The View From Penthouse B by Elinor Lipman

Author:Elinor Lipman [Lipman, Elinor]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: General Fiction
ISBN: 9780547840628
Google: HnPniOpYkksC
Amazon: 0547576218
Goodreads: 15814422
Publisher: Harcourt
Published: 2013-04-01T07:00:00+00:00

I accomplished this much: My headline in boldface was NERVOUS. Below that: “This ad has less 2 do w/me wanting 2 find love & more 2 do w/pushing myself out the door with a polite man, 40–50, for . . .”

What noun or participles came next? “For conversation”? “Companionship”? “Early dinners”? I didn’t know. I tried again. “I was widowed 2+ years ago & have been sitting on the sidelines of my own life. This ad has less 2 do w/me wanting 2 find love & more 2 do w/pushing myself out the door. Looking for kind M 40–60 with similar ambivalences.”

Was I reading this aloud? Maybe I was, in a mumble, because the man at the next table, previously intent on his laptop, murmured, “Your friends won’t like it.”

Let me describe this interloper. He was, I guessed, fiftyish, with a broad, clean-shaven face. He was the only person in the deli wearing a tie, its knot visible just above the neck of a brown V-necked pullover sweater. Was I imagining that he looked like a secondary-school teacher? Next to his laptop was a pot of tea; the saucer under his cup was holding a dissolving biscotti. He had not lost his hair, which was that shade of gray that announced he’d started off blond.

Knowing full well the answer, I asked anyway. “Were you speaking to me?”

“I was.”

“Was I reading aloud?”

“Almost.”

I said, “I’m composing a personal ad.”

“Got that.”

Quite bravely, if not aggressively, I asked him if he was a reader of personal ads.

He said, “Oh, who doesn’t read the occasional personal ad, even for pure entertainment value?”

And more boldly: “Are you married?”

“I once was.”

“Not a widower, by any chance?”

“Sorry. No.”

“Divorced?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Recently?”

“No. Long ago.”

I was not the best judge of where polite conversation left off and badgering began. I said, “Sorry if I’m interrogating you.”

“I’m Mitchell,” he said, and reached across the gap to offer his hand.

“I’m Gwen.”

He said, “I was married when I was twenty-two and divorced before I was thirty. So I barely remember what went wrong.”

“I guess you overheard my whole story.”

“I did. You’re a recent widow who hasn’t ventured out yet.” He paused, the way all polite people do upon pronouncing or hearing that word, and said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Not so very recent, but thank you.”

“Just be careful,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the crazies who find their victims through Craigslist.”

I said, pointing to the scratched-out lines in my notebook, “I thought I’d start with an ad in a newspaper or magazine.”

He was shaking his head with what appeared to be conviction.

“No?”

“No longer. These days it’s all online.”

I said, “I thought a print ad would be more . . . I don’t know . . . dignified? Or maybe attract people who were readers.”

“My girlfriend and I met through OkCupid.”

Had I imagined we were conducting a mild flirtation? Yes, I had. This confirmed what I already knew: that every man was unavailable, and what seemed like friendly attention was two sentences away from a call across the room, to the effect of Honey! Come over here.

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