A puzzle. But not an important one.

Jeremy folded the card into an airplane, sailed it into the wastebasket. Followed up with a toss of article. The envelope, too, fiscal responsibility be damned.

Two paragraphs of chapter outline stared up at him from his desk.

Time to put aside silly stuff. Confront his creative inadequacies.

It was 10 p.m. and they were in Angela’s bed, naked in the dark, wide-awake.

They’d been together nearly three hours. Angela had phoned just as Jeremy was preparing to leave the hospital. She said, “Good, I got you.” Her voice was faint.

“Everything okay?” he said.

“Sure,” she said. “No, I’m lying. Can we get together, maybe a quick dinner, then just hang out at my place?”

“Sounds like a plan. Any dinner in particular?”

“How about that Italian place over on Hampshire- Sarno’s? It’s close and I need to move my legs.”

“Sarno’s it is. On me.”

“No, it’s my turn to pay.”

“You get no turn. You’re a starving resident, deserve a free meal.”

She laughed. Nicest sound he’d heard all day.

They met at the hospital entrance and walked, arm in arm, to the restaurant. Angela wore a long, navy blue coat. Her dark hair streamed over the faux-fur collar. She looked waifish, young, worn, and stared at her feet, as if needing to orient herself. The rain was light, dissipating from their clothes almost instantly.

Jeremy put his arm around her shoulder, and her head dropped. He kissed her hair. If she’d put on makeup, it had faded long ago. The shampoo she’d used that morning was tinctured with operating room antisepsis.

Within seconds, she was leaning against him. Heavy, for a woman so thin. They moved slowly and awkwardly through the three dark blocks to the restaurant.

When Sarno’s neon sign- the tricolor boot of Italy- came into view, Angela said, “Jeremy, I’m so tired.”

She got down a third of a plate of pasta carbonara and half a glass of iced tea. Jeremy was back to his feeble appetite; last night’s gluttony seemed distant, an aberration. He picked at his ravioli, managed to finish a glass of coarse Chianti.

They bickered playfully over the check and Angela finally allowed him to pay. Her beeper went off, and she phoned in. She returned to the table smiling. “That was Marty Bluestone- another R-II. Tomorrow night’s his anniversary, and he wants to take his wife out. So he offered to finish my shift tonight. I’m free till tomorrow.”

Beneath her blue coat, she wore resident’s casuals- sweater and jeans and tennis shoes. Relieved of the garment and her stethoscope, she looked like a college kid.

“On the phone you said everything wasn’t okay.”

“I was just being a baby,” she said. “It was right after I got off shift.”

“Tough day, huh?”

“One of those. Couple of problem bleeds, a few other bad surprises.” She gave her pasta another go, gave up.

“This morning, I watched Dr. MacIntyre crack the chest of a woman who’d never smoked. Her right lung was black as coal. It looked like barbecue ash. The left one’s not much better. I didn’t have to be there, but I’d done the intake and liked her. And I wanted to see what really happens to my patients. Jeremy, she’s a really sweet, kind woman, used to be a nun, served the poor. Now she’s got nothing but agony to look forward to.”

“Poor thing.”

“She came in thinking she had bronchitis, or maybe a cold gone chronic. I did the old blow-the-ball test, and her lung capacity was the lowest I’ve ever seen, it’s amazing she could stand on her feet. I sent her straight to X-ray. I started with her, so I ended up with her. It was the attending’s job to give her the diagnosis, but he punted to me- too busy. I sat down with her, told her she needed to be opened up and why. She didn’t even blink. Just said, ‘Thank you, Doctor, for letting me know so kindly.’ ”

“You must’ve done a good job.”

Angela’s eyes watered. She wiped them, reached for Jeremy’s Chianti. “May I?”

“I’ll order you a glass.”

“No, let’s share.” She sipped, held the glass out. They linked arms and Jeremy drank. He’d seen that at a wedding- an ethnic affair- maybe a Jewish wedding. Bride and groom entwined. Heady symbolism.

He said, “Not a smoker. Any secondhand smoke?”

“Her father,” said Angela. “He’s old, sick with diabetes, she’s been taking care of him for twenty years in a two-room apartment. He chain-smokes and it circulates and she breathes it in. He had a chest scan last year. His sugar’s 320 and his circulation’s shot, but his lungs are as clear as bells.”

“Sins of the fathers,” said Jeremy, without thinking.

“Guess so.” Her voice was low and defeated. She played with her fork.

Jeremy wondered if he’d come across glib. He said, “You’ve earned some relaxation. I’d be happy to provide aid and comfort.”

“Sounds good- let’s go.”

She’d taken the bus to the hospital, so Jeremy drove her home. During the ride, she kept her hand on his thigh. Once, at a red light, she leaned over and kissed him deeply, and he heard her purr.

When they got to her place, the routine commenced: She seated him on the ratty couch and disappeared into the bathroom to change into her green robe. The struggling houseplant on her windowsill was gone. The apartment was no less shabby for its absence.

The bathroom door opened, and Angela glided over, the robe firmly cinched. She sidled onto the couch, lay with her head in his lap. He touched her chin, stroked her hair.

She said, “Let’s get into bed.”

Her bedroom was chilly. When they drew the covers up around their necks, she said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t want to do it, tonight. I just want to be held.”

“The wrong way?”

“As if I’ve been leading you on.”

“You haven’t.”

“Okay.”

They lay on their backs, holding hands.

Angela said, “You’re sure?”

“I’m positive.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you. I do. Physically, I do. I just- mentally, it wouldn’t work. Okay?”

“No need to explain.” Jeremy brought her hand to his lips.

She snuggled close and slid down so that her head rested in his lap. Jeremy heard her let out a low, contented breath. For some crazy reason, the sound evoked Judge Tina Balleron’s murmuring voice.

An old woman but still… alluring. No, not her, specifically. Women. The sounds they made. The wonderful things they did. Jeremy preferred women to men. Always had. A certain type of woman especially: smart, bookish, tending toward reticence. Vulnerable.

Jocelyn had been none of that, and yet…

He bent low, cradled Angela’s head, kissed her brow.

She shifted position, reached down. “You’re interested.”

“Physically, only.”

“Bull.”

“I’m offended that you would think me so crass.”

She laughed and moved back to eye level. They began kissing, stayed with it for a long time. No groping, no tongue duels, just whispery grazes of lip upon lip.

Angela said, “Oh, boy.”

“What?”

“Just oh, boy. You make me happy.”

“I’m glad.”

“Do I make you happy?”

“Sure.”

“Are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you happy? It’s hard to tell; you don’t say much,” she said. “In general, I like that. My dad and my brother are talky guys. Great guys but overpoweringly verbal. Whenever my brother was home from college, I was relegated to bystander.”

“What about your mother?”

“She just leaves the room. Being a doctor, she can be as busy as she’d like.”

“The convenient patient call,” said Jeremy.

“You know of such things, huh? So tell me, why are you reluctant to talk about yourself?”

“It’s a boring story.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Jeremy didn’t answer. Angela’s windows were covered by cheap shades. Moonlight transformed them to oversize sheets of parchment. Somewhere out on the street, a radio was playing. Scratchy rock music. A too-strong bass.