Page 131 of The Last Good Man

“With whom?”

“The last man…?” I murmur.

“Who is the last man? Sorry for having a hard time keeping track of them.”

It’s not a joke, and I don’t take offense.

“The one I spent the night with last Saturday. He came onto me strong. Too strong, I have to say. And I pulled back. I thought he was fucking with me, using big words to mess with my head… I don’t know. It sounded like that.”

“Was he messing with you?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t stop thinking abouthim. At the same time, it’s possible that what he said was only words.”

“What did he say?” she murmurs, concerned.

Uncrossing her arms, she slides back into her seat.

“We talked about serious things. Life…” I say, gesturing, wishing to have a cigarette between my fingers and feel the smoke in my nostrils. “He’s the one who asked me to give him a chance.”

The memory of our last conversation brings a change of expression on her face.

“Oh, the outsider, if I remember correctly.”

She scoops up her notepad and flips the pages over.

“Yes, that’s him,” I say. "It’s not only a matter of money. There are other things that don’t make us a good match—things I’d rather not get into.”

She places the notepad down and gives me her full attention.

“You feel trapped.”

“I’m not trapped. It’s impossible. Whathewants is impossible.”

“It no longer feels that impossible a week later,” she points out.

“It’s not about that.Hevanished like all the others, andheprobably said whathesaid to get in my pants.”

“You said––“

“Yes. That’s the other thing. I didn’t want to goall the waywith him because something inside me told me he was important. And then… I tried to convince myself his words bore no meaning, but that stubborn voiceinside my headkept telling me they were real. See how confusing this is?”

“I sure can. You’re in a fight with yourself. Your values are at odds with your instincts. It’s usually confusing as hell.”

A few moments pass.

“Well… If your instinct is right, he’ll be back,” she says.

I’m waiting.

“And if your beliefs are right…You know the rest. I think I need some tea,”shesays, pushing toherfeet and making a beeline for the other room.

MELODY

The water runs in the next room before she puts the kettle on. Aretha lived in London for a few years, and unlike me, she’s a stickler for tradition when it comes to making tea.

Soon after, her phone rings.

She takes the call, but her voice moves away, which makes me think she needs some privacy and is headed to the hallway.

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