The Last Time They Met Read Free Page A

come out of a darkened room. A scar, the old scar that seemed as much a part of him as his mouth, ran the length of his left cheek. He was greeted as a man might who had long been in a coma; as a king who had for years been in exile.
    She turned around, unwilling to be the first person he saw in the room.
    There were other greetings now, a balloon of quiet but intense attention. Could this be his first public appearance since the accident, since he had taken himself into seclusion, retired from the world? It could, it could. She stood immobile, plate in hand, breathing in a tight, controlled manner. She raised a hand slowly to her hair, tucked a stray strand behind her ear. She rubbed her temple softly with her finger. She picked up a cracker and tried to butter it with a crumbly cheese, but the cracker broke, disintegrating between her fingers. She examined a fruit bowl of strawberries and grapes, the latter gone brown at the edges.
    Someone said, too unctuously,
Let me get you a drink.
Another crowed,
I am so pleased.
Still others murmured:
You cannot know,
and
I am such.
    It was nothing, she told herself as she reached for a glass of water. Years had passed, and all of life was different now.
    She could feel him moving toward her. How awful that after all this time, she and he would have to greet each other in front of strangers.
    He said her name, her very common name.
    — Hello, Thomas,
she said, turning, his name as common as her own, but his having the weight of history.
    He had on an ivory shirt and a navy blazer, the cut long out of style. He had grown thicker through the middle, as might have been anticipated, but still, one thought, looking at him, A tall man, a lanky man. His hair fell forward onto his forehead, and he brushed it away in a gesture that swam up through the years.
    He moved across the space between them and kissed her face beside her mouth. Too late, she reached to touch his arm, but he had retreated, leaving her hand to dangle in the air.
    Age had diminished him. She watched him take her in, she who would be seen to have been diminished by age as well. Would he be thinking, Her hair gone dry, her face not old?
    — This is very strange,
he said.
    — They are wondering about us already.
    — It’s comforting to think we might provide a story.
    His hands did not seem part of him; they were pale, soft writer’s hands, hints of ink forever in the creases of the middle finger of the right hand.
I’ve followed your career,
he said.
    — What there’s been of it.
    — You’ve done well.
    — Only recently.
    The others moved away from them like boosters falling from a rocket. There was conferred status in his knowing her, not unlike the Australian writer with the good review. A drink appeared for Thomas, who took it and said thank you, disappointing the bearer, who hoped for conversation.
    — I haven’t done this sort of thing in years,
he began and stopped.
    — When are you reading?
    — Tonight.
    — And me as well.
    — Are we in competition?
    — I certainly hope not.
    It was rumored that after many barren years, Thomas was writing again and that the work was extraordinarily good. He had in the past, inexplicably, been passed over for the prizes, though it was understood, by common agreement, that he was, at his best, the best of them.
    — You got here today?
she asked.
    — Just.
    — You’ve come from . . . ?
    — Hull.
    She nodded.
    — And you?
he asked.
    — I’m finishing a tour.
    He tilted his head and half smiled, as if to say, Condolences.
    A man hovered near Thomas’s elbow, waiting for admission.
Tell me something,
Thomas said, ignoring the man beside him and leaning forward so that only she could hear.
Did you become a poet because of me?
    She remembered that Thomas’s questions were often startling and insulting, though one forgave him always.
It’s how we met,
she said, reminding him.
    He took a longish sip of his drink.
So it was.
    — It was out of character for me.