Read The First Warm Evening of the Year for Free Online Page A

to Shady Grove.
    She said, “No. I mean tonight. All night. You’ve been somewhere else.” I said I wasn’t aware of my mind being on anything other than her and she told me, “Just know that it’s showing.” She took a short swallow of beer, leaned forward, and grinned at me.
    â€œDo you remember the first time you heard the word dysfunctional ?”
    I didn’t.
    â€œThe first time I heard it was back in the eighties, when I was a summer intern over at Doubleday. I was reading a submission, one of those memoirs that people were writing back then. The writer referred to her mother, who was horrid , by the way, as ‘dysfunctional,’ and that word’s always had a very negative connotation for me ever since. But sometimes it’s not so bad.” She refilled her glass. “I’d say we have a dysfunctional relationship, and it’s worked out well for both of us.”
    â€œDysfunctional.”
    â€œYou sit here with your mind somewhere else, maybe you’re thinking about your work, maybe you’re thinking about how bored you are and would rather be somewhere else. Who knows? Most women would be offended, hurt even, but I’m not. I don’t take it personally. If you wanted to tell me what you’re thinking, you’d tell me. And if it were reversed, you’d just let me have my moment, and we’d go on from there.”
    â€œThat’s how we like it,” I said.
    â€œIt’s how we like it.” Rita wasn’t speaking much louder than a whisper, but she must have thought she was, because she lowered her voice even more and leaned closer to me. “I’d say that’s pretty dysfunctional, at least compared to what most people want.”
    â€œI didn’t realize you’d given it this much thought.”
    â€œNot that much, actually. It just came to me.”
    I t was about four in the morning. We were in bed, in Rita’s apartment. Rita was asleep, one bare leg stretched outside the covers, her breath warm on my face. I enjoyed looking at her tall, lean body, all graceful angles, always so responsive. We’d never gone through that period of adjustment that begins most relationships. We never commented on it, either. We simply enjoyed each other, and took that for granted from the start, much the way we took for granted our being together; never any spasms of doubt and worry if the phone didn’t answer, or if a week went by and we hadn’t seen each other or spoken—I was pretty sure that Rita went out with other men from time to time. I occasionally went out with other women, although neither of us was stupid or reckless enough to be promiscuous.
    Rita turned in her sleep. I could smell the night on her skin. I let my lips touch the texture of her hair. The covers slipped away. I could see her body exposed in shades of black and white. The bend of her arm, the tilt of her neck. I thought how everything about her was lean and spare. Her apartment, her life. And I liked that. I liked Rita, liked being with her. Yet, if I woke in the morning and she’d already gone to work, it wouldn’t have bothered me that she’d left without saying good-bye. If I didn’t wake up in time to see her leave, Rita wouldn’t have been at all bothered by that, either. If, right then, I’d decided to get dressed and go back to my apartment, Rita might be surprised that I wasn’t there when she woke up, but she wouldn’t have been troubled by it. It was being unattached to each other that kept us together.
    I’d thought about this before, but not in a long time. I wouldn’t have that night if Rita hadn’t mentioned it. But as I lay there I realized that I wanted to miss Rita when I left in the morning and I knew I wouldn’t. I wanted her to miss me. I wanted my happiness to balance and be balanced by the happiness of a woman I loved.

Five
    T he following day, a small package