He listened. Really listened. Whatever Lisl had to say, her insights, her opinions, all seemed important to him. A part of her was on edge, ready for the brush-off, waiting for him to smile, excuse himself, and move on after he'd learned what he wanted to know. But Rafe stayed by her side, asking more questions, drawing her out, freshening her wine when he replenished his own bourbon and water. He left her from time to time, but only briefly.

Although he was much too young for her—he was twenty-three, tops—Lisl found him stimulating. He exuded a maleness, almost like a scent, a pheromone. Whatever it was, she knew she was responding to it. This would never go anywhere, but it was exciting to be with him. He was making the party for her.

Throughout the evening she noticed inquisitive glances from other women as they passed in and out through the patio door. She could almost read their minds: What was the most interesting-looking man at the party doing with that frump who's got to be a good ten years his senior?

Good question.

Idly, she sorted through the pretzels in the bowl between them on the picnic table, and picked out one to eat.

"Do you always do that?" Rafe said. His gaze was flicking back and forth between the pretzel in her hand and her eyes.

"Do what?"

"Take the broken ones."

Lisl looked at the pretzel in her hand. Half a pretzel. A loop and a half. She vaguely remembered picking out broken ones all evening. She always picked out the broken ones.

"I guess I do. Is that significant?"

He smiled. A warm smile, showing off those white, even teeth.

"Could be. What matters is why."

"I guess I don't want to see them go to waste. Everybody grabs the whole ones and leaves the broken ones. They're like old maids. When the night's over they'll probably get thrown away. So those are the ones I take."

"In other words, you're existing on other people's leftovers."

"I wouldn't call it existing—"

"Neither would I." Rafe pulled an unbroken three-ring from the bowl and offered it to her. His voice was suddenly serious. "Never be satisfied with leftovers."

Intrigued and fascinated by his intensity, Lisl took the pretzel and laughed. A bit too shrilly, she thought.

"It's just a pretzel."

"No. It's a decision, a statement. A paradigm of life, and how one chooses to live it."

"I think you're reading too much into this." He was, after all, a psych grad. "Life is a little more complex than a bowl of pretzels."

"Of course it is. It's a bowl of choices. A series of choices you make from moment to moment from the time you are volitional until you die. Each choice you make mirrors what you are inside. They say where you've been, they tell where you're going."

His intensity was just a tiny bit intimidating, yet exciting, stirring something within her.

"Okay," she said, not wanting to argue yet unwilling to let him get off without a qualifier. "But pretzels?"

Rafe picked another whole three-ring from the bowl and took a savage bite out of it.

"Pretzels."

Laughing, Lisl took a big bite of her own.

Yes. One very intense young man.

Too soon the crowd began to thin. People were leaving so early. This had to be the shortest party Lisl had ever been to. She glanced at her watch and was shocked to see 1:06 on its face.

Impossible. She'd just got here. But a check with the mantel clock inside confirmed it.

"I guess I'd better be going," she told Rafe.

"I'm sorry for monopolizing all your time," he said.

Monopolizing her time—that was a laugh.

"Don't wqrry. You didn't."

"You haye a ride?" he said, his eyes holding hers.

"Yes." For an instant she wished she didn't. But as much as she wanted to continue their party-long conversation, driving off with him would look like she'd been picked up, and that would be all over the math department before she arrived Monday morning.

"Good," he said, "because I feel obligated to give Dr. Rogers a hand cleaning up."

"Of course."

Lisl had difficulty picturing Rafe Losmara, dressed all in white as he was, emptying ashtrays and rinsing glasses. But the fact that he was cheerfully willing to pitch in said something about him.

He walked her to the front door where he took her hand as if to shake it, but did not let go.

"This would have been a pretty dreary affair without you," he said.

Lisl smiled. Took the words right out of my mouth.

"You really think so?" she said.

"I know so. Can I call you sometime?"

"Sure." Sure you will.

"Great. Talk to you soon."

Right.

Lisl did not expect to hear from him again. Not that it would really matter, anyway. A nice evening. No, more than nice—the most interesting, stimulating evening she'd had in longer than she cared to compute. A shame it had to end, but that was that. Rafe, that fascinating grad student, had seemed genuinely interested in her. Her. And she'd held up her end of the conversation effortlessly. Such a good feeling. But it was over. Take it for what it was worth and go on from here. She was glad she'd decided to come. If nothing else, this evening had bolstered her resolution to become more socially active.

Party-hearty Lisl—that'll be me.

Back in her apartment, Lisl groaned with relief as she released herself from her slacks and readied for bed. She reached for the amber, safety-topped bottle of Restoril, then stopped. She didn't want a sleeping pill tonight. She preferred the idea of lying awake for a while and savoring memories of the evening.

The phone rang as she slipped under the covers.

"Hi. It's me," said a soft voice.

Lisl recognized it immediately. She wondered at the rush of warmth that surged through her.

"Hello, Rafe."

"I escaped Dr. Rogers's place and got home, but Fm'still kind of wired. Feel like talking?"

Yeah, she did. She felt like talking all night. Which they damn near did.

Before hanging up, he asked her if they could have lunch together tomorrow. Lisl hesitated—she was faculty, after all, and he was a grad student—but only for a second. She was feeling more alive tonight than she had in years, and now an opportunity to extend it was being offered to her. Why turn it down?

"Sure," she said. "As long as they don't have bowls of pretzels sitting around."

His laugh was music. "You're on!"

The man in the white shirt and pants hung up the phone and leaned back on the white sofa in the white living room of his condominium townhouse. He smiled and traced letters in the air. His fingertip left trails of depthless black as it moved: L… I… S… L.

"Contact," he said in a voice that was barely a whisper.

He rose and walked to his back door, glided down the pair of steps to his backyard, and stood barefoot in the moist grass. He smiled again as he gazed up at the wheeling constellations in the moonless sky. Then he spread his arms straight out, level with the ground, palms down.

Slowly, he began to rise.

Everett Sanders jerked upright in his bed and stared at the window.

He'd never been a good sleeper and tonight had been just like all the rest: a series of catnaps interspersed with periods of wakefulness. He'd been lying here with just a sheet covering him, tilting on the cusp of a doze, when he thought he saw a face appear at his window.

He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Nothing. The window was empty. Nothing there but the screen, nothing moving but the drapes swaying gracefully in the breeze.

Nothing there at all. But then, how could a face have been there? His apartment was on the third floor.

He lay back and wondered if it had been a dream or an hallucination. He'd hallucinated years ago. He didn't want to go through that again.