My Brush with Greatness

So last night I was at this restaurant with Dean. It’s near his apartment, and we go there a lot. And next to us is a couple, clearly on their first date. And then an older woman enters and goes up to a man I’ve just noticed — he’s sitting parallel to me on the banquette, so I can't really see him. She leans over to say something to him and I think, “How nice. Two old folk on a blind date, we’re all on dates here...”

But instead of sitting next to the man, this older woman then goes to another table by herself and starts reading a magazine. It’s then that what she said to him finally registers with me. It was, “Are you Philip Roth?”

Unfortunately I hadn’t heard his response, so I nudge Dean and ask him if he thinks the oldish man with graying dark hair is Philip Roth and we both surreptitiously sneak a look. We’re pretty sure it's him, and then we're really sure a few minutes later, when he's joined by a very pretty, very young woman.

Say it Again

We were lying in Dean’s bed, having just exhausted ourselves in the approved-of manner. I was feeling sex-dazed and sleepy. It was, as usual, late for me (after midnight). At Dean’s, I always make a bid to get to bed early, and it never works.

I smirked at Dean. But then he looked at me in a funny way and before I could get much further than raising an interrogative brow, he said, “I love you, Lily.”

My skin went hot and I thought, Say it again. I said, “I love you too.” I felt flooded with a rich, sad tenderness, as if I might cry. Then I added, “But you can say it again.”

So he said, again, “I love you.”

I rubbed my cheek against his shoulder, and he stroked my hair. “I love you, too. But you knew that, right?” I mean, it was pretty obvious how much I dote on him. “Didn’t you?”

Ah, Romance

Interior: Dean’s bedroom, late at night. I collapse on top of my boyfriend in post-coital exhaustion.

Dean: Why, young lady, if I didn’t know better, I would say you just came.

Me: (panting) Nah, I was faking it.