Free Drowning Lessons by Peter Selgin

roofs and ochre walls relieved the parade of sugar-lump and concrete architecture. Rust reds, nut browns, mint greens, and butter yellows melted and shimmered in the oily bay.
    They had agreed to part ways here and so spent their last hour in search of a gift for Peter, Karina’s lawyer lover awaiting her in London. They passed clear and yellow bottles of raki and ouzo, strings of bright worry beads, finely embroidered linens, glistening olives of all colors and sizes, anchovies, pistachios, stuffed grape leaves … Too strong, too small, too homely, too salty.
    â€œTell me,” said Andrew, “just what do respectable lawyers living in London like?”
    Karina frowned.
    â€œHow about one of these charming paintings?” suggested Andrew, in front of a stall with watercolors for sale at embarrassingly low prices.
    â€œPeter doesn’t like paintings.”
    â€œNo?”
    â€œHis tastes are peculiar.”
    â€œI’ll say. He doesn’t eat anchovies, doesn’t like olives; he doesn’t look at paintings. Has it occurred to you that you may be in love with a dead man?”
    â€œThat is not funny.”
    â€œHe must eat something.”
    â€œSteak.”
    â€œPerhaps a bottle of Worcestershire sauce?”
    â€œI am not amused.”
    â€œI know — how about some roses? A full dozen!”
    She turned on him. “I do not like you. Why are you doing this?”
    â€œWhat? What am I doing?”
    â€œYou have been so nice until now. I have so much enjoyed being with you. And now …” Tears welled in her eyes.
    â€œI’m sorry.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “I must be jealous.”
    â€œI think so,” she said, wiping her eye.
    â€œCan you blame me? Three days in Greece with a beautiful, charming woman, and now I’ve got to hand you over to that steak-eating rose-giver.”
    â€œI am not yours to hand over,” she said.
    â€œI know,” said Andrew. “Still, I have to confess, all this time I’ve been pretending you were mine. I enjoyed our little games.”
    She nodded. He held her. In the end, she settled for a set of earthenware raki cups. As the proprietor wrapped them in red paper, Andrew stood outside, buffeted by sunlight and shoppers, dragging on a cigarette, wondering about gestures, why he was so bad at them. Flowers, gifts, the appropriate kiss planted at theopportune moment, opening doors, sending cards, saying thank you. Was it laziness, selfishness? Or was he just a regular asshole? He felt a fresh tide of loneliness rising, and there was nowhere for him to turn. It was now or never, he thought, his chance to prevent his loss from being total, to break with the past and make at least a gesture that might change his life. How? Karina, package in hand, skipped out of the store.
    â€œThere,” she said. “I am sure he will like them. And now you will walk me back to the car, yes?”
    As the silence between them thickened, Andrew realized it was too late; he had missed his chance; he had failed. She would forget him soon, but he wouldn’t forget her. In his own idiotic way he had loved her. He had to say something. He had to
do
something. But what? They reached the car.
    â€œAre you sure you’ll be all right?” he asked. “Driving, I mean?”
    â€œOf course,” she said, getting in.
    â€œWait,” he said. “I have something for you.” He reached inside his backpack, took out his sketchbook, and riffled the pages, stopping between an olive grove and an old farmer.
    â€œWhat’s your preference? Olive trees or old men?”
    â€œYou know how I feel about old men.”
    He tore out the olive-tree sketch, folded it twice, and handed it to her through the driver’s window. She thanked him.
    â€œWait,” he said, tearing out the old man, too, and pressing it into her hands, then a café scene, and a church, and a group of children