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felt that nothing was lacking. And he would have her here now, and he would feel that nothing was lacking here either. The time they’d spent on the Cape hadn’t just been wonderful because his own life was so far away! His life couldn’t come between them here just because it found its recognizable form two miles from the location of the new life!
    But yes, it could. So he mustn’t go upstairs, he must go away, leave his old life behind, set out for the new life instead, right here, right now. Find a hotel. Camp out in Susan’s apartment among the painters’ ladders and their cans of paint. Arrange for someone to get all his things from his apartment and bring them to him. But the thought of a hotel room or Susan’s apartment made him anxious, and he felt homesick even though he hadn’t even left yet.
    If only he were still on the Cape with Susan! If only her apartment were ready and she were here! If only lightning would strike his building and it would go up in flames!
    He made a bet with himself. If someone went into the building in the next ten minutes, he would go in too; if no one did, then he’d take his suitcase and move to a hotel on the East Side. After fifteen minutes no one had entered the building, and he was still sitting on the steps. He tried it again. If in the next fifteen minutes an empty taxi drove down the street, he would take it and go to a hotel on the East Side, and if it didn’t, he would go up to his apartment. Barely a minute later an empty taxi came along, but he didn’t take it, nor did he go upstairs.
    He admitted to himself that he couldn’t cope on his own. He was also ready to admit it to Susan. He needed her help. She had to come to him and stay with him. She had to help him empty his old apartment and she had to settle into the new one with him. She could go to Los Angeles afterward. He called her. She was sitting in Boston in the lounge, but boarding had begun.
    “I’m about to get onto the flight to Los Angeles.”
    “I need you.”
    “I need you too. My darling, I miss you so much!”
    “No, I really need you. I can’t cope with my old life and our new life together. You have to come, and go to Los Angeles later. Please!” There was a crackle in the receiver. “Susan? Can you hear me?”
    “I’m on my way to the gate. Are you coming to Los Angeles?”
    “No, Susan, you need to come to New York, I beg you.”
    “I wish I could come, I wish I were with you.” He heard her being asked for her boarding pass. “Perhaps we can see each other next weekend, let’s talk about it on the phone, I have to board now, I’m the last one. I love you.”
    “Susan!”
    But she’d hung up, and when he called again, he was connected to her mailbox.
13
    It got dark. The neighbor came to sit with him. “Problems?”
    Richard nodded.
    “Women?”
    Richard laughed and nodded again.
    “Understand.” The neighbor stood up and left. Shortly afterward he came back, set a bottle of beer down next to Richard, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Drink!”
    Richard drank and watched the bustle on the street. The kids a few buildings along, smoking and drinking and blasting their music. The dealer in the shadow of the steps, silently handing out little folded pieces of paper and pocketing dollarbills. The lovers in the doorway of the building. The old man, the last one left, who hadn’t yet folded up his chair to carry it upstairs and got himself a can of beer out of his cooler from time to time. It was still warm; there was none of the sharpness in the air that can signal the nearness of fall on a late-summer evening; rather, it held the promise of a long, gentle end to the summer.
    Richard was tired. He still had the feeling that he must choose between his old life and the new one, that he had to have the right idea or the necessary courage and then he would stand up as if involuntarily and either go upstairs or drive away. But the feeling was tired, just as he was.
    Why should he