He had a slight hangover and a secure future. He was on board.
It really wouldn't be so bad, he thought--to be on board. What the
hell, even a tie . . . The hostess led him to a sunny table. He ate a
large plate of blueberry pancakes with a side of bacon, feeling quite
the citizen, practically married, a man with responsibilities.
But--you don't know her. This wasn't true, he decided. He knew her
where it mattered--in her heart. Boisverte, he knew her maiden name.
What difference did it make, where she went to school or what her
brother was like? Didn't she say she had a brother? Conor would never
change. Why wouldn't she leave him? She would--when she was ready. He,
Oliver, would be there. The waitress swished away. Nice legs, he
registered. Too young, though. You can't have them all, he told himself
as she disappeared into the kitchen.
When he got home, he ironed a blue oxford-cloth shirt and a pair of
dress chinos. He washed the dishes and turned on the TV, mostly to
avoid the temptation to go to Deweys. The Patriots lost in the fourth
quarter.
The next morning Oliver was on the road in time to stop for a bagel. He
made an effort to keep crumbs off his shirt and tie.
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