in love with her!
    Ha, ha, ha! You're making a fool of yourself! You're making a fool of yourself! Like jumping rope in grade school, when the rope cuts through the air, before it clatters and scrapes across the floor, the sing-song turned through my head. Angry disappointment surged in me. Was I not my own master? Couldn't I decide what was good for me and what wasn't?
    Is this good for you? No, probably not. So why are you doing it? Exactly.
    So it was. I had to come to terms with it. I yearned for her; I wanted more than just to have dinner with her. I decided something.
    Special women require special plans, you idiot!
    So I called her that afternoon. It was almost like the first time. She answered quietly, without announcing a name.
    I couldn't think of a good opening line, so I asked her directly, after I'd said who it was, "Have you considered my suggestion?"
    "Which suggestion?" she asked.
    I should have known! A week was, after all, a good stretch of time. How could I expect her to remember my invitation? She had certainly been busy with entirely unrelated things.
    I was afraid to speak, because I knew my anger would be plainly audible. "Are you still there?" she asked after a bit.
    "Yes," I said, carefully controlled, hoping that wasn't obvious through the telephone. "I had asked you if you'd go out to eat with me."
    "Oh, yeah," she said, as if she could vaguely remember that. "I've considered it." That was a feat! She'd forgotten it, but still managed to think about it. Someone should do that to her sometime!
    "And?" "Biting" might just begin to describe my tone of voice. "To what conclusion have you come?" I really didn't know how much longer I could control myself. She was definitely going to decline, I was sure of that. And that forecast calmed me. A short, painless (yeah, right!) end could, after all, only be good for me.
    "I'm not sure yet," she answered softly.
    "You've had an entire week to think about it!" The outburst came more from surprise than from irritation. But of course: she hadn't had a week to think about it, she'd just now been reminded of it by my phone call.
    Why were so much anger and so much desire building inside me at the same time? Had she stood before me, I wouldn't have left like I had the last time -- that much was clear, regardless of whether or not she meant to charge me. I wouldn't have gotten what I really wanted from her, but at least I would've gotten great sex. Even I knew that much!
    "A week is short," she remarked, more as an excuse than as a statement of fact.
    Oh, yes! I was convinced that the time had passed much more quickly for her than it had for me. In a busy life like hers, time went by much faster. She made me look really old. But my rage slowly faded away. It was pointless, after all. She would put me off for another week if I let her, then another, and another...
    "It's all right," I said, in a resigned, self-sacrificing tone. "You don't have to if you don't want to."
    "I didn't say that." She surprised me yet again. Now it was turned around - I got a more positive answer than I had expected. "There's just so much to think