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was growing more and more shaky.
    I looked up. With relief, I saw the convenience store, shaded by a windbreak of willows and cottonwoods. A few commuters were in the lot, topping up their cars’ tanks or idling over cold soft drinks. They watched as I approached. I strode to a group in the shade and addressed them.
    “Do any of you know a good mechanic?”
    “There’s a fella inside,” one of them answered, gesturing toward the building with his Seven-Up. “I take it you’re broke down.”
    “I am.”
    “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”
    A short time later I was making a business arrangement with a young man whose not-quite-clean fingernails proclaimed his profession. I had tried the pay phone but it was out of order, and the clerk inside apologetically told me she wasn’t allowed to let customers use the business phone. An hour and a half and a new fan belt later, I resumed my trip to Blair’s.
    I tapped on his door for more than five minutes when the door behind me opened.
    “Cassie?” It was Cheri, Don’s wife. I turned to her with relief, but when I took in her strained, almost frightened expression, I was filled with dismay. “Blair’s not home,” she told me. “He left about an hour ago, slamming the door and talking to himself. He left some of his tire tread on the street when he peeled out.”
    “Talking to himself? Could you hear what he was saying?”
    She looked pained. “Something about how he wasn’t going to put up with it anymore.” Her eyes wandered over me, taking in the dried sweat on my face and the dust on my jeans legs and shoes. “Your car broke down, didn’t it?”
    “Yes.” I was grateful that she understood. “I had a long walk and the phone was out when I reached it. I got here as soon as I could.”
    “He ought to understand that,” Cheri agreed. “He’s pretty mad right now, though.”
    “There’s no telling how long he’ll stay that way. I guess our date’s been cancelled.”
    I rummaged in my purse until I found a piece of paper and a pen. I scribbled a note of apology with a promise to call later, squatted, and slid the note under Blair’s door. Standing up, I wished Cheri goodnight and told her I would probably see her later.
    “I’m sure this will blow over, Cassie,” she reassured me. “Have a good weekend.”
    After I got home and changed, I fixed an omelette and turned on the radio. The rock oldies station was starting a weekend marathon of hits from my high school days and I reflected that I could have picked a worse weekend to quarrel with my boyfriend. At least I’d have decent music to listen to as I waited between attempts to phone Blair.
    That’s exactly what I did, that evening and the next. When I wasn’t holding the receiver, listening to it ring on his end, I puttered about in my small house, tidying and cleaning. I realized that Blair was punishing me by making himself unavailable, but when he didn’t turn up at church Sunday morning, I began to worry.
    “Where’s Blair?” several people asked me after the service. I had to admit that I did not know.
    When the service was over, I headed for Blair’s apartment, praying he was all right.
    His car was not there. I ascended the stairs with dread. Had he wrecked his car after he left Friday night, fuming at my tardiness? The thought of him lying in a hospital bed, with no one aware of his plight, upset me. Even if he was behaving childishly he didn’t deserve that.
    When Blair didn’t answer my knocks, I turned to Don and Cheri’s. I heard footsteps, then Don opened the door.
    “Don, has Blair been home at all this weekend?”
    “Yes, Cassie,” he said, nodding, “and he left for church a little while ago.”
    I started to protest that he had never arrived there, then stopped. He must have decided to attend services at a different church in order to avoid seeing me.
    I returned to my car and drove home. I wasn’t going to leave Blair any more messages, either written or verbal.