A Week as Andrea Benstock

“Let me think,” she said, and yawned. “I think you’re in a hurry,” she said, “and I think I am feeling very lazy. Why don’t you just grab your cup of coffee? But have a roll or an English muffin or something with it.”

“Maybe.”

“A toasted bagel, a piece of Danish. Something in your stomach.”

“Well, I probably shouldn’t face those sharks on an empty stomach. You’ve got a point there.”

“You’ll run rings around them. They won’t be able to take their eyes off your tie.”

“Is it too loud? I wasn’t sure.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“I could change it.”

“No, don’t. As a matter of fact it’s perfect with that suit. I was just teasing you a little.” She sat up in bed. The sheet dropped away from her and she saw that his eyes were drawn to her breasts. Her body still thrilled him, and not merely in intimate moments. Frequently she would turn while performing some routine chore, loading the dishwasher or putting away groceries, to catch him studying the curves of her flesh.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said.

“You could always skip breakfast.”

“You’re tempting me.”

“Of course you would probably want to take another shower. And Kramer and — I forget the other one.”

“Joel Lieberman.”

“They might wonder why you kept smiling all the time. But if you’re willing to chance it—”

“Maybe I better take a rain check.”

She nodded. “It’s important today, huh?”

“It could be. It’s hard to say.” He picked up his briefcase. “Well,” he said.

“You’ll be fine.”

“Hope so. Will you find enough things to do today? I guess you can kill a whole day shopping without much trouble.”

“And I might go to some of the museums.”

“Want to get back here about five, five-thirty? If I’m late I’ll call, but I don’t think I should be late. We’ve got Fiddler tonight, and think about some place for dinner.”

“Right now I can’t even think about breakfast. But you can. You’d better get going.”

He bent over to kiss her, and his hand found her breast and cupped it. Her body responded automatically, the nipple stiffening against his palm. “If you don’t go now,” she said, “I won’t let you go at all.”

“Threat or promise?”

“Go on. And good luck, darling.”

When the door closed behind him she settled her head on her pillow and closed her eyes. Almost at once she realized that she would not be able to get back to sleep. At first she resented this; it was one of her rare chances to sleep late and she was unable to take advantage of it. But at the same time it was an even rarer opportunity; she was in New York and she had a whole day to spend however she saw fit. It seemed almost sinful to spend such a day, or even a part of it, lying in bed.

Robin was fifteen months old, and this was only the second time Andrea had been away from her overnight. The first time had been in June; they had driven up to Stratford with Barb and Jerry Singer for the Shakespeare festival, seeing a play Friday night, staying overnight at a motel, then attending a matinee before driving on back to Buffalo.

That had been a delight — it bothered her a little how readily she had put her daughter out of mind as soon as she was out of sight — but it had been categorically different. On that trip she had been with Mark throughout, with no time at all to herself. Now she had a whole day, and she was in New York, and she wondered how she would go about spending it.

She sat up in bed and smoked a cigarette. That sensation, waking up in a strange bed and not at first knowing where she was. For some reason or other it was bothering her after the fact and she wondered why. Had she become that thoroughly settled, so much a creature whose life revolved around her physical home? They had been living in the house on Aspen Drive for almost a year now, and she’d slept in the same bed for longer than that, ever since they returned from their honeymoon and set up housekeeping on Kenmore Avenue. In Stratford she’d known at once where she was, perhaps because of the way she had awakened. That morning she had been conscious of Mark’s body beside her before she was conscious of anything else, and she had pressed against his warmth and found him with her hands, stroking and exciting him while he slept, so that they had drifted into gentle languorous lovemaking before either of them was genuinely awake.

When had she last lost her bearings this way? She couldn’t remember.

After her shower she had a difficult time deciding what to wear. She had brought only a small suitcase, so her choice was limited, which should have made the selection process a simple one. But everything seemed too dressy or too dowdy. She had not yet defined how she would spend her day, yet she was able to sense that none of the clothes she had brought were quite right. She settled finally on a green plaid skirt and a gold Shetland sweater. She had bought both in Stratford and had not had a chance to wear them.

She ate breakfast in the hotel coffee shop, signed the check, left the room key at the desk in case Mark returned before she did. Outside, she walked over to Fifth Avenue. It was cool out, and although she knew the air was polluted it tasted crisp and clean to her. She stood for a few moments on the corner in front of the Plaza Hotel and looked at the row of horse-drawn carriages. There had been a time in her life when she had wanted nothing more than to be taken for a moonlight ride through the park in one of those carriages. She had had quite a few dates in New York while at Bryn Mawr, and one or two boys had suggested that a hansom ride was something they ought to try sooner or later, but somehow they had never gotten around to it. Later, when she lived in New York, it wasn’t the sort of thing she and her friends did. It was a tourist thing, like visiting the Statue of Liberty or taking the elevator to the top of the Empire State Building. When you lived in New York you didn’t do tourist things.