the spark we lost

28

After dinner that night, Tom said he would walk me home, that it was the gentlemanly thing to do. He even walked on the street side of the sidewalk, so he would block me in the event that a car came zooming down the street and splashed through a puddle. It would french him and not me, he explained.

"I see," I told him. "What about ladies? What are we supposed to do?"

"Nothing you're not already doing," he said, which made me smile again.

Then he cleared his throat. "You know, I was a tour guide at Penn and happened to be qualified to give tours of Prospect Heights as well."

"Oh really?" I asked, not quite sure if he was joking.

He began talking in an upper-crust accent, like maybe he was someone who had donated a building to a university. I immediately started laughing. He sounded like I imagined the Schermerhorns or the Havermeyers or the Hartleys did, those families that had buildings named after them on campus. I always wondered about them when we were at school. I pictured them living in huge mansions in someplace like Armonk and summering on Martha's Vineyard. Mr. Schermerhorn wore those red pants that everyone wears on Nantucket and had a perma-tan and an underbite. And Mrs. Havermeyer never left the house without three-carat diamonds in each ear. She had three children who were raised by three different nannies, who shaped each of their personalities quite differently. She was oddly obsessed with the number three. And the Hartleys had show dogs, Corgis, like the queen of England.

I guess I could probably find out about them online now, if I wanted, but that would ruin the stories I made up in my head. I haven't thought about those stories in years.

So Tom turned to me and, in a voice like a Schermerhorn said," That large brownstone is the home of Ashton Cranston Wellington Leeds the Fourth, of the Kensington Leedses. The nobler side of the family. Everyone knows the Glasgow Leedses are gamblers and crooks. And horse theives. They use teaspoons for their soup and dinner forks for dessert. Utter blasphemy. In fact, there's been a movement to hyphenate the family name to Kensington- Leeds. You know, for the sake of disambiguation."

I laughed so hard at that one I almost snorted, which made me laugh even more.

He kept going in his Schhermerhorn voice. "I've heard that's why Julia Louis- Dreyfus hyphenated. Those other Dreyfuses were terrible. Same with Wal-mart. Those other Marts? Forget about it. Disambiguation is very important."

Everytime I tried to respond, my words were broken up with giggles. Them Tom and I rounded the corner toward my apartment. He stopped in front of my building. I stopped too.

The laughter died in my throat when I saw the way he looked at me. He was going to kiss me. Panic constricted my lungs.

I hadn't kissed anyone since you left. I hadn't wanted to kiss anyone since you left.

"I... " I started, but I didn't quite know where to go with that.

Tom must've seen the look on my face, though, and instead of kissing my lips, he leaned forward and kissed my forehead.

"Thanks for a really fun night," he said. " I hope we can do it again."

I nodded, and he smiled.

"I'll call you," he said.

I could breathe again. "I'd like that," I answered. Because I did have a fun night with him. And because it was better to spend time with him than to sit home, alone, or get trashed with Alexis.

And as he walked away, I realized I was disappointed that he was leaving. My world seemed a bit brighter while he shared it with me, and I liked it. A lot.

Then I turned to walk into my apartment and thought again about you.