THE PHONE CALL

       After the ballet, she invited me to her hotel for a cocktail. She was staying at the Stanhope on Fifth Avenue across from the Met. There was a small bar to the left as we entered the lobby; dark, quiet, intimate. We sat down at a corner table, knees touching occasionally, and talked about nothing in particular.

      By then I was nineteen, a sophomore at Columbia University and this was the second time that year she’d come to the city to see me. She’d visited once my freshman year but had written to me again, saying she was going to be in New York and had tickets to the ballet. Would I like to join her? I didn’t say no.
       We finished our drinks, left the bar, walked across the elegant lobby to the elevator, and stepped in. Standing side-by-side, we stared straight ahead and rode it up to her floor without speaking. Then we walked the length of the lush-carpeted hallway. Stopping in front of her door, she used a key to unlock it. The entrance hallway was narrow and we brushed against each other. She closed the door and turned to face me. Grabbing my hand she pulled me close and kissed me softly. Then, the phone rang from inside the bedroom at the far end of the suite. She watched it ring a couple of times and looked at me.
         “I’m sorry”, she said, “It’s probably David. I have to answer.” I nodded and watched her walk down the hallway and into the bedroom. She sat down on the edge of the bed and reached across the nightstand and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”, she said, making it sound as if she was alone. And in a way she was, because, for all intents and purposes, I had disappeared, having faded into the shadow by the door where she had left me. Silent and motionless, I watched her and listened.
        “Hi, David!….. No, everything is fine…..Yes, the performance was wonderful, we enjoyed it very much…..What?…..No, I didn’t…..No, I didn’t David…..I said, ‘I’…..David, I…..No, David, I said I…..I didn’t say ‘We’, I said ‘I’…..Yes, I did…..David, stop it…..No, he’s not here…..No, I haven’t seen him…..Yes, I’m sure…..No…..he’s not here, will you stop it, please…..Of course, I’m sure…..you misheard me…..I’m by myself, David…..No, I’m not lying…..I promise…..Okay…..Okay.”
       After hanging up the phone she sat still for a moment, then turned and looked at me. She wasn’t as convincing as she believed she was. It was very quiet. I studied her image framed by the open bedroom door, and slowly that image began to recede from me, further and further into the distance, and finally to a distance no longer bridgeable. What had begun five years ago, when I was a fourteen-year-old boy, had just come to an end.
       When I reached for the doorknob, Gloria rose from the bed, walked to me, and touched my arm. But I couldn’t speak, couldn’t find any words. Staring down at my feet, for a moment I thought she might say something. But she only looked at me.  Waiting. Finally, I said, “I’m going to go.” She whispered, “Okay”, and let her hand slip from my arm. I opened the door and stepped out and began walking away. The only sound was the click of the door closing behind me.