“Huh? Oh, now look—”

“Listen, I know what your idea of cooking is, David. Slap a steak in the broiler and open a beer.”

“I thought this was supposed to be my treat.”

“It is — pull in at that shopping center there. I’ll pick up the fixings and you’ll pay.”

He grinned at that and swung into the parking lot. Dusk was turning the sky yellow and the atmosphere gray.

As they wheeled the cart through the package-lined and fluorescent-lit aisles, he realized that something about the situation was making him feel uneasy. As he usually did in cases like this, he tried to pinpoint the cause of his unease. If he could isolate it, then perhaps he might understand it and be able to do something about it.

But whatever the cause of it was, it eluded him. Perhaps it was just a hangover from this morning’s malaise. Perhaps. But then again—

Annie was saying something.

“Huh? I didn’t hear you.”

“You mean you weren’t listening.”

“Same thing,” he said. “What were you saying?”

“I was asking, Do you eat all your meals in restaurants?”

“Um, most of them. I don’t do much cooking.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Too much fuss and bother, I guess.”

She reached for a package of noodles. “Beef Stroganoff all right?”

He made a face, and she replaced the package. “Have you ever had Stroganoff?”

“Uhuh.”

“Then how do you know you don’t like it?”

He shrugged. “I don’t like things with noodles, that’s all.”

“Spaghetti too?”

“Oh, spaghetti’s all right — but not tonight.”

“Not in the mood for it?”

He shrugged again. To tell the truth, he didn’t feel much in the mood for anything. “I’d rather have something lighter.”

“Steak?” she asked.

Another shrug. “Okay by me.”

“That’s what I thought,” she said. She took the cart from him and wheeled determinedly toward the meat counter. He trailed after. The feeling of unease was becoming a sense of pressure.

“I’ve got an idea,” she was saying. “Roast.”

He considered it. “Okay.”

She pored over the plastic-wrapped rednesses, thick and juicy. Layers of beef, cleaned and cut and sanitized into sterile-looking shapes. The juice that seeped around the edges was blood. He imagined a mouth of sharp needlepoint teeth tearing into the salty moist flesh. It was cold and raw.

Finally she selected one and turned the cart toward the vegetable counters. “You know,” she said, “it’s really a shame they don’t make boys take home economic courses. You wouldn’t know a good piece of meat unless you bit it, and by then it’s too late — you’ve already paid for it.” She selected a head of lettuce; it too was plastic wrapped. “Go pick out some salad dressing and croutons — or garbanzos.”

They moved through the store quickly, picking out some frozen vegetables — in plastic, naturally, boil them in the bag — and also a bottle of wine, a hearty burgundy. For dessert, vanilla ice cream.

“You know,” he whispered as they approached the checkout stand, “you don’t really have to go to all this trouble.”

“Yes I do,” she said.

“But I’d be just as happy with a restaurant.”

“But I wouldn’t. David,” she said, “did you ever stop to think that I might want to cook? How often do I get a chance to fuss over someone? Now please, shut up and let me enjoy it.”

He shut. He thought about it. Well, maybe she does enjoy cooking. Just because you don’t, doesn’t mean that everybody feels the same way. Maybe some girls like to play house—

Play house! Yes, that was it. She was playing house!

And I’m the surrogate husband, he realized with a start. The pressure swelled in his head.

Stop it he told himself. That’s the clinical way of looking at it. When you’re involved in the situation yourself, you can’t afford to be clinical.

Or was that wrong? When you’re involved in an emotional situation, maybe you can’t afford not to be clinical.

But that’s the whole problem, he realized. I’m still analyzing everything I do. Why can’t I just sit back and enjoy it?

Why?

The pressure settled itself into the back of his head. He could tell it was preparing to stay for a long time.

The cash register clattered and rang. He shoved the cart forward mechanically.

“Why the long face?” she asked.

“Huh?”

“You’re frowning.”

“No I’m not.”

“Want to bet?”

“I was just thinking, that’s all.”

“Well, it looked like a frown.”

“Um. Sorry.”

She shrugged it off. “What for? What were you thinking about?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Just about our different attitudes on things. You’re more of a homebody than I am.”

“It’s an occupational hazard. I’m a woman.”

“I’d noticed.”

“I certainly hope so.”

The clerk checked them out then, a steady pattering of packages and prices, punctuated by the electronic coughs of the register. “Nine forty-three,” she said.

David Auberson handed her a ten dollar bill; then, noticing there was no boxboy, he stepped down to the end of the stand and began putting the groceries into a bag. He was able to put them all into one sack and hefted it once to test its weight. He looked back to the clerk. “My change?”

“I gave it to your wife.” The clerk gestured at Annie.

“Oh, we’re not—” they both said at once and stopped. They looked at each other and laughed. “Come on,” grinned David. The clerk turned to the next customer.

As they exited into the neon-lit night, she said wistfully, “Mrs. Auberson…”

“Is that a hint?”

“Um, sort of. I was just wondering, if there were a Mrs. Auberson, what she would be like.”

“You’ll have to ask my mother that — she’s the only Mrs. Auberson I know.”

He swung the car out of the parking lot and onto the street.

Annie said, “I wasn’t thinking of your mother.”

“I know. I was sidestepping the issue.”

She laughed at that. But not too heartily.

Once inside the apartment, she tossed her coat on his couch and followed him into the kitchen. “Let me unpack them,” she said, referring to the groceries. “You fix the drinks.”

“Screwdriver okay?” he asked, pulling orange juice out of the refrigerator and ice out of the freezer.

“Fine,” she said. “Unless you know how to make a wallbanger.”

“I do, but I think I’m out of Galliano — no, here’s some.” He rummaged around in his liquor cabinet, pulled out two tall glasses and dropped ice cubes into them. A little vodka, then some orange juice—

“A little more vodka than that,” she hinted.

—a little more vodka, then a healthy jigger of the sweet yellow Galliano, a maraschino cherry in each, and a hasty stir.

He handed her the drink and she pecked him on the cheek. A moment later she pulled away from the resultant embrace. “Um, I have to finish putting the roast in the broiler.”

“Broiler? I thought you put a roast in the oven.”

“Boneless shoulder,” she explained. “Flat cut. You broil it. It’s quicker and it tastes as rich as steak.”

“Oh,” he said. He sipped at his drink, then sat down to watch her. He took another sip.

For a bit there was silence — only the tinkle of ice in their glasses, or the slide and scrape of the broiler pan in the oven as Annie adjusted the meat. She sampled her drink, then began shredding lettuce into a bowl.

He said, “I think I may be setting a record.”

“Oh? What kind?”

“We’ve been together for an hour or more now, and I haven’t mentioned HARLIE once.”

“You just did.”

“Yes, but that was only to tell you I hadn’t — and I’m not going to say anything more about him tonight.”

Expertly, she sliced a tomato into neat little chunks. “Okay, fine.”

He sipped his drink again. He found that he was enjoying this. There was a homey atmosphere about the scene, and he had a sense of — belonging(?). A sense of something — he couldn’t quite place it, but he felt more relaxed now.