The Geographer's Library

Jon Fasman
“If you are, you should stop by.”
“Okay.” The promise was maybe 70 percent hollow, but well intentioned,
if that counts for anything. It probably doesn’t.
“I’ll be at my desk right next to that window for the next five months.
Come throw pebbles or something.” She leaned over and kissed me on the
cheek. “Great to see you, Paul. Sorry about the ‘rotten boyfriend’ comment.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. But I’m trying to get better.”
“I know. You always did. It’s a charming quality of yours. Don’t let it go to
your head.”
“Nice to see you, too, Mee. Good luck with the Germans.” She gave a
mock–Hitler salute, giggled, and went inside. It was an ideal conversation
with an ex: flirtatious enough to produce residual little flutters, but noncommittal
enough to avoid trouble; long enough to end with an ellipsis, but not
so long that either of us got any ideas; glib, but with a warm and serious turn
at the end, but not so serious that either of us brought out the knives. I was
feeling ticklish; she tickled, and I went home almost missing her.
When I returned to my car, I saw that someone had taped a cloth Portuguese
flag to my antenna. On the red half, I wrote “Thank you” and slipped
it through the mail slot of the Portuguese Men’s Club.
this time i parked directly in front of Hannah’s house, figuring that
Mrs. DeSouza would want to see me less than I wanted to see her. I let a wave
of guilt wash over me, decided that what’s past repair should be past grief,
and continued feeling guilty as only a Jewish-Catholic-Calvinist can. I was
owed an apology as much as I owed one, I said to myself as I semislunk
around to Hannah’s entrance.
Through Hannah’s front window, I saw her seated at the piano bench but
facing the couch, her hands in her lap and her head slightly inclined forward,
as if she were listening to someone with a quiet voice. Her generally placid,
content expression had risen and sharpened into an almost beatific eagerness—her
gray eyes crinkled at the edges and visibly aglow and her mouth
slightly open, caught in early laughter—as though she wanted her interlocutor
to see how much, how deeply she enjoyed and believed what she or he
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