The work I did had been a factor in the breakup with Robin. Would we still be together if I’d settled for skydiving?

As I framed my answer, Allison said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I’m just guessing that you crave more than novelty. I think you really do like making things right.”

I didn’t answer.

“Then again,” she said, “who am I to utter pronouncements without a solid database? Being a behavioral scientist and all that.”

She shifted her bottom, tugged her hair, drank wine. I tried to smile away her discomfiture but couldn’t catch her eye. When she put her glass down, her hand landed closer to mine. Just a few millimeters between our fingers.

Then, the gap closed- both of us moving in concert. Touching.

Pretending it was accidental and retracting our hands.

The heat of skin against skin.

The blue shirt with which I’d replaced the sweat-ruined yellow one was growing sodden.

Allison began fooling with her hair. I stared into what remained of my Scotch. Breathing in the alcohol. I hadn’t eaten much all day, and booze on an empty stomach should’ve set off at least a small buzz.

Nothing.

Too damned alert.

How was this going?

For the rest of the evening, we let loose a few more cautious bits of autobiography, ate well, drank too much, walked off the meal with a slow stroll up Wilshire. Side by side, but no contact. Her big heels clacked, and her hair flapped. Her hips rolled- not a vamp, just the way she moved, and that made it sexy. Men looked at her. Halfway through the first block, her hand slipped around my biceps. Breeze from the ocean misted the streets. My eyes ached with uncertainty.

Conversation fizzled and we covered the next few blocks in silence, pretending to window-shop. Back at our cars, Allison gave me a tentative kiss on the lips. Before I knew it, she’d gotten into her ten-year-old Jaguar and was roaring off.