Free Living Single by Holly Chamberlin

the dim possibility of a husband who enjoyed housework.
    When Alex had finished his task, we went into the living room with our glasses of wine—glasses also freshly rewashed—to wait for the delivery guy from Appetito.
    “Sit anywhere,” I said, settling into my favorite chair, the one in which I liked to spend rare precious hours reading.
    Alex hesitated. He peered suspiciously at the cushions of the couch.
    “What?” I said.
    Alex murmured, “Nothing,” removed a very white handkerchief from his back pocket, and proceeded to dust—yes, dust, with a flicking of the wrist—the couch.
    Now I was insulted. Mr. Clean was very close to riding my last nerve.
    Dinner arrived. We’d ordered two pizzas and a salad. Alex cut his slices of pizza with a fork and knife. Okay, nothing wrong with that, Italians in Italy do this. But do they blow on each and every bite, long after any possibility of the food being too hot to eat? And do they wipe their mouths after each and every bite, from left to right, from right to left, ending with a pat in the middle?
    I thought of offering Alex a steel wool pad but resisted the temptation.
    My appetite was not its usual healthy size that night. Eating in front of Alex seemed somehow offensive. I stopped after one slice and promised myself I’d chow down when he left. Which I wanted him to do in a very short time.
    While I wrapped the leftovers, Alex excused himself to use the bathroom. He was in there for some time. I refused to consider what he might be doing.
    I waited for him in the living room. Finally, he came out of the bathroom and gave me a look.
    Here we go again, I thought.
    “What?”
    He looked a little pained. Maybe slightly sick.
    “Uh, your bathroom floor is ... crunchy.”
    “What? Oh.” I shrugged. “It’s only cat litter. I have a cat, you know. He’s sleeping.”
    “You could, you know, uh, sweep up the litter.”
    I pretended to consider this. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I could.”
    “Well, I did it for you. This time.”
    I smiled brightly. “Gee, thanks! You know, Fuzzer just tracks litter all over the place.” I watched Alex’s face closely. “Even in the bed. Because you know, Fuzzer sleeps with me. On my pillow. Every night. He has a slight snoring problem, but you get used to it.”
    Yes, Alex definitely looked sick now.
    “So, you should leave now,” I said.
    Alex nodded, grabbed his coat, and bolted.
    “Fuzzer!”
    The beast came stalking out from the bedroom, yawning widely. I scooped him up.
    “You missed all the fun, guy.”
    I hugged Fuzzer and wondered how Doug Spears felt about cats.
    I decided he liked them.

Chapter Nine
    A fter Mr. Fastidious and Mr. Anorexia, there was Mr. Toot. Yes, once more I forged into the breach, gave it the old college try. I don’t know why I did. Looking back, I suppose that even Mr. Wonderful would have come up short in my estimation. My heart just wasn’t into finding anyone but Doug Spears worthy of my attention.
    Nevertheless, when Jim Keeley asked me to see a movie with him, I accepted the invitation. Jim was a guy I’d known for a few years. He was a dedicated member of the Harvard Writers Circle—a group not associated with the university, I might add—and though I was a far less dedicated member, making an appearance about once every three or four months, he didn’t seem to hold it against me. A few times a group had gone out after a meeting for drinks at Casablanca and Jim had proved to be quite the funny man.
    In yet another effort to take my mind off Doug Spears, one Monday night I took the Orange Line to the Red Line out to Harvard Square in Cambridge, paid my five dollars, and settled in for a rousing though largely imbecilic discussion about a member’s largely imbecilic script. Not having read the script beforehand didn’t seem to matter as the discussion was impossible to follow. The room was warm and after a half hour I found my eyes beginning to close. Then: “Ow!”
    Jim grinned.