It ended before I wanted it to. You live in San Francisco and I in Chicago, but every time
we’ve been together it’s been perfect. Then one night you call and say you can’t stand the distance
any more. Our jobs prevent either of us from moving, and so, reluctantly, we end it. But still I
yearn for you, and because we have ended things so awkwardly over the telephone, I feel the third
act needs rewriting. It needs a happy ending. So I book a room at the Triton for the last weekend
in April and make reservations at Postrio for nine-o’clock that Friday night.
“I’ll be there,” you say, when I call to invite you to dinner, “but don’t expect me to stay with
you, Gregory. Please try to understand. Being with you creates this craving that lasts for weeks
afterwards. It’s too painful.”
“I understand, Viv. I just want to end things gracefully. Not on the phone like this.”
I arrive in San Francisco on a rainy Friday afternoon and check into the hotel. The Triton hosts
a wine and cheese, but I don’t feel like gabbing with the other wine and cheesers so I grab a
glass of Chardonnay and go up to my room where I watch the rain fall over the empty gray streets
of Chinatown. I can’t help fantasizing about being with you. We first met at a party during one
of my business trips last year. When we got together, you had just gone through a bitter divorce—and
I, a nasty break-up, and it was very healing for the both of us. I have been fortunate with my
lovers over the years, but none of them brought me as much pleasure as you have. Like the drunken
poet who savors his last drink before quitting, I want to experience that pleasure with you one
last time. But I plan to respect your wishes, Vivian. I will be the perfect gentleman.
You arrive at the hotel at eight-forty and greet me with a peck on the cheek, a far cry from the
way you used to greet me. As usual, your beauty stirs my desires, but I keep them well concealed
behind my professional demeanor. Shielded from the spring rain by my umbrella, we stroll along Post
Street, past Union Square, to the restaurant. I’m happy to see they have the ’92 Caymus Cabernet
Sauvignon on the wine list because it is a sentimental favorite of ours. I order it and we bury
our noses in the menus, both of us avoiding the eye contact that used to ignite wildfires.
We order dinner and by the time the main course arrives we’re ready for another bottle of Caymus.
As always, the spirit of Bacchus has drawn us into the wide open and we venture into the dangerous
terrain of our shattered relationship. For whatever reason, neither one of us can resist banging
on each other’s buttons as though they were the jammed buttons on a broken jukebox.
Fortunately, the new bottle of wine arrives and the conversation switches directions. Like
athletes finding their zone, we slip into a mode in which the rest of the world fades away
and there’s just you and I. Words trip off our tongues like musical notes. Some topics are
left lingering without conclusions as we rush onto new ones. The thing I’ve always
appreciated the most about you is your ability to peel back and look beneath the surface
of things. I love your insight and passion.
As the conversation draws us closer, fantasies about you dance inside my mind. I watch your
slender hands—with their long, unvarnished nails—bringing the glass of
red wine to your lips, and I remember what it feels like to kiss those lips relentlessly and to
feel your nails pressing into my skin as you feel me—huge—inside your softness. I want to feel
you again. I need to feel you.
The plates are cleared and both of us decline coffee and dessert. After the bill is paid, we stroll
through the rainy San Francisco night, back to the hotel, your arm linked in mine.
“Dammit! Why are you doing this to me?” you say as we turn up Grant.
“Doing what? What am I doing?”
“You know what.”
“Whatever I’m doing, it’s not conscious—honest. It’s just the chemistry we have together. Neither
one of us could stop it if we tried.”
You stop in your tracks and sigh. “I promised myself I wasn’t going to stay with you.”
I place my hand under your chin and turn your face to mine. “Why are you beating yourself up this
way? We’re just a play in need of a happy ending, that’s all.”
“What a guy will say to get laid.”
“Is that what you think I am, Viv? Just a guy who wants to get laid?”
Frustrated by the course this conversation is taking, I place my finger onto your lips to silence a
comeback. I can see by your response that my touch still matters. You close your eyes and slowly
draw my finger into your mouth as the rain falls all around us.
