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liars.” I clapped my hands. “But enough about little old me! Let’s turn our attention to the alluring Dr. Paul Salisbury, his life and career, and, most important, when he’s due back at his hospital.”
    Doctor Paul set his empty plate on the sofa cushion next to him, rested his elbows on his knees, and leaned forward. His eyes took on that darker shade again, or maybe it was the sudden rush of blood to my head, distorting my vision. “Midnight.”
    I lost my breath.
    â€œI’m supposed to be sleeping right now. I was supposed to return to the hospital from the post office, change clothes, and go back to my apartment to sleep.”
    â€œWhere’s your apartment?”
    â€œUpper East Side.”
    â€œMy condolences.”
    â€œThanks. I should have found a place closer to the hospital.”
    I looked at the clock. “You’ve lost hours already.”
    â€œI wouldn’t say that.”
    I untangled my legs and rose to fetch the tomato soup. “I hope you don’t mind the mug. We don’t seem to have any bowls yet.”
    â€œWhatever you have is fine.” He took the mug with a smile of thanks. Oh, the smile of him, as wide and trusting as if the world were empty of sin. “Wonderful, in fact. Sit here.” He whisked away the plate and patted the sofa cushion next to him.
    I settled deep. I was a tall girl—an unlucky soul or two might have said
coltish
in my impulsive adolescence—and I liked the unfamiliar way his thigh dwarfed mine. The size of his knee. I studied those knees, caught the movement of his elbow as he spooned tomato soup into his mouth. The patient clinks of metal against ceramic said it all: anticipation, discovery, certainty.
The real deal
, something whispered in my head.
    When he had put himself on the outside of his tomato soup, Doctor Paul cupped the empty mug in his palms. “What would you like to do now, Vivian?”
    â€œI was hoping you’d say that. Did you have anything particular in mind, Doctor, dear?”
    â€œI was asking
you
.”
    â€œWell, Mother said I shouldn’t go to bed with you right away. It would scare you off.”
    I couldn’t see for certain, but I’ll bet my best lipstick he blushed. If I closed my eyes, I could feel the warmth on my nearby cheek.
    â€œAunt Julie concurred,” I added. “At first, anyway. Until she got a good look at you.”
    â€œI’m not saying they’re right,” he said carefully, “but there’s no rush, is there?”
    â€œYou tell me.”
    â€œNo. There’s no rush.”
    We sat there, side by side, legs not quite touching. Doctor Paul rotated the mug in his hands, his competent surgeon’s hands. They lookedolder and wiser than the rest of him. He kept his nails trimmed short, his cuticles tidy. The tiny crescents at the base were extraordinarily white.
    He cleared his throat. “Of course, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m not tempted. Just to be clear. Extremely tempted.”
    â€œMind over matter?”
    â€œExactly.”
    â€œI’d hate to lead you astray from the well-worn path of virtue.”
    He cleared his throat again. Blushed again, too, the love. If he kept giving off that kind of thermodynamic spondulics, I was going to have to change into something less comfortable. “Yes, of course,” he mumbled.
    I lifted my eyes, and the table appeared before me, and my great-aunt Violet’s suitcase atop it. Aunt Violet, who ran away with her lover into the Berlin summer. Had they made it to Switzerland together? She would be in her seventies now, if she were still alive. If she had succeeded.
    Doctor Paul rose from the sofa in a sudden heave of dilapidated upholstery. His hand stretched toward me, palm upward, open and strong. “Let’s go somewhere, Vivian.”
    â€œWhat about your sleep?”
    â€œI’ll catch up eventually. This is more