The answer
was reassuring. "Yes," he said. He lifted his head and sipped tea.
"O.K.," he said.
2.
The sky was bright blue, the wind gusty out of the northwest. Oliver
squinted at the fresh snowbanks on his way to Becky's.
Sunglasses--should have worn sunglasses. He had oatmeal and a blueberry
muffin, drank coffee, and listened to the waitresses chatter about
their dates. Francesca did not come in, but her image remained vivid.
He waited, not so much for her as for something in his mood to change,
to see if it _would_ change. It didn't. He continued to feel slightly
excited, as though he had something to look forward to. Francesca had
met him in a central place. Was it a place that they made, sheltered
between them? Or was it a place inside each of them that was similar,
more accessible in each other's company? Wherever it was, Oliver knew
that he wanted to go there again.
He walked home, shoveled out his Jeep, started it, and scraped the
windows, thinking that he'd see what George was up to. He could have
walked, but there wasn't much cat food left. He'd shop, maybe take a
drive.
George had a loft in a warehouse at the foot of Danforth Street.
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