Free The Saving Graces by Patricia Gaffney Page B

Afraid." "Yeah," he said, as if nothing could be more natural. "Because it's terrifying." "It is, it's terrifying." Just thinking about it was scaringme.
"So what are you going to do?" "Hm? Well, I've written some short stories that stink, nobody wants them." Defenses creeping back; arms halfway into full metal jacket. "And I'm playing around with something longer, but it's no good. Really. I'm not being modest:' "Has anybody read it?" "Are you kidding?" I laughed, ha ha. "Luckily, I've got a very highly developed sense of shame, it keeps me out of all sorts of trouble." Mick smiled and looked away.
I went cold, realizing he was a little embarrassed. For me. Because what I'd said was so transparent.
"I wonder," he said slowly, "which is more personal, a painting or a poem. I wonder which one is more revealing." - "That's easy. A poem." "How come?" "Because it's easier to hide behind a painting." "Is it? Why?" I grinned, trying to win him back with candor. "Because I don't understand paintings." - "I don't understand poems." I laughed, but he didn't. "Okay," I said testily, "I get your point." "What point?" "You're braver than I am. You're a hero, I'm a chicken. Look, I'm not arguing with you, you're right. No contest." "That's not what I meant. Wait a second, that's not what I'm saying, I'm-" "Okay, my mistake. Forget it, it doesn't matter anyway. I don't even know what we're talking about." His sigh sounded exasperated. "I'm quite sure I'm not braver than you are, Emma." "Well, but you don't know me." "True, but I can tell you're not a chicken." "How?" Oh, how embarrassing, how childish, how immature, how pathetic, how needy. "Hm? How can you tell?" - - He never got to answer. The ear-splitting siren of a police car, then an ambulance, then another police car made it impossible to talk. Mick smiled and shrugged, and turned around to watch them roar by in the bleary, grease-smeared window. "Oh, no. My God, it's ten to three." I saw the clock over the front door. "So-?" He started rooting around in his pockets, hunting for his wallet. He looked stunned. "I've got to pick up Jay. I'm sorry, I had no idea it was this late, I've got ten minutes to get to Judiciary Square. But I can make it. But how did this happen? So-did we finish?" "Yeah, I guess." I couldn't think; my mind had blanked. "I'll get this," I said, shoving dollar bills back at him.
"It's on the paper. I've got an expense account." "Oh. Okay. Look, I'm sorry I have to go, but I have to." "Sure. Go. Take the subway, it's only one stop." "No, I think I'll just run." He stood over me, frowning and smiling, smoothing his hair back, harried, uncertain. "Well, so. If you need to ask me any more questions, you know how to get in touch with me, I guess." "Right. And here's my card, you can call me if, you know, you think of anything else." "It should be a great article." - "Thanks for a terrific interview." "I really enjoyed it. Obviously." He made a sheepish gesture back at the clock.
"Yeah, me, too." "Well. Good luck to you." "Thanks. I'll be looking for your stuff in Art World from now on."

   I finally had to stop smiling. Mick's face changed from hectic courtesy to awareness. For the space of about three seconds, we were both naked. I started to say something, but then I couldn't. He couldn't either. It was over, it was ending. Hello, good-bye. If we shook hands- - But no-he just said my name and bowed his head, and I saw-his lips press together in that grimacing smile he makes when things aren't good. And then he walked out of my life without touching me.
Which was just as well. Close call. I might not have let go.
I took the bus home. I've got a car, but I like to take the bus or the subway around the city, it gives me time to think. If I'm in a good mood, I like to look at my fellow passengers and speculate on their lives, measure them on the narrow, unforgiving scale of Emma's Criteria for Normalcy. If I'm in a bad mood, I like to sink deeper and deeper into it