A bookstore in Annapolis. It was the perfect place for Bret to meet Agatha. Of course, they knew what each other looked like, having spent two Zoom classes together at The Writer’s Center. In meeting at last, though, there was always the potential disappointment of some unfortunate characteristic from the neck down. And it was a blistering cold, December day – layers of garments might conceal flaws. Not that he was expecting perfection. In fact, a small flaw or two might help his chances. Those first crucial moments of meeting, they’d know in an instant if they could be a pair. That’s just how it was in the world. He would be glad to get the cosmetic aspects of coupling out of the way and move on to the deeper stuff. From the Zoom, he had learned that she was in HR for an environmental services company. He was middle management for the Department of Interior. At least in that area, they were on equal footing.

He sat near the door, sipping his decaf latte. Electronic jingle bells rang with each entering customer. At last the bells rang for her. They made some oblique eye contact, some almost smiles, then Agatha got in line at the service counter. He had seen enough. He already knew she was pretty, and he now knew that she had quite a good figure as well. No amount of winter clothing, nor the load of boxes and bags she carried, were going to conceal that. He could stop worrying about any superficial surprises and get down to the essentials. Bret got up thoughtfully to help her with all of her packages.

“Hi Agatha! Let me unburden you and then your drink won’t get spilled.”

“Oh, thank you, Bret. I didn’t want to leave my gifts in the car. I’m paranoid of thieves.”

“Me, too. I’ll see you at the table when you’ve finished getting your beverage.” Oh, shit. Why did he have to use a stupid word like beverage? He hoped that perhaps he had said it in a wry way, mocking the word itself. Disarmingly, he sensed a case of nerves. He wasn’t expecting that. Bret reminded himself not to talk about his ex-wife. It was too easy to let that particular floodgate open up. His friends were sick of listening to The Tiresome Tales of Margot the Merciless. Nine years hadn’t closed the wound. For the next forty-five minutes, he pleaded with himself, mum’s the word on Margot.

Agatha took a while to get her cappuccino. There was some fuss about the upcharge for almond milk. Bret hoped that she was lactose intolerant and not a vegan. Finally she came to sit down with him. There was something comforting about this, about being together at last. They shared a love of literature, and a passion to write. There wasn’t a reason in the world for things not to work out.

“You seemed to have a little run-in with the barista.”

“It was nothing. Well, you might as well know this about me. I’m an animal rights activist. I’m pretty serious about it. I often sit at vegan education booths at local fairs and other outdoor events. Every June I’m up at Pimlico protesting The Preakness. It’s a big deal to me.” She searched his face for approbation on the subject. Oh, he had fixed upon those eyes so many times in the Zoom. Did she have a flaw? Not that he could see. He had taken a portrait drawing class in college, and could determine that the ratios of her eyes, nose and mouth were classically perfect. Her short brown bob with bangs was just right for a thirty something professional. She was pale, but would probably take on a nice brown glow after a few summer trips to the Eastern Shore. Though Bret was a carnivore, how could he respond in anything but the affirmative?

“They say it’s the way of the future, especially if we care about climate issues.” He didn’t include the fact that he loved meat and couldn’t see himself ever abstaining from it. Fortunately, Agatha tabled the subject.

“I appreciate you driving out to my neck of the woods. Did you encounter much traffic?”

“Well, it’s Christmastime on a Saturday, so yeah, the roads were crazy from DC to here. But I made it. Happy to meet you at last. Talk about books and writing and such.”

“Of course, of course,” she said, as if he had gently reprimanded her for ignoring the talking points of a business meeting. “Bret, I’ve told you many times in the Zoom how much I enjoy your writing, how poetic I think you are. I can’t believe you’ve never been published. Why is that?”

“Well, the only places I’ve ever submitted to are The New Yorker and Ploughshares. I don’t want to publish in some unknown online magazine just for the sake of saying I’m a published writer. But what about you? I could say the same. You’re obviously talented, you deserve publication.” He almost used the word gifted, but pulled back. He was the only gifted writer sitting at this table, that needed to be very clear. That might be just the leverage he needed to work his way into this stunning creature’s life.

“Thanks, it helps to hear that. Confidence is a big issue for me when it comes to writing. I’ve never had anyone be as supportive as you have.”

Don’t sweat the naysayers. I’ve had plenty of them haunt me. My ex-wife was the worst. She hated everything I wrote. And she was an editor for a government contractor, so it really stung when she plied her poison.” Oh, no. There he went and did it. He brought up Margot. That was something he didn’t plan on introducing for at least several months. If at all.

“Well, I’ve got an ex, too, I know what it’s like. Actually, mine is a real sweetie. For no good reason I broke his little heart. Other than the fact that I never really loved him in the first place. He still treats me like I’m his angel for life. I’ve no kids. You?”

“I have a twelve year old daughter. She’s a precocious delight. She loves everything I write.”

“I’ll bet she’s a cutie. I may never have kids. I have animals. I have a pit bull rescue, a blue and gold macaw rescue, a feral cat, two rabbits whom a neighbor wasn’t taking very good care of, and over 100 mice.”

“100 mice?”

“They were going to be killed after some experiments at the University of Maryland. I took them in. I have them separated by sex, for obvious reasons. They only live one or two years anyway. I try to give them a rich environment, after their crappy treatment as lab mice.

“They don’t smell?”

“The males do. But if I’m diligent about cleaning their habitat, it’s not too bad.” Well, she was attractive and loved literature, thought Bret. You can’t have everything. They finally got on familiar ground, discussing what they were reading, what they hoped to read, and what they hoped to write. He liked Dickens and Steinbeck. She liked Toni Morrison. It went pretty well. Bret’s mind paused upon one infernal question – was she too pretty? He weighed it over and over and tried his damnedest to reach a positive conclusion. Margot had also been a pretty one – at least she thought she was. People would often say that she looked like a model, but they may have meant it in a bad way. She was tall and skinny, with great hair, an unfortunate nose depending on the angle one was looking at it, and olive skin. A grand, sweeping smile that she overused. Once upon a time, she had seemed exotic to Bret. But her multiple and chronic illnesses gradually took her looks down several notches. Agatha had a great smile, too, but she seemed to use it judiciously. She could blush as well, notably when Bret went on and on about the last assignment of hers that she had read in the Zoom. He liked that about her. She sounded as if she came from a good family - her dad a colonel, her mother an attorney. His own sorry clan wasn’t worth promoting at a first meeting. He’d save that for another day. Jingle Bells played as they left the book store. He carried her packages to her car. A Prius, of course. He was betting on that. Okay, she was a tree hugger, was that so terrible?

“Thanks, Bret. I have to confess something. The shopping was a ploy in case things didn’t go well. I thought the packages would be a deterrent. But things went great, as far as I’m concerned. Should we try to up things to a movie and dinner next time?”

“A deterrent?”

“You know, the ploy that I was busy shopping and just kind of slipped you into the schedule. Was that terrible of me? I can be idiotic about first meetings. I’ve had some that just went terribly.”

“That’s fine. A little quirky, but it’s cool. I just hope all the recipients appreciate their doubly purposed gifts. And yes, I’d love to up things, as you say. I have season tickets at The Shakespeare Theater Company, is there any chance that Twelfth Night would appeal to you?”

“Twelfth Night.” She said this in a far off way, as if it were another language. Okay, he suspected she wasn’t into Shakespeare. Few people were. But he was hoping.

“We can catch a movie instead,” he offered. “I know better than to force-feed the Bard to people.” The Bard. Another word he hated using. Must be the nerves.

“No, let’s do the Shakespeare. It will be a new and good experience for me. I’ll go to the library and learn as much as I can about it. Twelfth Night.”

“There’s at least one scene in it I promise you’ll laugh at. It never fails.”

“Well, alright. Twelfth Night.” She continued to repeat the play’s name as the car door shut and Agatha drove off.

It had gone well. With luck, he wouldn’t be alone this Christmas. He went back into the book store to find a gift for her. He was being optimistic for once in his life. A book was a perfect, safe gift for someone that he barely knew but for whom he had the greatest of expectations.

Bret emailed Agatha on Monday. He would have preferred to wait a few days, but it was the final weekend for Twelfth Night. She wanted to eat beforehand at a vegan restaurant, a new place near the theater. It was called Sagacity. He had no idea what to expect. Tofu and seaweed with some fancy drizzled sauces around the plate. He dreaded it. He had a bigger concern than that, though. He called his friend Rashad Dee, a legendary local bluesman, and asked him to look at Agatha’s picture on her company’s web site.

“Okay, Rashad, do you see it? Her picture?”

“Agatha Everett?”

“Yeah. What do you think?”

“What do I think? C’mon, man. She’s hotter than July.”

“Shit. I was afraid you’d say that. Shit.”

“Well, she is, man. Look at her. That’s perfection, baby.”

“Yeah, and the chassis matches the hood ornament, if you take my meaning.”

“Does she have one of those skinny white girl butts, or has she got a booty on her?”

“She’s proportional. In a very good way.”

“Skinny white girl butt. Alright, my man, have your fun with her.

“If she likes blues, I’ll bring her to one of your shows.”

“We’re at the Ram’s Head in January. You can bring your little Annapolitan Agatha there.”

“Sounds good, Rashad. Wish you hadn’t given her such a ringing endorsement.”

“Just enjoy whatever happens. You worry too much.”

“See you in January.” Of course, Bret hated hearing that. But he had to face it. Agatha was probably too good looking for him. There was that one equalizer: he was a gifted writer. The world didn’t know it yet, but at some point it would. Of course, he was working on a novel. He had 100,000 words. But he felt like he needed to start over. It wasn’t his best writing. If only he had a published novel. That would give him the confidence he needed to hang in there with Agatha. Well, maybe things wouldn’t go so well this weekend, and then he wouldn’t have to worry about it. He could tell her about his crappy family, that would do the trick. Mom and Dad bitterly divorced and still foaming at their mouths. An older brother on meth, a bratty younger sister who followed the Kardashians religiously and thought the world owed her a living. Only his daughter Dani seemed to have any sense. She was just twelve, there was still plenty of time for life to fuck her up in some insidious way if she didn’t watch it. But the girl seemed to be on a good course. She watched over her mother’s illnesses like a guardian angel. He’d love to have full custody, but who would attend Margot? It was far from ideal, not fair to the girl, but her mother needed her. Margot was on disability and she had his substantial check each month. She had an alphabet soup of ailments: IBS, CFS, ADHD, COPD, FMS. Bret felt pretty bad for Margot, but that wicked way she torched all his stories kept him from doing more to help her. Just like his feuding parents, he could hold a grudge.

At Sagacity, Bret wasn’t sure what kind of food he was eating. It was Asian fusion, and actually tasted pretty good. But it didn’t compare to a nice cut of meat. He looked good in a sport coat and tie, even Margot had admitted that. She had said that with the right clothes and a lot of imagination, he resembled a young Pierce Brosnan. The imagination part put a big damper on that compliment. Did she ever in five years say one nice thing to him without some kind of qualifier that ruined it? Never. Across from him, Agatha looked too preciously stunning to even touch, though he certainly hoped to. She wore more makeup than she did at the book store, but it was tasteful. He wasn’t a big fan of getting dressed up, but it was a night at Harman Hall, after all. It was like she had read his mind.

“I have to tell you, Bret, I rarely fix myself up like this. I hope you don’t think I’m a woman who spends hours of her life contemplating cosmetics and fashion, because I don’t.” He sensed she felt awkward, and decided it was a good time to soar in with a sweeping compliment.”

“Agatha, you always look great. You looked great in a small Zoom window, you looked great when I first saw you with your arms full of Christmas gifts, and as the Eric Clapton song goes, you look “Wonderful Tonight.” We could’ve worn jeans and T shirts to the Harman, it would’ve been fine. Next time, we will.”

“Well, that’s good to know. I’m an outdoors woman. Especially if it involves animals. I’d love to go to the Galapagos some day, the Canary Islands, or maybe watch the macaws on the clay cliffs in Costa Rica.”

“What’s stopping you?” She rolled her eyes.

“Fear of flying.”

“Me, too! I’d love to see The Globe in London, but it’s not going to happen. If I really, really have to, I can force myself onto a plane. But I won’t like it one bit. I also have a fear of driving in the snow. And broken faucets that won’t stop running.”

“Yes, I’ve multiple fears as well. I also dread boats, thunder and lightning, and heights. That’s why I asked you if we were in box seats or on the floor.”

“Fortunately, we’re seeing Twelfth Night and not King Lear. Lots of lightning in Lear.”

“I need to learn more about Shakespeare. I’m willing to learn. Really, I am.”

“Let’s see how you feel after tonight. I never try to force Shakespeare on anyone.” At the Harman, Agatha felt a little lost. She had been too busy to go to the library and so was unprepared. She simply did not understand why the audience laughed when they did. To a certain extent, she got that the stuffy character in the yellow tights was making a fool of himself, but it didn’t actually make her laugh out loud. It wasn’t like watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Now that was something that made her laugh hard. She felt like she might have disappointed Bret. It didn’t exactly put her in a romantic mood, and she knew at least a kiss would be expected of her and possibly more at evening’s end. She just wasn’t in the mood for that now. They were quiet as they left the Harman.

“Okay, we know Shakespeare’s not your cup of tea. I was wrong to try and force one of my favorite things upon you. I think there’s only one penalty for such an infraction. Let me see your animals. It’s only fair. It’s what you love. 100 mice – who could resist?”

“It’s late and it’s so much driving for you. And at this hour, you won’t see them at their best. Except the mice, who are nocturnal. Also, my macaw, Lupe, hates men.”

“The macaw doesn’t worry me, it’s the pit bull that has my knees knocking.”

“Oh, Dopey’s a big, harmless baby. Trust me, you’ll love him. I really enjoy showing off my companion animals, let’s go.” He followed her to where she lived, and was surprised to see it.

“A condominium? With a macaw? Aren’t they like air raid sirens?”

“Occasionally. The walls are reinforced for sound. Lupe has never been a problem.” She let him in and he immediately was hit with the smell. It wasn’t exactly bad, but it was strong. He could get used to it – after all, he was in a beautiful woman’s place. He couldn’t complain. So she didn’t get Shakespeare. So what? The macaw, perched so high that its head brushed the ceiling, was scraggly, and its chest was so clean of feathers that it looked like a fryer from the supermarket. Dopey shook his neck, wagged his tail, and sniffed at Bret’s hand. He petted the dog’s head tentatively.
“I need to let Dopey out for a minute. Look around, we’ll be right back. Just stay clear of Lupe. There’s 350 pounds of bite force in that beak.” Bret didn’t move a muscle until Agatha returned. Dopey shook his head and wagged his tail. Keep that tail waggin’, doggo. Please, keep that tail waggin’.

“So let’s see the 100 mice.”

“Okay. They have red lights that turn on at night. They won’t be easy to see. Follow me.” She led him into a small room. There were stacks and stacks of large cages with little hammocks and lots of clear tubing running through them in all directions. Scurrying through their plastic plumbing, the mice reminded Bret of the arcade game Pac-Man. They didn’t smell very good. But they were somewhat entertaining. So that was what a hundred mice were like. He was glad to leave the room.

“Why no feathers on the macaw? She doesn’t look all that healthy.”

“Actually, Lupe’s health is great. But she had a rough life before coming to me, and she expressed it with self-mutilation. She did it so much that the feathers won’t grow back, though she’s happy now. I think she’s absolutely gorgeous. Aren’t you, Lupe? Aren’t you, my sweet girl -”

“Zing went the strings,” said Lupe.

“Oh, are you going to sing for our guest?”

“Zing went the strings...of my... heart.”

“I’m afraid the song title is all Lupe’s ever learned, Bret.”

“That’s okay. A Judy Garland classic. Lupe’s got good taste.”

“My rabbits are fun, but I don’t want to bother them this late. You can play with them next time.” Next time. He liked the sound of that.

“I’m sorry again, about the Shakespeare.”

“Zing went the strings,” sang Lupe again.

“Don’t be. It was interesting. I’m going to read Twelfth Night, I promise you. I want to find out what all the laughter was about. I’m serious.”

“Well, good. I should probably get going. Long drive back to DC.”

“Do you want some coffee?”

“I only drink decaf. Agatha – I’d like very much to kiss you, but I’m afraid if I do, a dog will gnaw my hand off, a parrot will sever my nose, and 100 mice will munch me into oblivion. Then there’s a feral cat here somewhere, waiting to pounce.”

“None of that will happen, I promise. My rabbits might bite your head off, like in Monty Python. That’s the only risk.”

“Could soil my armor, but it’s a chance worth taking.” He took a step toward her and they kissed. It was a pretty good kiss, however it wasn’t necessarily one that invited another. But she was a stunning woman and her perfume masked the odor of the condo. So he pressed home his prerogative. Several long kisses ensued, then she put a hand on his chest and gingerly nudged him back a bit. She took a long breath; he had aroused her, and was pleased with himself for it. It had been four months since he had kissed a woman, and forever since he had kissed a woman like Agatha. Some of the ones he had puckered up with in the last few years: a yoga instructor who had a mouth like Willem Dafoe; a very drunk and possibly underaged girl at one of Rashad Dee’s shows who shoved her tongue in him and then passed out in his arms; an older woman he had met at a Singles Night who promised to do all kinds of kinky things to him while they sped toward his house, only to break down in a tumult of tears during the drive. She missed her ex terribly, she mumbled between mood-killing sobs. There were others less histrionic, a few that were moderately attractive, but there were none like Agatha. He drove home with Rashad Dee’s words in his head: just enjoy whatever happens. Who knows, it could end tomorrow.

God, he hoped not.

Bret felt great, and spent all of Sunday thinking about Agatha. He needed to do something for her that had to do with animals. But what? How about watching the osprey nests at Quiet Waters Park? The yoga instructor with the mouth like Willem Dafoe had taken him there once. It would probably be old hat to Agatha, but it was the only thing he could come up with. He called her.

“Ospreys migrate, Bret. But I love Quiet Waters in the winter. Yes, let’s do that next weekend. Oh, guess what I’m watching right now. Twelfth Night. With Helena Bonham Carter and Ben Kingsley. I also got the No Fear Shakespeare edition. I told you I was serious about this.”

“Don’t tell anyone, but I use those No Fear books all the time. I think they’re great to get started. Then you can move up to the Arden versions.”

“Arden, huh? Let me write it down. I wish this movie had subtitles. Actually, Sir Andrew Aguecheek makes me laugh the most. He’s a silly thing. Still not laugh out loud funny. But getting there. Dopey says hello. He says it’s okay to kiss Mommy anytime you want.” Oh, that sounded good. Not the Mommy part. He hated when women thought of their pets as children. But the ‘okay to kiss’ part. That was heavenly.

“Well, I plan to take advantage of that this weekend. See you then.” It would take some time for Bret to get used to Dopey. He had read that pit bulls could be docile for years, then one day, suddenly turn vicious. Dopey was about fifty to sixty pounds. Bret doubted the dog could kill him, but he could do some serious damage if the notion struck. On the other hand, he recalled reading a story where a swan had killed a man. That had to be pretty embarrassing for the fellow, fatally bested by a bird. His mind free associated from swans to Tchaikovsky to The Nutcracker. It was tradition for him each December to see The Nutcracker, even if he had to go alone. And after Twelfth Night had flopped with Agatha, he was afraid of asking her to attend any more culture with him. So, alone it was. Luck had it that a small production at a local Unitarian church popped up on his Google search for that very evening. He went and was pretty impressed, all things considered. The ballerina in the pas de deux was quite a nice little number. She wasn’t beautiful, but oh, that body. There was an after party all were invited to, and Bret took advantage of the opportunity to meet her.

“You’re really good. I’m no expert, but I loved your dancing.”

“I know you. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“Creative Writing II, at the Writer’s Center. It was a Zoom from two years ago. Debra Marsden. I learned I wasn’t much of a writer, and that I should stick to dancing. You on the other hand, are quite good. Are you still writing?”

“Yes, yes I am. Bret Grant, I’m so flattered you recognized me.”

“When my hair’s not plastered back in a bun, I wear it sort of film noir. Nearly covering one eye. Do you know who Veronica Lake is? I wear my hair like her. Maybe this will help you to recall me: I’m the one who tried to write like Sylvia Plath.”

“Yes, yes, I do recall that. I thought it was a noble effort on your part. But bound to fail, don’t you think? We all need to find our own voice.”

“I’m sure you’re right. Have you gotten published yet?”

“You don’t know how that constant question pierces me like an errant arrow. I’m afraid I still haven’t been published.” Errant arrow. Another stupid phrase aimed at an attractive woman. Well, her face wasn’t anything compared to Agatha, but that body, which had been hidden by the Zoom thumbnail, was to die for.

“I’m sure you will eventually,” said Debra. “You’re too good not to. Look, I have to mingle or the director will give me shit. Let’s trade contacts. Oh, and try the foie gras hors d’oeuvre, it’s delicious. Ciao.” Well, she wasn’t a vegan, that’s for damn sure. Even Bret knew PETA hated foie gras. It always worked this way, - a guy goes for months and months without a nibble on his line, then pow! One catch after another. Women sense when a man is already taken, and they’re usually only interested in the taken ones. There was something about Debra that was so animal, so sexual. Agatha was a goddess to be worshiped, with the hope of someday to share the ineffable bliss of their bodies enjoined. Debra, he just wanted to fuck right away. Would he pursue her? He tried to shoo the question out of his mind, but it wouldn’t fly off. It just buzzed in circles with each attempt to squash it, then settled back down in the forefront of his thoughts. Only sleep might rid him of her.

Monday morning he woke up and both women had left texts. Dopey wasn’t feeling well and Agatha was taking him to the vet. Debra wanted to have a drink that night and rethink her decision to forego writing. He met her at a taco bar. She wasn’t bad looking at all, really, it’s just that she paled in comparison to Agatha. But that distressed denim mini skirt was the great equalizer. This woman was fit. Was she really interested in writing again?

“I don’t want to go back to The Writer’s Center, Bret. But I do want to take another stab at writing. It’s asking a lot, but I was hoping you could mentor me. I wouldn’t throw reams of material at you. Just an occasional short story.”

“Sure, Debra, sure. I’m not a great editor, but I can give you my opinion. Which may or may not be worth anything.”

“Well, you’ve got to be honest, that’s all I ask. I noticed in the Zoom that you were a little, shall we say, overkind?”

“Was I? Yes, I think you’re right. Okay, no holding back, I promise you.”

“Good.” They exchanged pecks on the cheek and he watched her leave. She was skinny, almost emaciated, from the waist up - but her loins and legs were a delightful eyeful.

That night Debra had already sent him a story. Just 2,000 words. She was going to submit it to an online magazine that only accepted new writers, and 2,000 was their word limit. He was familiar with the magazine and wrote her back.

Debra, it’s a good story. I won’t say it’s a great story. You told me to be truthful. The editor of that magazine claims he’s open to all forms of writing. But I know for a fact that he favors science fiction and horror. So you’re not going to get printed. At least not by him. I’m wondering if you should go back to the Plath styling. Borrow from her, heavily if need be, but try to mold the words to your own shape. Best, Bret.

He got a call from her the next evening.

“Bret, we need to speak in person. Can you meet me at Taco Terrifico again?”

“Debra, you sound upset.”

“I’m not, I promise. But we need to talk.”

“Okay.” He was hungry anyway and could use a drink as well. When he got there, she was already at a table. He hoped she was wearing the jean skirt again. In fact, it was how she looked in that skirt that got him out the door so readily, despite a sense that trouble was brewing.

“Hi, Bret. I’m sorry if I sounded upset on the phone. I was, a little. But I’m fine now. Here’s the thing I want to talk about – men. You, of course, being one of them. This might sound like a rant, but it’s not. It’s more of a plea. Men – men do not know how to read women. Some of them think they do, but those are the ones that are most off base of all. I said that I wanted you to be honest about my writing. That wasn’t entirely true. It wasn’t even mostly true. But you did not pick up on that. I do want to get better as a writer, but I wanted you to lie to me, at least at first. It really stung when you said my story was merely good. I know only great stories get published. Then there’s the other thing. I wore my sexiest skirt last night. I know for a fact that I look drop dead in it. But you never said anything. I thought maybe you’d at least write something later in email, but no. Again, it’s that thing of being able to read women. Few men can.”

“Debra, on the first count, you’re absolutely right. I took your words at face value. I’ll try to straddle the fine line between the truth and your feelings from hereon in. But on the other subject, you clearly have no idea how much you affected me last night. I could not escape the image of you and your skirt. I went to sleep with it. I woke up with it. It’s haunted me – in a good way. In a very good way.”

“Well. That makes me feel better. Now that I know, I wish I had worn it again tonight. I’m not a psycho, I promise. I just wanted you to like me. I read men well. I know most of them are just after my body. Maybe that’s all you’re interested in, too. But I think you’re a man who wants more than sex. Am I right?”

‘Uh, absolutely. Absolutely. I enjoy sex like most men, but I need to form a relationship first.” Was he lying? His record vouched for her intuition. There had always been an agonizing duration in his relationships before sex commenced. He hated that, truth be told. But women ran the show in the Me, Too world.

“Okay. Since I know that about you now, let’s go back to your place.”

“Oh, my. Is this a test?”

“No test. I trust my intuition. You’re a decent guy. A keeper. I want to be kissed and held, you want to smash me. I have a box of condoms in my purse. Let’s shake on it.” She certainly was straightforward about the intrinsic barter of adult intimacy. Agatha was busy with Dopey – a few texts had indicated that it was quite serious. Why were women always like this? You finally get one after an insufferably long dry spell and then along comes another, right on her heels. He rationalized that he was unlikely to be able to hold onto a stunner like Agatha. And it had been so long since he’d had sex with a woman. The body on this one, was he dumb enough to refuse it?. He clasped her outstretched hand. She brought his fingers to her mouth and kissed them. They went to his place and did their thing. He knew he would feel terrible later, but for the moment, he was ecstatic. She made him ham and eggs for breakfast. Debra just felt right. At some point, Agatha would probably be compelled to push her vegan agenda on him. Maybe it was good this happened the way that it did. He had no intention of ever becoming a vegan. Bacon and cheese alone were strong evidence for that.

He had the decision of his life to make. What had he learned about Debra during the interludes when he wasn’t smashing her over and over? She was quite a bit younger than him – twenty-eight. Not a pervy difference. She had a BFA and was once a demi-soloist with the Ballet Theater of Maryland, but injuries had put her out of action. She worked at the Y. She lived in a large group home in Takoma Park with other artists – painters, dancers, would-be writers. One of the residents had fallen in love with her, and when she refused him, he took the steak knives from the kitchen and pinned all her underwear to the living room wall. He disappeared and never returned. But she feared that he might. She had a younger sister with ADHD who had trouble holding onto a job. Debra was always worried that the sister would start stripping. It was something she was always threatening to do. Her parents were still together, but they rarely spoke to each other. The only thing they shared was a love for whiskey. Dad was a siding salesman, Mom was active with The Episcopal Church. With all their issues, Bret figured both their families could easily get together and have a jolly old time. It was looking more and more as if he were going to choose Debra. She was just a better fit. But phone conversations with Agatha rarely provided any opportunities for him to escape. Rather, they made him realize what a splendid woman she was. On Wednesday night, she had bad news about Dopey.

“First, let me tell you while I can. I’ve graduated from No Fear Shakespeare to the Arden editions. The introduction was deep - a little over my head. But the annotations for the text are terrific. I’m really getting to know Twelfth Night well. That’s the good news. The bad news is that Dopey has six months to live. I’m going to cry now, it will be hard for me to continue talking.”

“Oh, no, Agatha. What a terrible thing, with Christmas so near. What’s he got? Never mind, it doesn’t matter, just keep crying. It’s a good thing your walls are reinforced for sound, you’re a loud crier. Don’t be offended, I didn’t mean anything by that. Just get it out.” Agatha kept crying, louder and louder. It didn’t sound as if she were going to stop anytime soon. “Look, do you want me to come up there? I’ll be happy to.”

“Uh-huh…” Alright, he had really blown that one. On the way to Annapolis, he talked to Debra so she wouldn’t have any reason to call him for a while. For someone who had never dated more than one woman at a time his entire life, he was getting to be quite devious. It started to snow as he pulled into the parking lot of Agatha’s condo. He hadn’t checked the weather report, not that it would have affected his decision. But it would suck to get stuck there. Stuck with an exquisite beauty he was thinking of ditching. Was he crazy? Yes, his life had become exactly that. Crazy.

“Thanks for coming.” She hugged Bret but they didn’t kiss. Nothing for the returning hero. Probably better off that way.

“Dopey doesn’t seem that bad to me, Agatha. He’s wagging his tail. Oh, but yes, I see it now. There’s a marked difference in his energy.”

“It’ll gradually get worse. He still has a few quality months left. Believe me, I’m going to spoil him like no doggo’s ever been spoiled.” She hugged Dopey around the neck, then he went to his cushioned bed in the corner.

“Are they sure he’s not in pain? Animals mask their pain, don’t they?”

“They say he’s fine for a few months, at least. I’m going to let Dopey out, and then I’m taking you to my bedroom. But don’t get the wrong idea. I just want to cuddle. I need to cuddle. I’m so tense, please help me de-stress. Okay?”

“Sure.” He had forgotten how beautiful she was, even with a face full of tears. After dealing with Dopey, she took him by the hand and led him to her bed. If Debra hadn’t fucked him dry two days ago, this would be too much for any red-blooded man to withstand. But thoroughly drained as he was, Bret would have no problem just holding Agatha and being there for her. He liked cuddling. In a too lonely moment of desperation several months ago, he had considered using a professional cuddling service. But it felt too weird and he hadn’t gone through with it. Both on their sides, she wrapped her arms and legs around him and cried into his shoulder. Gently, this time. Normally, this would’ve been heavenly, but all he thought about was the creep he had transmogrified into within a few day’s time. He thought of Rashad Dee’s admonition. You worry too much. Just enjoy yourself. So, as best as his beleaguered conscience would allow, he enjoyed his arms being around Agatha. They, of course, fell asleep. The snow kept coming. The next morning, he looked through her blinds and saw nearly a foot of snow.

“Bret, I just checked, the federal government’s closed and my workplace follows the government. And you’re afraid to drive in snow. So, it’s perfect. Spend a couple days here with Dopey and me.” Debra might call. He needed to think quick.

“Agatha, there’s an old couple next door that rely on me when it snows. I dig their car out and make sure they have what they need. As terrified as I’m about to be, I need to leave.”

“That’s so sweet. And brave. Do you want a Clonazepam? I have a prescription.”

“Yeah, a small dose might be just the thing.” He gave her a quick smooch and went into the dreaded White Hell. His Subaru had four wheel drive, just because he feared snow, and Bret was able to maneuver out of his parking space without denting the adjacent cars. Now if he could only make it home. Escaping Agatha’s condo had been a major coup by itself. If Debra called while he drove, he would have to make up yet another story. But his cleverness gauge was pointed to E. She wasn’t a morning person, he knew that about her. Hopefully she wouldn’t call. He would have to put an end to the dirty business of this double romance deal as soon as possible.

It was going to be a two hour trip. He tried to settle down and wait for the Clonazepam to kick in. It finally started working a few minutes after he got on Route 50. Actually, it made him feel pretty damned good. He had forgotten how fantastic the drug was. He was about thirty minutes from home when Debra called. He’d get back to her once he was inside his place. At last! He’d done it. Survived the White Hell.

He found it hard to call Debra back. He had Agatha’s wonderful smell all over him. The woman was magical. He had to take a shower to de-scent himself. But no torrent of water could wash away how he had felt, wrapped up in her arms. Just when he thought it would be an easy decision to go with Debra, the scale he had been weighing this matter on was balanced once more. What fool would let a woman like Agatha go? Another thought came to mind. He could blow this whole thing and end up completely alone again if he didn’t watch it. And a man alone has trouble clawing his way back into the world of women. They only want the ones that are taken. Now, that hadn’t been true for Agatha. Maybe he needed to rethink his views. No, it was Zoom magic that brought her to him. His outlook was still valid. He gave Debra a call.

“Isn’t it beautiful, Bret? I went out and made snow angels. It’s going to be a white Christmas.”

“The soot from the exhaust pipes of cars will make it a filthy mess soon enough. There’s nothing uglier than a city full of sooty snow.”

“Oh, enjoy it for the moment. I wish I could drive over, but I’m terrible in snow.”

“As am I. I didn’t tell you, it’s one of my phobias.”

“One of?”

“My worst is flying. I’ll do it if I absolutely have to. But it will suck. I need to get my Clonazepam prescription refilled. I’d forgotten how good that stuff is.”

“What reminded you?”

“Uh, just looking at the snow.”

“Just looking at the snow. My lie-dar is going off.”

“Really, just looking at the snow. Why would I lie about that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Debra, you’re being ridiculous.”

“Okay. Was this our first fight?”

“Not hardly. You don’t know what a fight is until you’ve married someone.”

“I’ve lived with men. I’ve had fights. Not too many. I don’t like confrontation, as a rule.”

“Nor do I.”

“I miss your cock in me. It’s a lovely fit. My cervix appreciates it. I hate when huge guys just keep pounding away at the walls of Helm’s Deep.”

“You’ve named your cervix after a location in Lord of the Rings?”

“What can I say? I’m a Tolkien fan.”

“Debra, for a ballerina, you’re...well, I’m at a loss for words.”

“That’s not a good thing for a writer at all.”

“No, it isn’t. I’m going to make myself some lunch and ponder that. We can talk more later, if you want.” Lie-dar. That was a new one. It worked well. Too damned well. He needed to put an end to this duplicity, one way or the other. But she had said that he was a lovely fit. What every man yearns to hear. She had scored more than a few points with that one. On the other hand, how many hugely hung guys had she done it with? That was disconcerting. All things considered, there was something about Debra that was comfortable. She was his kind of person. With Agatha, he would probably spend a lifetime trying in vain to convince himself he was good enough for her. Still, she was incredible. It might be worth all that self-loathing.

Bret took a nap in the afternoon, then woke from a terrible dream. A daymare. In it, both of the women in his life found out about the other, and blew him off. He was alone in some kind of tomb. Decades went by. He never had another woman. The loneliness was horrible. Horrible. He would never know another woman again, trapped in this tomb. Maybe the Clonazepam had made him dream like that. Or perhaps it was just his damned predicament. He had to do something to get that damned tomb out of his brain - and restore his dating sanity, all at once. He would rely on the truth’s palliative power, and let things fall as they may. He started with a call to Agatha – he gave her the whole story, even named Debra.

“Bret, I’m going to be very busy taking care of Dopey, so I just don’t have time for something like this. If you’ll excuse me, I’m ending this call…” He could hear her voice breaking toward the end. Well, he took a chance with the truth and it had betrayed him.

One down. Halfway to lonely town. Or not. It was all up to Debra. Did he have to tell her at all? Yes, he wanted her to know. He told her about Agatha, what an incredible woman she was. But she was out of the picture now.

“Bret, this just feels yucky to me. Maybe I ought to feel great, I beat out some world-class babe. But that’s not the vibe I’m getting. I hate lies. I knew you lied to me. I can always sniff out when a man lies, it’s like some sixth sense I’ve got. So best of luck with your writing career. You’re quite brilliant, I’m sure you’ll get published someday.”

There he was, back where he started. He counted on the truth to guide him through this, but it had doubly failed him. Neither woman was impressed with his efforts to come clean. The dream-tomb had become reality. He thought that at least Debra would hang in there with him. Bret had a hard time understanding her diatribe about lies. He had slept with her, not Agatha. Didn’t that count for something? In the end, he realized that he knew women not at all. And he had learned nothing about them. Maybe he would be lonely the rest of his days. It seemed a very real possibility. He was stuck in his tomb.

Bret spent Christmas alone again. In January, he signed up for another class with The Writer’s Center. A Latina woman named Lupe who loved Isabel Allende was impressed with his writing and asked him out for coffee. Her thumbnail looked good, but he declined. “Zing! Went the Strings” played in Bret’s head. He flipped the words, though, and turned them into parody:

My sickly heart it weeps, Dating gives me the creeps, Zoom! went the tomb of my heart.