The aftermath

I wasn't sure quite why I had done it. After looking at me as if I were from Pluto, Sharon turned around and walked off slowly, in a state of utter shock and disbelief. I hung my head, went back into the house, and fixed myself a bowl of chicken noodle soup.

The next few days I took long, sullen walks all over the city. 'Why?' I shouted silently to myself. 'Why? Why? Why?' I kicked my way past train tracks, through withered chicory and geriatric dandelion, amid tall stands of fertile ragweed. I could find no answers in my mind to explain what I'd done--just mental static.

By evening, I had given up all attempts at self-analysis. There's nothing that a little mobile technology won't cure, however. I dialed Terry's number.

'Terry, help me,' said I.

'Of course,' Terry said. 'What's the problem?'

I paused, considered for a moment some outrageous lie: I had gone to the zoo and been mauled by an escaped zebra; I had eaten shoes.

'Two days ago, I turned Sharon down for a date,' said I, 'and now I'm heading over to Samantha's, for the third time since Thursday, to "play."'

'Wow,' Terry laughed. 'You really are in deep.'

The one I always wanted

'What? Right now?'

'Yes,' Smiths said, 'and I just happened to be on my way out. See you later, Alfie.'

'Sure, see you later,' I said, abstractedly, suddenly beginning to perspire despite the chill morning air. I brushed a hand through my hair, put on a mask of suave assurance, and began rehearsing what I was going to say: 'Oh, this is just the moment I'd been waiting for all these years, Sharon; we were meant to be together; I'm yours!'; or 'Oh, darling, take me in your arms; I adore you; let's ride off into the sunset!'; or perhaps, 'I've been fantasizing about you, too. . .just let me put out my cigar, my dear, and let's go out on the town.'

I was still on the front porch, fretting back and forth, when Sharon finally came into view. She was wearing a rose-colored dress, tastefully cut, that rippled slowly in the cool autumn wind. Her auburn hair cascaded down her back like so much silk, teasing the skin of her supple shoulders. I could just imagine the many nights of warmth, companionship, and sensuality that lay beyond.

'Hello, Alfie,' she said as she drew near.

'Hello, Sharon,' I said slowly, as if not trusting my voice to speak.

'Alfie, I know you know why I'm here. I saw Smiths walk away as I came down the street.'

I stood looking directly into her deep, oaken irises. 'Yes. I know.'

'Smiths is out of my life, Alfie. I never liked him, though I said I did; it was always you I wanted. I'm a single woman, Alfie. . .and being here with you in this brisk morning air, I see the reason why. Will you. . .'

'No, Sharon,' I said. 'I won't.'

Breaking news

I eyed Smiths skeptically. He looked repentant, though. 'All right, sure,' I said. 'So why did you and Sharon break up?'

'Because I didn't like the brand of perfume she was wearing, and she wanted to continue wearing said perfume.'

'If you're going to play the jester, maybe you should just go home,' said I.

'All right, all right.' Smiths ran a hand through his scruffy hair. 'If you must know the truth, it was not exactly a mutual decision.'

'That's surprising.'

'Yes, it is.'

'--breakups generally being mutually negotiated decisions and all. . .'

'Will you be quiet?' Smiths said. 'Look, Alfie--Sharon broke up with me so that she could date you. The only reason she ever started dating me was to make you jealous; she never liked me at all! Is that what you wanted to hear, Alfie? Is that what you wanted to hear?'

I looked at my friend, regarding his exhausted and utterly desperate visage, and put a hand on his shoulder. 'I'm sorry for being so irresistible to women, Smiths. I feel great remorse for it. I would surely inhibit my inherent desirability if it were within my power to do so. (But it is not.)'

Smiths looked at me as if I were a peacock.

'So is there anything else I should know?' I said.

'Yes,' he said, letting out his breath. 'She sent me here to tell you all this. She's on her way over here right now.'

Smiths turns up

On a chilly morning in late August, Smiths showed up at my door.

'Smiths--hi,' said I.

'Hi, Alfie,' he said. 'Nice hair.'

'Yes, Smiths, I know it's sticking out in all directions,' said I. 'Of course, it always is at six o'clock in the morning.'

Smiths put on an apologetic puppy-dog face. Then, a different thought darkened his visage, and he said, 'Sharon and I broke up.'

I was silent for a moment.

'Well, Alfie?'

'Well, what?' I snapped. 'What do you want me to say?'

Smiths paused, furrowed his brow, unfurrowed it. 'That though I've been a bad friend, you forgive me. That you, like me, are a fallible human being, and so you understand.'

A pause.

'Well, I'm sorry,' I said. 'I can't forgive you.'

I waited for Smiths to either vociferate or walk away. Instead, he stayed, with a fixed expression. 'Would it change anything,' he said, 'if I told you why we broke up?'