Minutes later, after touching up her makeup, running a brush through her hair, and telling her secretary she has to step out for an appointment, she is bundled up in her heavy black trench coat, making her way past the wharfs, emptied of their boats for the winter. She inhales the sharp, cold air, her eyes fixed on South Station looming ahead, set against a colorless sky. She crosses into the gritty downtown, passing electronics shops and Laundromats, dive bars and ethnic restaurants, falafel stands and roasted nut vendors. She keeps walking, amid throngs of holiday shoppers and aimless tourists, turning down Franklin Street, lined with its stately gray buildings, and finally reaching Tremont Street, with its view of the State House and the historic, cobblestone section of town. All the while, the wind whips in from the harbor, taking her breath away, slicing through her.
As she crosses the street and approaches the Common, she sees the infamous old homeless man, known by many as Rufus. He has been around for as long as she can remember, but hasn’t appeared to age, his dark skin lined with no more wrinkles than it was a dozen years ago, the gray hair only at his temples. She makes eye contact with him and thinks what she always thinks when she sees him in the cold winter months, Why not move to Florida, Rufus?
He smiles at her, as if he remembers her from her last walk along this route, and says, “Hey, darlin’ . . . Lookin’ mighty fine today, darlin’ . . . Got a dollar? Some change to spare?” His voice is low and raspy and strangely comforting. She stops and hands him a five, and as he takes it, he tells her she has beautiful eyes.
She thanks him, choosing to believe he means it.
“God bless,” he says, putting his fist over his heart.
She nods, then turns and keeps walking. Her pointy-toed black boots are not made for walking, and her toes are now numb, the cold stripping her of any dwindling optimism. She takes longer strides, moving toward Nick and her destiny. She tells herself not to be overdramatic, that he is just another guy, another chapter in her lackluster love life. She tells herself she’d rather know than wonder—that the wondering is always the worst part.
And then she is in the Common, approaching the Frog Pond, teeming with ice-skaters, some accomplished, most teetering, all gleeful. The sun suddenly breaks through the clouds, reflecting off the ice. Having forgotten her sunglasses, she shields her eyes with her hand, looking for Nick along the circumference of the pond and even on the ice, as if he might actually stop and put on some skates for a quick spin. She finally spots him in his navy overcoat, a generous gray scarf looped several times around his neck. He is squinting toward her but she can tell he does not yet see her. She studies him for a full minute or more before their eyes meet. His face lights up without smiling and he begins to trek toward her, looking down at his feet, his hands thrust deep in his pockets.
She waits for him, rearranging her expression several times, then making it as blank as possible. She has no idea what to expect—yet she knows exactly what to expect.
“Hi, Val,” he says when he is standing before her. His eyes are bright—as bright as brown eyes can be—but something in them tells her that he is here to break her heart. Still, when he reaches out to hug her, she does not resist. Her cheek rests against his broad shoulder as she says hello, her voice lost in a sudden gust of wind.
As they separate, he looks into her eyes and says, “It’s great to see you.
“You, too,” she says, her chest knotted with anticipation approaching fear.
He presses his lips together, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lone cigarette and a pack of matches. She has never known him to smoke—would have bet all odds against it—but does not ask him about it, whether it’s a new habit or an old one returning. He inverts the pack’s cover, striking a match with one gloveless hand, reminding her of just how skillful they are.
“You have one of those for me?” she asks as they begin to walk.
“Sorry. That was my last one,” he says, his voice tight, uneven. He reaches out and offers it to her.
“That’s okay,” she says, shaking her head in refusal. “I was sort of kidding. I don’t smoke . . . unless I’m drinking.”
“Should we go drink?” he asks with a small, nervous laugh.
When she doesn’t reply, he tries again with another question. “How’s Charlie?”
“He’s fine,” she says, bristling, refraining from telling him anything more.
He nods and raises his cigarette to his lips. Closing his eyes, he inhales, then turns his head to the side. He does not exhale, but simply opens his mouth, the smoke swirling above his head and quickly vanishing. Then he glances around, mumbling something about a bench. She shakes her head and says she’d rather walk, that it’s too cold for sitting.
So they move forward, encircling the pond, their eyes on the mirthful skaters moving counterclockwise across the ice in a blur of bright colors.
“Can you skate?” he says, their elbows occasionally touching.
She readjusts her stride, moving away from him, and says, “Yes.” Then she sighs, signaling that she is not here to chat. After a full lap around the ice, he speaks again.
“Val,” he says. “Our night together . . . it was amazing.”
She nods her agreement—there is no way to deny this, no way she could ever deny this.
“You are amazing.”
She feels herself tense, her throat constrict. She does not want compliments, whether real or consolatory. She can tell where this is going, and only wants the bottom line.
“Thanks,” she says again—and then as flatly as she can, “You are, too.