He chooses a gray shirt with a spread collar, a gray silk tie embellished with what look like brush strokes of white here and there, as if applied by a hasty, impassioned artist. A bold tie, graphically bold, but quiet, just gray and white. He wears a charcoal-gray suit that fits him better than any other he owns, black silk suspenders, wool-and-silk socks in a pattern that resembles herringbone but with one side of the V about half the length of the other. Bold. But quiet. I look good. I really do look good, and none of what I have on is what I would have worn when Liz lived with me, when we were married. I have changed, see? I’m not the same as I was when we were married. I hope she’ll see it. I hope she’ll like it. Hell, I hope I’ll sweep her off her feet. Hope is a wonderful thing. It makes you about ten pounds lighter. Actually, I only need to be about five pounds lighter. Then I’d be right where I want to be. Seven pounds. That would give me a little buffer. Seven pounds. Eight pounds.
He finishes his martini, standing in the living room, looking out over Roxbury. He tries the effect of leaving his jacket unbuttoned, observing his transparent reflection in the window. He tries the effect of one hand in his pocket. By taking tiny sips, he makes his martini last until exactly the time when he should be at the restaurant, meeting Liz. I like this, stretching the drink out, making it last. Maybe I could cut down on drinking this way. I used to make a bag of candy corn last all the way through “Suspense” on the radio. When I was a boy. Candy corn. A secret passion. Liz used to kid me about it. That will have to go. Let her think I’ve outgrown it. I can keep a bag at work. Back in the drawer, next to the Jiffy bag with the spare underwear.
THE FEELING that he’s late makes him walk faster than normal, but when he sees the cabs at the corner, he hesitates, reminding himself that he wants to be late.
I want her to see that I’m different now, right? I don’t keep such close track of time. I’m indifferent about being on time for her. But she’ll be annoyed if I’m too late.
The thought that Liz will be angry if he keeps her waiting is too much for him. He doesn’t want the evening to begin with her angry. He steps up to the lead cab. The driver spots him and turns back to unlock the door. Matthew changes his mind.
No. I’m going to be late as it is. If I’m going to be late, then I’m really going to be late. I’m going to be good and late. Late enough to make a statement.
He shakes his head and waves his hands to show the driver that he’s changed his mind. The driver gives him the finger and locks the door again, and Matthew walks to Two-Two-Two.
[to be continued]
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