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To be published (Excerpt)  

I glanced at the framed five-by-seven photo of her on the shelf above my desk. Kelly's comment, I heard she's a fox, rang in my ears. Indeed. I'd taken the picture during our first weekend getaway upstate. There she stood, slouched against a porch post of our snow-covered cabin, her arms folded over a heavy blue and white Scandinavian sweater, her slim, jeans-covered legs crossed at the ankles. She was smirking into the camera, her brown hair mussed and her face flushed, as if we'd just dragged ourselves out of bed at three in the afternoon. Which, of course, was the case.

My memory wandered back to the famous Waldorf dinner where she and I first locked eyes. I'd been amazed at the contradiction: a husky, cigarette-and-whiskey rasp from the sensuous mouth of so delicate a pixie.

‘Where do you work?” she'd asked.

“I sell ad space for Bartleston's Monthly.” 

She stared at me. 

“You know, Bartleston's Marketing Monthly?”

“I know,” she said, squaring her shoulders, which had the effect of pushing her breasts forward. “So where do you live?” 

Struck by her beauty, I’d blurted my address. “Uh, Seventy-ninth and Third Avenue.” I did not add that it was a fifth floor walkup.

“Where'd you grow up?”

“Little village near Poughkeepsie, called “Salt Fork.”  

“Salt Fork?” She laughed. “Where's that?"

“About eighty miles upstate. Farming community.”

“What about college?”

“Um, I went to the Eastman School of Music for two years. I wanted to be a concert pianist.”

“Concert pianist? What're you doing at Bartleston's?”

"Decided to make a realistic living. Besides, I never graduated from Eastman."

“Why not?”

“Couldn't afford to. My father stopped bankrolling me. He took a dim view of his son being a pianist.” 

We were having a fast, rough interview and I felt behind the curve the whole way. My mouth had begun saying things on its own. “I played Bach, mostly. Still do. I might play a Bach Partita for you some time.”

“Not married I take it?”

I laughed and shook my head. I wasn’t going to get into that can of worms. 

She’d folded her arms, looking puzzled, as if considering an impulse buy. 

“How about you?” I said, turning the tables. “Where do you work?”

“Me? Why switch when we're having such fun with you? I have my own ad agency. Caroline Maule Advertising. I'm Caroline.”

“Impressive. Where do you live?”

“Carnegie Hill. Eighty-eighth and Madison.”

“Uh-huh. Where'd you grow up?” I felt idiotic, repeating her questions.

“Long Island. East end.”

I had a quick vision of Montauk, the Atlantic Ocean, and great white sharks. “How about college?”

“Barnard.” She sounded bored but tolerant. “And no, I don’t have time to think about marriage.” 

We got to talking, I relaxed enough to chat her up, and lo and behold, she wound up asking me to her place for a “cognac or a bourbon…or a scotch or whatever it is you drink.” We ducked out of the ABP Winter Awards Dinner and grabbed a cab uptown. I couldn't help wondering how I suddenly got so lucky. Was it my boyish reticence, a relief from the power-lunch suits she must be pitching to keep her small agency alive in the ad jungle? 

Once I got past her Jack Russell Terrier—the dog was hopping up and down on its stiff little legs, barking like a berserk wind-up toy before Caroline shut him in his wooden kennel—I poured a couple of strong whiskeys. We gulped them down, refreshed them, and gulped those down. We started kissing, and soon made our impatient way to her bedroom. Fortunately I had drunk just enough—but not too much— to sustain a marathon performance. 

Lying there afterwards, holding a lit cigarette, she whispered, “Where'd you learn to do that?”

“What?”

“Wait for me to catch up and send me into outer space, that's what.” She dragged on her cigarette and exhaled. “And I thought Ralph was good.”

“Ralph?”

“My boyfriend.”
 I swallowed hard. “You have a boyfriend?”

“Soon to be ex-boyfriend. “Things have been dragging with Ralph—he spends all his time in his gallery these days. No time for me. That happens to be why when I saw you across the table looking hunky in your rented tuxedo, I thought, yeah, I could be sold on that one.” 

“What do you mean, rented tuxedo?”

“Doesn't fit quite right in the shoulders.” She laughed. “But forget the tuxedo. You sold me.”

“I own the tuxedo,” I said. 

“I don't suppose I would admit that.”

“And I wasn't selling.”

She laughed again. “That's when selling works best.” She stubbed out her cigarette in the bedside ashtray, turned and pulled me to her. An hour or so later, lying there staring at me with heavy lids, she murmured, “You said you sell space for Bartleston's. Funny thing. I just cracked a new media account. Technical Week. No, you wouldn't have known, it hasn't been announced yet. The point is, if you're as nice as tonight, I might even run some ads with you.” She traced her finger across my chest. “If Tech Week isn't your account now, you'd better find a way to change that.”

But it was my account. I'd been striking out with Larry McCallister for three years. 

Since the night of the Waldorf dinner it had been lunches with Caroline, drinks, dinners, nooners, drinks, more nooners, more lunches, more dinners, her place, my place (she didn't mind the four flights up), any place, wherever and whenever. Not that it was a chore to bed Caroline. I'd fallen for her—fallen harder for her than for anyone I could remember. I wined and dined her and treated her as if she was my entire sales territory, all but forgetting my other accounts. And with our crazed sex life, I lost pounds—down to a hundred and sixty in four months. 

As I sat there in my cubicle, the memories fled. I glanced at the Kodak glossy of Caroline in her blue and white Scandinavian sweater—then at the pink message slip. Then I thought of her lunch today with Ralph. Why Ralph? Was she insatiable? Did she sense I was tapping out? That she'd just about used me up—time to move on? 

I stared at my gray cubicle walls and sighed. It wasn't just that I was physically drained. There was the mental wearing-down part with Caroline. Were my odd hallucinations symptoms of exhaustion? Were my body and soul running on fumes? Could this lead to insanity? Was it finally time to call him?

My hand went to my wallet. I fished out the card and stared at it. I pushed the button on my phone for an outside line and punched in the numbers. Three rings, click.

“This is Dr. Stein,” came a deep baritone.

I was shocked, expecting an answering service. “My name is Henry Taver, and I wondered…I have your card here from my internist. I thought if you had some time for an appointment, maybe next week?”

“Things are quite busy right now,” Dr. Stein said. “Wait a minute—I just had a cancellation tomorrow at three. Henry Taver is it? I'm at 60 East Ninety-second between Park and Madison, ground floor, Apartment C. I take cash or check. No insurance.”

“That'll be fine,” I mumbled, my heart pounding. I wrote down the address and hung up. I stared at the card. I'd done it. My breath was coming in short gasps. A shrink. You'd think I'd just scheduled major surgery.