“He’s found an apartment on the North Shore,” said Edward. “By himself.”
Pause. “Doug, he called me last night. He wants to meet with us. You and
me. He says he has something very important to tell us . . . or show us . . .
I don't know . . . or both, maybe?”
Long pause as Edward peers deeply into the ginger ale Serge has just placed
upon the table. Refusing to allow any of our non-conversation to soak long
enough to unsettle or provoke (nothing comes between me and my affected
indifference!), I bemusedly watch the arc of fizz revel under Edward's nose.
Edward has a tiny, pointed nose, with four freckles spattered randomly along
the bridge. I imagine the freckles, in unison, screaming for company:
another freckle or a mole or the crease of a pair of shades or even bifocals;
anything to compensate for the loneliness of such an unfulfilled feature as
Edward’s nose (which I, of course, find quite perfect – what is with me
today?). As if to reply to the freckles’ cry for help, a particularly animated
globule of ginger ale breaks free from the sensible arc above Edward’s tall,
thin glass and lands smack among the tiny brown punctuation marks. I
silently share the freckles’ ovation of joy.
“What should I do? I told him we’d meet him at Spot’s tomorrow at six.”
And so the appointment had been made. A reunion. How pretty! And I’m
not the least bit ready.
“Edward, don’t. Call him up with an excuse – we’re both too busy this
week.”
“I told him–”
"Ahhh, here comes brunch . . . .” And, indeed, brunch had arrived.
