And she did enjoy it. Ernest Mittle was well-mannered, solicitous of her wants: "More bread? Butter? Ready for another wine? Dessert? No? Then surely espresso and a brandy? Fine!"

She had an uneasy feeling that he could ill afford this splendid meal, but he seemed delighted to be dining with her. When their brandies were served, she murmured something about paying her share, but he grandly waved the suggestion away and assured her that it was his pleasure. He sounded sincere.

During dinner, their early conversation had been about their childhood in Winona and Trempealeau: the hayrides and sleighrides, skating on the river, hunting and the taste of fried squirrel, illicit applejack, and days so cold that schools were closed and no one dared venture forth from home.

They spoke of college days (he had attended the University of Wisconsin at Madison). He had visited Minneapolis, both had been to Chicago. Once he had gone to New Orleans for the Mardi Gras, and once she had been as far west as Denver. They agreed that one day they would journey to Europe, the West Indies, and perhaps Japan.

She learned more about him:

He was thirty-five, almost two years younger than she. He had never been married, or even engaged. He lived alone in a small studio apartment in the Gramercy Park area. He had a small circle of friends and acquaintances, mostly business associates.

He entertained rarely, went to the movies, theater, and ballet infrequently. He was taking courses at the New School in computer technology. His current job with Harold Kurnitz's company was in a small section called Inventory Control, and he hoped some day to persuade Mr. Kurnitz to computerize the entire operation.

All this came pouring forth with little prompting from Zoe. Ernest Mittle seemed happy to talk about himself, and it suddenly occurred to her that he might very well be as lonely as she.

When they came out of the restaurant a little before 8:00 p.m., the sky was blotchy. A moldy wind gusted off the East River, and the air smelled rawly of snow.

"We'll get a cab," Ernest Mittle said, pulling on his clumsy gloves.

"Oh, that's not necessary," she said. "I can get a bus right across the street."

"Where do you live, Zoe?"

She hesitated a moment, then: "East Thirty-ninth Street. Near Lexington."

"But you'll have to walk from the bus stop. Alone. I don't like that. Look, it's only about ten short blocks. Why don't we walk? It's still early, and there are a lot of people around."

"You don't have to do that. I'll just get on-"

"Come on," he said exuberantly, taking her arm. "In Minnesota and Wisconsin, this is a nice spring evening!"

So they set off, walking briskly southward. He adjusted his stride to her, assisted her up and down curbs, led her carefully around dog droppings and sidewalk obstructions, including a man slumped in a doorway, his legs extended. He was drinking from a bottle in a brown paper bag.

"That used to upset me," Ernest said. "When I first came to New York. But you get so you hardly notice it."

Zoe nodded. "Once I saw a well-dressed man lying on the sidewalk on Fifth Avenue. People were just walking around him."

"Was he drunk or dead or what?"

"I don't know," she confessed. "I just walked around him, too. That happened almost eight years ago, and it still bothers me. I should have done something or tried to do something."

"You know what New Yorkers say: 'Don't get involved.' "

"I know," she said. "Still…"

"Zoe, I've been babbling about myself all evening, but you've hardly said a word about yourself. Do you work?"

"Oh yes. In the Security Section of the Hotel Granger."

"That sounds interesting," he said politely.

"Not really," she said, and then perhaps it was the wine and brandy, but she began speaking of herself, she who was usually so secret.

She told him she had been married for three years, and was divorced. She told him she now lived alone, and the moment she heard her own words, regretted them. A divorced woman living alone; she knew how men reacted to that.

She told him that she lived a very quiet life, read a lot, watched TV. She admitted that New York frightened her at times. It was so big, so dirty and noisy, so uncaring. But she had no desire to return to the Midwest, ever.

"I know what you mean," he said. "It's everything bad you can think of, but it's-it's exciting. And fascinating. Things are always happening. Unexpected things. Nothing unexpected happens much in Trempealeau."

"Or Winona," she said. "It's a kind of love-hate relationship. With New York, I mean."

"Love-hate," he said wonderingly. "Yes, that's very true."

They turned onto her block, and she began to worry. It had been a pleasant evening, better than she had expected-but what now? Would he demand a good-night kiss? Would he insist on seeing her to her apartment door? Would he suddenly turn ugly and importunate?

But when she halted outside the lobby entrance, he stopped too, drew off a glove, and proffered a white hand.

"Thank you, Zoe," he said smiling. "It's been a fine evening. I really enjoyed it."

"Thank you," she said, surprised and shaking his soft hand. "The dinner was wonderful."

"Can we do it again?" he asked anxiously. "Can I call you?"

"Of course," she said. "I'd like that. I'm in the book."

"I'll call," he vowed, and she hoped he meant it.

She stopped to get her mail, including, thankfully, her alimony check. At the elevator, she turned to look back to the sidewalk. Ernest Mittle was still standing there. He waved. She waved back, but didn't feel safe until she was upstairs, inside her own apartment, the door locked, bolted, and chained.

She turned on all the lights and walked cautiously through the rooms, peering into closets and under the bed.

She made certain the Venetian blinds were tightly closed. She was convinced there was a man across the street who stood in a darkened room with binoculars, watching her windows. She had never actually seen him, but his shades were always up and occasionally she had glimpsed flashes of white and moving shadows.

She went directly to her medicine supply in the kitchen, and swallowed a vitamin C pill, a B-complex capsule, and a magnesium tablet. Her premenstrual cramps had become increasingly severe, and she wanted to take a Darvon. But in view of what lay ahead, she settled for a Midol and two Anacin.

Dr. Stark could not understand her monthly cramps. She was on the Pill, and that usually eliminated or alleviated the symptoms. A complete examination had revealed no physiological cause, and Stark had suggested that the cramps might have a psychological origin.

He had offered to recommend a counselor, psychologist, or psychiatrist. Zoe had indignantly rejected his advice.

"There's nothing wrong with me," she said hotly.

"Something is wrong," he replied, "if what should be a normal, natural, healthy function causes you so much pain."

"I've had bad cramps all my life," she told him. "Ever since I began to bleed."

He looked at her queerly.

"It's your decision," he said.

She started the tub, then returned to the bedroom to undress. When she was naked, she palpated her breasts tenderly. That morning they had been soft, saggy. Now they seemed enlarged, harder, the nipples semi-erect. But at least she felt no sensation of bloat and could see no indication that her ankles had swollen.

She poured perfumed oil into the tub and eased into water as hot as she could endure. She lay motionless, melted, the back of her neck on the tub rim. She closed her eyes and soaked blissfully. The cramps seemed to diminish.

After a while she roused, and began to lather herself with scented soap that she bought from a Madison Avenue apothecary. It cost $2.75 a cake, and smelled subtly of frangipani. She cleansed herself thoroughly, her ears, vulva, rectum, and between her toes.