South
It was only a matter of time before I would meet her again. In New York such events are unavoidable. People move in long elliptical paths, pushed and pulled by the gravity of the daily grind. Soon enough I would find her on my doorstep like a wicker basket full of ill-tempered prairie dogs.

What I did to this poor young woman goes well beyond the commonplace kicks to a once-chaste heart and nether-regions. No, this sordid affair included the fringe benefits of cheating with a tall and zealous Swede, resulting in day trips to the doctor and pharmacy for all and sundry.

I always envisioned our tragic reunion at some pretentious gallery opening. She in black. I, drowning in Chardonnay. For years I even played our would-be dialogue countless times in my head, reshaping and massaging it into that perfect and just New York moment where words and gestures, sighs and subtleties shine, hovering just above the onslaught of physical violence, a swift kick between the wickets for example.

Sadly, our not-so-happenstance meeting occurred, not at a Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous get-together, but on an elevator of an aging Midtown monolith. My radar picked up a young blond scurrying for the elevator doors. And I, after boarding said elevator, did a most remarkable thing: without a hint of regard for my own well-being I thrust my right arm directly into harms way and prevented the doors from closing. Shamefully, I must admit, it was an act of heroism that I may not have been so eager to perform if she were a businessman or less appealing female. It only took a fraction of a second to realize that I should have let those doors slide close on that finely sloped nose. She stepped onto the elevator, imparting cursory thanks to the chivalrous gentleman when her jaw, appropriately, fell agape.

She acknowledged my presence with a terse and thoroughly disgusted groan. A musical version of "The Girl from Ipanema" drifted down as the doors closed. Our fate was sealed for the next half-minute or so and options, mine, such as pointing north-northeast, shouting "What's that over there!" and ducking away were not feasible. I was trapped in that rather tight box, speeding skyward above the city streets. I was therefore compelled to wade into those dangerous waters, bandying common pleasantries about.

"So, how are you?" I began anxiously. "'It's been..."

"A long time," she said, finishing my sentence with a short, vile sneer. She cast her eyes upward and studied the elevator floor counter with great intensity.

Unfortunately, our reunion was not a simple tête a tête, but a threesome, as behind me, over my right shoulder, was a well-dressed corporate-climbing strongwoman. I felt her lids lower against my profile. A battle hardened woman such as herself only needs the briefest of moments to measure the unfolding drama between a man and woman-done-wrong. She knew with great certainty, and satisfaction, that before the elevator reached its final destination another pitiful excuse for a man would receive his holy comeuppance. If she could, she would have poured herself a cocktail and unfolded a lawn chair.

Despite the hostile environment I pressed on cautiously, eyes wide with forced affability. I swallowed the remnants of my shock (fear) and pretended as if seeing my ex-lover in this office building was the most natural thing in the world. Nausea, however, overtook me and a ribbon of sweat formed at the base of my proud and unyielding hairline before we even passed the third floor. It was to be a long, arduous journey. I was going to 63. She, 32. Corporate climbing bitch, 49.

"So... do you work around here?" I continued nervously, noticing a decade of lines radiating from the corner of her eyes.

"I have nothing to say to you," she answered with a pleasant, bitter-to-the-core quality. "But," she softened and smiled freely "if you'd really like me to say something..."

"I see," I said, venturing no further.

A long excruciating silence followed, until we eased to a stop on the 32nd floor.

"You're a disgusting, pathetic human being," she informed me with great conviction. With this parting salvo I simply agreed and waved goodbye. "Ta," I imagined myself saying goodbye like a well-heeled Brit, but I didn't. I just watched her stepped off the elevator, into the reception of an obscure book publisher and was out of my life for, I imagined and hoped, another long turn of the screw.

We, the pinstriped woman and I, carried on. I indicated to her with a sheepish smile and quarter-shrug that it happened a long, long time ago.

The woman seemed untouched by my allusions toward the follies of youth and innocence and said with a sigh of unbridled righteousness, "Well, I guess it's not true what they say. Time doesn't heal all wounds."

"No," I said with arched eyebrows. "I guess not." She too exits, stage center, leaving me alone with the girl from Ipanema and a hat full of unpleasant memories.

[Illustration by Karl Heitmueller]