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a great, earthy sense of humor, bad breath, and teeth the color of old bruises. Her third date lived with seven cats. The rest blurred in her memory—for once she was grateful her memory was failing.
    Tonight’s date was the exception. Stan Elliot was a sixty-three-year-old widower, retired from a lifelong position as an accountant for the IRS. His two children lived in other states; one in California, one in Florida. He owned a handsome little condo near the Belmont Country Club, where he played golf three days a week with friends. He drank, ate, and exercised in moderation. He was not only solvent, he was, as he often told Shirley, so carefully and strategically well invested, he wouldn’t have to worry about money for the rest of his life. He had insurance policies in case he’d ever need assisted living or long-term medical assistance, and also for his burial service, so his children would never be responsible for him. He was lost in the kitchen, however, he’d confessed to Shirley on their first date. He missed having a woman around. He was healthy, and pleasant, and kind.
    And punctual. Shirley hurried out to her car and zipped off toward Boston. She was meeting him at a restaurant he’d chosen because it was almost exactly halfway between her home and his. She’d met him here for dinner before, and even though Shirley hadn’t felt that little
zing
of attraction, she did appreciate his obvious niceness.
    His rather
bland
obvious niceness. Stan wasn’t a handsome man, but he wasn’t ugly, either. He wasn’t brilliant, but neither was he stupid. He was kind, clean, inoffensive—perfect, if she wanted to date a Boy Scout.
    Still, it gave Shirley a little shiver of pleasure to enter the restaurant in her flirty new dress, to sense people looking her over, and to say, “I’m meeting Mr. Elliott.”
    “Of course. Please follow me.” The maître d’ threaded his way through the tables. Shirley followed, feeling just a little bit
onstage,
and quite a bit pleased with herself because the person waiting for her was, for all the room to see, a man. A respectably dressed, very pleasant man. She felt
chosen.
    Stan rose when she arrived at the table. Leaning forward, he kissed her cheek. “Hello, Shirley.”
    “Hello, Stan.” She sank into the terribly comfortable chair and allowed the waiter to slide her toward the table.
    “Notice anything?” He cocked his head playfully.
    Shirley inspected him. His head was bare except for the toilet-seat-fringe of white hair around his balding pate. He hadn’t had a haircut. She thought his metal-framed glasses were the same. Oh! “You wore a purple tie!”
    He nodded, smiling. “Had to buy it. Didn’t have one.”
    He did it because she’d said purple was her favorite color. That was just
sweet.
“Well, it looks wonderful on you, Stan. Really becoming.”
    “Not too gaudy?”
    “Not at all.”
    The waiter interrupted their fashion analysis, took their order, and went off.
    “How has your week been?” Stan asked.
    “Okay.” Shirley sipped some of her sparkling soda. “Actually,” she continued, “it’s been rather annoying. I’m a creative kind of person, a hands-on person. Remember, I told you, I used to be a massage therapist, and I like that personal contact, but now that The Haven’s up and running, I spend an enormous amount of time reading boring forms and sitting in on committee meetings.”
    “Perhaps you should retire,” Stan suggested.
    Shirley shook her head. “Oh, no. I’m not ready for retirement.”
    “You might like it. I do. This week for example, I improved my golf game by two strokes.” He paused, expectantly.
    “Really?” Shirley tried to appear sufficiently admiring.
    “Really. As one grows more mature, the quality of flexibility is not as present as it was during younger years, which means that one’s swing is thrown off, necessitating a relocation of the wrist hinge. Also, the club rests on the fingers rather than the palm of