I rolled up onto my hip, resting my head lazily upon my palm. My other hand the left I extended in a caress of Evelyn's stomach, my finger completing the gesture by sliding into a circular orbit around her navel.

"What is it, lover," I asked. My voice merged with the chill the cold rock was rippling through my right side in a continual wave that slipped along the curve of her breast, quivered along her neckline, and entangled itself in her hair.

"Don't you think... we should... put on some... clothes or something?" Her voice was erratic and far less soothing; it seemed to disrupt the sunlight and reject the liquid reassurance my voice had offered. The ring I was currently tracing around her belly-button was left incomplete; my own voice shrilled to a nervous caliber in response.

"But why?"

"Well.. What if somebody sees us," she insisted. My eyes focussed on hers; a vague layer of discomfort hid behind her usual active vectors of sensuality. Still, I had considerable difficulty lending creedence to such a suggestion; we were in the middle of the forest, miles from any civilization. I slid my hand lower, dragging my nails across the inside of her thigh from the dimple of her knee to where hairs gently bristled against the back of my hand. Evelyn inhaled sharply; I saw, to my satisfaction, her nipples begin to swell.

"Not now!" she snapped. I hastily withdrew my hand, not entirely certain how passion's bliss had suddenly taken on such a vehement tone. "Listen," she said. "I know that love is made with positive thoughts. And usually, with you, I have no problem with that. But right now its kinda hard. I just don't feel right." She struggled to her feet, edged over to where the rock dropped off into the stream below us. Apparently this was not debatable.

While I watched her clattering descent into the stream, my mind was reeling. But when the icy sprng-thaw water finally clutched my own ankles, my intentions crystallized with a stark resonance: "Well, let's go back. We'll make dinner if we hurry."

She turned to look at me, waist deep in the water and obviously relieved; I revelled in the image her breasts pointing slightly to either side of me, mirrorred in the water's streaming distortion, her eyes once again aglow, a playful smile creeping its way across her gentle features. "Thanks."

David slowly downshifted-- an unusual action, considered purely as a formal event, due to the unusual finesse he extended into the motion: a luxuriant draw, the fingertips resting lightly on the ball of the stick, pinkie first poised, then diving in for the quick tap that popped the stick into the second-gear-groove, and as a finale, a highly peculiar recovery, a graceful, gliding continuation of the shift motion to the full extent of his shoulder's rotation well past the point at which his fingers lost contact with the stick. As sophisticated as the maneuver was, it concluded somewhat anticlimactically, with David's elbow gawkishly protruding into the rear seat and his hand, in a completely impractical location dangling above the parking brake, desperately searching for some way to follow up that highly stylized maneuver without seeming somehow awkward. Usually a compromise was struck, resulting in a brief convalescence on the passenger seat, but this time, central control ordered it immediately back into service on the steering wheel.

Unusual-- David was somewhat absent, this much was obvious and as the engine whined under the sudden torsion of the clutch, slowing the car like a parachute, his distraction increased: a mural of quasi-ethereal beings (anthropomorphoid, naturally) cavorting about on a somewhat morose-looking field. The squeak of the brakes, hardly audible above the incessant drone of the radio commercial, seemed somehow a more suitable soundtrack by which to view the sprawling figures than Bol� ro, the supposed inspiration. Ironic, perhaps, that inbred art (like inbred indigents) found its home beneath the railway overpass.

The car halted beneath the bridge, the dismal diesel exhaust of the delivery truck in front of him subtly rippling the patterns of crosstraffic; above and to the right, the insistant stoplight wavered red as if by some not-to-be- ignored divine order (only slightly distorted between sender and reciever) warning of dire consequences. David clenched his jaw for a brief frown at the delay, drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, lit a cigarette.

David's irritation was unnatural, even for him, and at some subterrenean level of his consciousness, he was aware of this, but at the moment, thrust to the forefront of his psyche by the complexity of the obstacle course between this accursed stoplight (with its elephantine delivery van) and his punctual six p.m. arrival at Caitlan's apartment still possible, assuming parking did not become an issue (which, naturally, it would), but beyond this, David was uneasy, and this is where his thoughts continually submerged to not the source of discomfort, but its pure obscenity.

The source, in fact, eluded him, just as it would elude us were we him, until some brilliant and highly-paid professional student of insanity told us what was wrong with the way we thought of our genitalia. Or perhaps it was simply totally absurd, a snag in a sock or a bad case of gas. He didn't know; I shouldn't claim to be wiser, now, should I?

The light popped green (God loves him) and David, freshly challenged by the chemical-stained pavement, erupted from stationary. Well, not precisely actualy, the monstrosity of diesel fumes billowing before him in almost parodic slow motion prevented a hasty acceleration, so he prolonged his stay in first gear, wrapping out the tachometer until the engine screamed for release in order to sublimate the machismo, finally plunging the shift lever into second with a forceful puissance.

As any true aesthete knows, prolonged commercial breaks in the midst of any otherwise satisfying radio program will produce Gregor Samsa effects similar to this, especially when the commercials are for an especially distasteful product, such as that manufactured by your competition. This, however, was not David's case, and when music began once more to emerge from his speakers, his temper merely subsided a bit; after all, the truck was doing ten miles over. When the truck turned off, however well, actually, David turned off, but then that's a matter of perspective, yes? he drifted into a sort of calm melancholy: his psychic eyes ceased bulging through the aperature of the iris, his overwrought hands relinquished their splitknuckle grip on the wheel and gave a desperate attempt at relaxion before the next call to duty.

In fact, before the concluding strains to "Celestial Soda Pop" had rolled into his auditory canal (at about 5dB's), he was a submissive wreck, just as he was supposed to be when greeting the outside world.

The facade of Caitlan's building was austere; its red brick construction (grey mortar, naturally) with the flat granite slab of the door-niche's ceiling suggested something faintly institutional, an effect the concrete windowsills did little to remove, though the gargoyles on the corners of the roof seemed to speak of a slightly different intent, and the door overpainted Victorian relic of split panes and elaborate trimwork it was implied the architect might have been a bit drunk, or the owner at least highly eccentric. His tenants most certainly were usually at least one or the other.

The stairway to the front porch was cracked (a curse David carefully avoided; his mother was grateful, if dead), and as David hopped to the front door and thrust forth his finger to buzz Caitlan, he noted the dirt smudge where the "Velkommen!" mat used to lie: a sign of emerging taste?

There was no intercom (what deface this beautifully imagined entryway?), but the door looked in upon the foyer, where the chandelier's dim incandescence was sucked mercilessly by the cathedral-dark walnut panelling; Caitlan had not immediately answered his summons. David checked his watch: 6:03 p.m. why was she not waiting? A trace of hysteria blotted his general misery, and he glanced at the half-parked car in its grazing space beside the fireplug, for which Caitlan's unhasty preparations bore no blessing. He glanced about the street for a policeman; seeing none in the dusk's mourning veil, he proceeded to readjust a pesky testicle which had managed to ooze its way across the crotch-seam of his boxers. Naturally, just as his fingers had contemplated the necessary adjustments, Caitlan's delicate footfalls vibrated the front door; David hurriedly grabbed the seam of his boxers through his trousers and nudged the offensive testicle, pinching a roll of scrotum in the process.

"Ouch!" he said.

"Good to see you, too," Caitlan's voice slipped around the cooling air molecules. David turned to face her, noting only briefly that her skirt looked half a dozen shades dressier (it was black silk) than his pants (which were not), but that his Oxford-and-tie-with-cashmere-sportcoat (no elbow patches, scarf in breast pocket for "color splash") had her Rayon-blouse-and-virgin-wool-cardigan at least matched. Her hair was back in a bun; she distinctly reminded him of a first-grade (or was that kindergarten?) teacher he had had in the strictly pedagogical sense.

"Sorry, had a sudden pain," he murmured, then more loudly (but still dismally mouseish), "Are you ready? We're supposed to be there in half an hour."

"Of course. We're already late. But if you want to come upstairs? I've just got to grab my purse and coat while I lock up."

David hesitated, then glanced nervously over his shoulder, recognizing her code for "I need ten minutes, why not come play Nintendo?" The car was there, peacefully mawing at its pavement.

"I'd best wait. Wouldn't want to get a ticket," he said, adding mentally, "or let the car depreciate to junk while you get ready."

"Suit yourself," she said, turning with a haughtiness that belied her assumed role.

David was silent his thought had just added to that swelling burden of unease, which, like mundane burdens, grew heavier the longer it was carried (Einstein's Correlative). Taking care not to wrinkle his jacket, he sat on the porch steps and felt for his cigarettes, which, naturally, were still on the dash.

Hans sipped at his scotch and soda, glanced about the room, and pursed his lips, his eyes coming to rest on his cigarette, smouldering in the ashtray. Greta, across the table, looked at him expectantly, a trace of a teasing smile upon her face.

Hans set down his glass, extracted the cigarette from the ashtray. A waiter passed the table, noting the second couple had not yet arrived.

"Well," Hans began, "I haven't given you reason to think I might be screwing around, have I?" He narrowed his eyes, gazing at his wife.

Greta's smile widened. "You mean besides flirting with every woman you meet? I suppose not. But that's reason enough, is it not?"

Hans sat back, his face a bit pensive. He tapped the ash from his cigarette with a sudden gesture that caught the eye of the waterboy, who made a mental note to fill the glasses on the next round. At the entrance, David opened the door and motioned Caitlin to enter, following closely behind her. He nodded to the ma� tre d', who smiled back at him.

"Well, couldn't you just say something?" David asked Caitlin quietly.

"You know him!" Caitlin exclaimed rathre loudly. Several heads turned; she continued more quietly. "Subtle hints make him cruder, and I can't afford a confrontation."

The ma� tre d' looked briefly at his chart, then began walking. "If you would just follow me, the other party has already been seated," he said over his shoulder.

At the table, Hans was exhaling, watching the the smoke billow in the overhead lights. "Well," he said, "I never have before." He paused as the ma� tre d' withdrew a chair for Caitlin, David circled the table.

"On the other hand," Hans continued, his voice taking a sharp edge, "if I wanted to fuck someone, say Cait for example, I don't see why I shouldn't."

The ma� tre d' stiffened; Caitlin froze, half in her seat. All the color drained from Greta's face. Hans snickered.

"Drinks, anyone?" the ma� tre d' asked, a but of strain slipping between his syllables.

Caitlin looked relieved for the question. "Yes, scotch on the rocks, please."

Hans grinned. "A woman after my own heart!" he exclaimed, brandishing his glass. He laughed when Caitlin's expressing grew uncertain.

"I'll have the same," David said coldly, his disdain obvious.

"Very good," the ma� tre d' said. " I'll tell your waiter."

"I really should apologize for Hans," Greta said to Caitlin. "He's feeling his oats this evening."

Caitlin forced a smile. "It's okay," she said.

Meanwhile, David was searching his pockets. "Here," Hans said, shaking a cigarette free of his pack. "Only a dollar seventy-five at that store on Washington."

"Hmm," David said, taking the cigarette. "Say, Hans, I'm no expert," he paused to light the cigarette, took a deep draw. When he continued, his voice was little more than a murmur: "But don't you think you were a little... volatile, perhaps?"

Hans looked at him, surprise registering in his thick-set features. "Naw," he said, finally collapsing into a smile. "You gotta push these women a little. I mean that's what marriage is, right? Making your wife see it your way?" A long pause found itself a home, then he continued: Besides, she started it. And I haven't heard the last of it, either. We've still got a few more rounds." He paused again. "You're not feeling threatened, are you Dave?"

David jerked. "No, no, it's not that..." He broke off.

"Good. I mean I'm just foolin' around."

A silence fell, and David reached for his menu. "You know what you're gonna have, Caitlin?" he asked.

"No, not really," she replied, glancing at him.

"I recommend the filet mignon," Hans suggested. "Two meats on one plate how could you beat it?" He chortled at his own creativity.

Greta spoke. "I'm going to experiment. I understand the pasta primavera is quite good here." Quiet again edged its way in as David and Caitlin studied their menus.

"Well, Greta," Hans began at length, "what was that you were saying earlier about some new product?"

"Oh, the cologne," Greta responded after a moment. "Dusk or Twilight or something like that. You really should ask Caitlin, she's in charge of the product. She's working with that new kid I was telling you about."

"That so, Cait?"

Caitlin looked up. "Um, yeah. Nothing much to tell, just a couple of ideas at this point. Nothing I anticipate sticking."

"Aww, come on. How hard can it be? A little thinly veiled sex, a good looking model or two, and its sold," he grinned. "You should have no problem."

"Hans!" Greta chastised.

"But he's right," Caitlin protested. David hesitated, poised on the verge of interruption. He looked at Caitlin. Her ears were flushed.

"I mean," Caitlin continued, "if an advertiser didn't have a firm grip on sexuality if I didn't know how to make a man grovel there'd be no way to make today's market respond."

Hans chuckled. He took a big swallow of his drink. The conversation waited while he swallowed.

"I mean," Caitlin said, extracting a cigarette from her purse, then passing it to David as she reached for another, "I mean, I know how to fuck." (Greta gasped.) "And," Caitlin continued, "David can keep me satisfied. But I wonder what you and Greta must be like. I mean, she's my boss!"

David hesitated, his cigarette dangling from his lips. Greta was pale, Hans grinning, warming to the game. Caitlin lit her cigarette. Her eyes were cold.

"Well," Hans said, taking a sip, "happiness is all relative. After all, advertising appeals to sex a a very basic level. I don't think a successful advertiser needs to be good, just needs to like it."

"Are you suggesting," Caitlin replied, "that I'm not good? I mean, I'm not going to provide references or anything, but..."

"Did I say that? I just mean that skill is not linked to satisfaction... after all, who says everyone at this table is satisfied?"

David bit his tongue. Greta flushed.

"Well, I am, usually," Caitlin said, "but then all I am saying is that even a lecher like you could even succeed in advertising."

Hans was taken aback. "I don't think I disagree..."

Caitlin pressed on. "Furthermore, I think I was also suggesting that if you can't get it at home, you better just start experimenting with your fist, because I for one wouldn't blame Greta if she never touched you."

Hans looked stricken, Greta shocked, and David frozen. Caitlin turned to Greta, suddenly calm. "I'm sorry, Greta. I even dressed frumpy to get him off my case, but I just can't take this anymore. In the office, it'd be sexual harrassment, and there's no reason I should tolerate it here, either."

Greta still looked dazed. "I understand, dear. Don't worry about it."

Caitlin looked over at David, who was reeling in a private confusion. "Come on, David, let's get out of here before I cause a scene."

David hesitated, nodded, and dropped a twenty on the table. "That should cover our drinks," he said. "Sorry."

Caitlin opened the door, stepping aside to let David enter. "I'll fix us something to eat," she said, as David walked to the couch. His hands were trembling; his driving had been erratic returning from the restaurant.

The Nintendo was not sitting out.

He slowly sat on the couch; Caitlin removed her coat and pulled the bobbypins from her hair.

"Why'd you do it?" he asked, not daring to look at her. She stopped playing with her hair.

"You heard me," she said. "I just couldn't tolerate him. Besides, you wanted me to." Perhaps not an answer (more of a comment on the rhetorical nature of the question), but Caitlin seemed to believe that was the only possible answer. David, naturally, was in total disagreement.

Caitlin started to walk toward the kitchen, then paused, vaccillating on the brink of the first step. She began to remove her earrings, waiting for David to come out of his withdrawal.

"I don't understand."

His face was singularly dismayed, twisted into some kind of frown with a pair of mopey-eyes. If it weren't so pathetic, it might be cute; if it weren't so melodramatic, it might be narratively believable. Caitlin, however, chose to be smitten.

"But David... you're not supposed to understand women. Remember?" she smiled gently; David's still-morose expression remained unchanged. Her teasing demeanor began to dissolve.

"That's just it," David began. He hesitated. "I mean, I don't feel like I know you anymore. I mean, the Nintendo, the outfit, and the explosion..."

"What are you talking about?" Caitlin was concerned, now: babbled nonsense is almost never a good indication, and needed to be stopped as soon as it started. "Listen, I'm still the same Caitlin you've been dating the last six months."

"But I feel so... alone. Like I could never know you. Like there's an infinite distance between us."

Caitlin sat down beside him, seated on her left ankle so she was turned to face him, her knee protuding from beneath the skirt. She idly stroked his hair, tucking it behind his ear.

"But what is infinity, after all?" she asked. "Just an absolute presence, the totality of all that is and is not."

David looked at her, his confusion softed by a Jacob's ladder of hope. "So? Presence means its there, right? A big blockade."

"But it's not that way. It's also just one step. Like Zeno's paradoxes: infinity is where you find it, it's the parts that never quite make the whole."

"Yeah, yeah, that's the problem. No matter how far I go, I never reach the goal..." David was getting involved; his perplexed concentration told Caitlin that.

"But it's not just that, either," Caitlin said. "The thing about infinity is that it has no scope: without a defined boundary, it's basically nonexistent."

David looked perplexed; he opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated. "Try that again... I missed it."

"Well, without describing something as extant- and making it finite by doing so- it is nothing. Its just that in things like the paradoxes, we impose an arbitrary limit, then deny the possibility of enumerating the content of the space inside that limit."

David knotted his face up for a moment, then an expression of relief passed over his features. "So infinity is just..."

"The presence of nothing," she finished.

"But the sensation of motion... how can it..."

"Two presences perpetually defining an imaginary third between them. Because that's what love is about. Coming together," she smoothly supplied.

David was smiling. Tension rolled out of him like a retreating thunderstorm. "Yes," he said, "Coming together without falling apart."

She smiled. "So what sounds good? Pizza?"

David laughed, and his story might be over there; we might even completely avoid mention of their sloppy impromptu lovemaking, were it not somehow significant.

I was on the late shift again, and ordinarily, that doesn't bother me, but tonight was one of those really irritating nights where customers would stream in one at a time, neither allowing time to do anything else, nor keeping me busy. No holdups, no drunks, no trashy whores nothing to break the hot tension of monotony but the tall skinny guy who'd spent the last ten minutes trying to choose a pizza. Adam, I think he said his name was last time he came in, but his conversation is uninspired; I don't really remember.

I looked down at the book I was working on, reached for it, reconsidered. Decided Adam couldn't possibly take longer to hesitate over the pizza. The bell clattered as someone pulled the door it only opens when you push, so I looked up; apparently Adam had selected his pizza; he was now standing in front of the feminine hygiene products.

I stepped off the stool, stretched one slightly withered, arthritic hand out to the the counter to support myself. Adam was approaching the counter now, and the new addition had discovered a means of entry.

As Adam reached the counter, he placed his burdens a 16" vegetarian pizza and a box of tampons. I couldn't believe it took him fifteen minutes to choose a veggie pizza maybe it was the size giving him so much difficulty.

"Brave man, who dares public ridicule to buy his girlfriend these," I commented as I typed the Tampax code into the register.

Adam grinned. "Well, that's the lover's role, isn't it? to do whatever he can to please the beloved?"

I laughed, suddenly aware of how much my laughter was beginning to sound like a cackle too much Lovecraft, I suppose. Adam's face revealed no discomfort, so I vowed to read some Kundera and forgot about it.

He handed me a ten, I counted his change. "Have a good night," I said, "and tell your coy mistress I envy her."

Adam laughed, a clear laugh, tainted with only the slightest touch of belly- pride. "Sure. You have a good one, too."

I turned to the stranger. "What can I do for you," I asked, my question punctuated by the clamor of the bells.

"Just a couple of the dollar-seventy-five cigarettes, please," he said.

I reached behind me, groping for the sale display.

"Say," he said, leaning upon the counter in the pose of an overconfident confidant. "That guy's headed for a spell of misery, don't you think?"

"What do you mean?" I agreed with him, but somehow I felt his reasons were different than mine. To me, it was Adam's vanity over his goodness that was going to trip him up.

"Well, just awfully worshipful. His perspective on love is awfully one sided," he replied, confirming my suspicion. "To me, love has always been about coming together without falling apart."

Despite his cool arrogance, I paused for a moment to admire the scintillating polychromatics of that aphorism.

"Three-fifty," I said at last, laying the packs on the counter. I waited until he'd handed me a five before continuing.

"I suppose that has some merit," I said as I punched the numbers into the register, "but I think you're mistaken. To me, relationships are like a marathon. You pace each other, one step ahead or behind, until you either reach the finish line or one of you falls down trying. Only difference is, the winner doesn't always finish first. But the point is, as long as that guy is running the same race his companion is, there's no problem at all."

I handed him his change. "I'm seventy years old, and that one hasn't let me down yet."

His expression had a twinge of pain at the corners of his mouth, and his cheeks had fallen a bit; his casual pose had reverted to a more conservative stance after pocketing the change. Obviously, I should've just agreed with him.

"You need a bag?" I asked. Anything was preferable to the grim angst welling up from his bowels.

He smiled thinly, seeming to come out of his torpor, and shook his head after his eyes refocussed. "No, no I'll be fine," he said. "Thanks."

"Yeah, you too," I replied. The bells clattered, and I shook my head as I clambered back aboard my stool.