Monday, October 21, 2002

We were leaving the car

We were leaving the car a few blocks from their apartment.  As we stepped into the brisk evening a sign beckoned to us both from across the street: ‘All Pies 1/2 Off.’ We knew these pies, had eaten them gleefully unnumbered times, had shared them with friends both local and visiting, all of whom joined us in our appreciation for their warmth and savory flakiness.  “Half off,’ she said as I hurried down the nocturnal sidewalk.  I hustled her along, we were late, hate to keep ‘em waiting, keep those heels clicking and the darkened doorways sliding past us.  ‘Maybe later,’ I muttered insincerely.  An hour or so later we were leaving, warmed by vintage beverages, toasted warmly within and without as the seabreeze blew back her hair and painted my glasses with tiny salted droplets.  We saw that the pie store was now closed, dark against the darkness.  ‘We missed the sale,’ she reflected thoughtfully.  I tried to justify our - my - actions, that it was better that we had moved on earlier, that we should have done exactly as we had.  It was superfluous, she needed no convincing.  ‘I’m not saying we made the wrong choice,’ she assured me.  ‘I’m just saying there was pie.’