The Answer; Part 1.

25th March; 5:34pm.


"Let's walk, Scott," she said. "Like the old days. Remember how we used to dream of having our driver's licenses one day so we wouldn't walk?" A sweet spring evening fell in about us as we walked on, a fresh smell of leaves on the breeze.


"Warren never knew his dad," Demi said. I kept my eyes on the boy riding the bicycle ahead us. "He was less then a year old when Andrew went chasing some dream in Alaska. He doesn't keep in touch anymore. I don't think he ever really wanted a kid." I put my arm around her shoulder, to offer what comfort I could.


"You aren't going to say I told you so about Andrew?" Demi wanted to know. I shook my head. "Not just yet," I said. "I'm waiting for the perfect moment." She nudged me in the side. Just below my ribs. Demi's nudge. I wondered how many of them I received in my years of being her friend.


-


26th March; 1:45am.


That night Anne and I made love for the first time in weeks. It seemed our schedules at the office, our frantic jousting in the small-town rat race, kept us too tired to think about just anything at all.


"You know, Chris," she said, "it's okay that you still love Demi a little. I looked down at her, her face mottled with light coming in from the street, and I was thankful for the semi-darkness. Thankful that she couldn't see my face, my eyes. I was never good at lying. "What are you talking about?" I asked. Anne laughed.


"I'm talking about the crush you have on Demi," she said. I was shocked, and I told her so. "Whatever makes you think such a thing?" I wanted to know. This amused her further. She lifted her head and looked squarely at me. I could finally make out her eyes, there on her face, dark ovals before me.


"You're kidding, right?" Anne asked. I shook my head I was feeling as embarrassed as a teenager caught with his hands beneath the bedsheets. But this time, by my wife , instead of my mother. "Demi is my childhood friend," I said. "She and Ross both." "All I'm saying is that it's alright that you've got a crush on her," said Anne. "I think it's just natural. After all, I still have a crush on Freddy Polanski."


"I do not have a crush on Demi Luke," I insisted. I could feel my face and my neck burning just a bit and was thankful again for the cover of darkness. I kicked my toes under the blanket, loosening from its tight tuck. I hated a tight tuck. "I think it's sweet," said Anne. "That's all." "There's nothing for you to think sweet," I said again, this time with a bit too much anger.

I knew Anne was waiting for this sign: anger in me meant she had hit the nail on the head. "Damn blanket!" I added, and kicked at it again with my feet. Anne giggled triumphantly, then turned her back to me. With a quick jerk she pulled her share of the cover over to her side. I said nothing for a long time.

We lay side by side, Anne's steady breathing keeping up with a sweet rhythm next to me in the dark. I watched the passing trail of lights race cross the ceiling. Cars headed home from the late movie showing at the theater just across our street. When I was certain that Anne had fallen into the first comfortable stages of sleep I flicked my toes against her bare leg under the cover.

"Hey," I said. "Hey, you. Wake up." Anne groaned as she pushed toward consciousness. "What?" she finally mumbled. "Who the hell is Freddy Polanski?"