"Meeting M."

At noon I checked out of the hotel. We were supposed to meet at Delaney’s at one; I had already traced the route to get there. I knew her only from her book cover. I assumed I would recognize her—or she, me—we had exchanged books some months ago, then agreed to meet in this city—her city. Of course I would not stay with her—I was not on those kinds of terms, we had only written each other letters, e-mails. I had admired her books of stories, the elliptical way she had of writing. I’d come across an interview with her in a magazine somewhere, was attracted to her modesty, the painstaking care with which she wrote stories; I must have seen myself in her.
“When you fall in love, you fall in love with yourself, when you kill yourself, you kill someone else.” That silly refrain was stuck in my head now as I deposited my luggage in the trunk of my car, locked it and walked toward Delaney’s. I was wearing new shoes, my feet felt tight and on the verge of blistering. I felt self-conscious about my weight; I was heavier than in my jacket photo.
I arrived at the restaurant before she did. At least I did not see her anywhere. I sat by the window so that I would see her approach—in a long skirt, I imagined, as in her photo, feet in something like Birkenstocks? I kept thinking she was late, but it was really me who had arrived too early and was now drinking cup after cup of coffee. I pictured myself in a sidewalk café in Paris rather than this sprawling city which I happened to be visiting (happened to be?) in Eastern Canada. It was not very attractive—the faint smell of sulfur, which reached me, it seemed, even inside the restaurant. She lived in an upscale neighborhood. Her husband (yes, she did have a husband) was, I think, a doctor.
I had told her I was en route to—-what had I said?—-a conference, which might have been true, except I doubted that I would ever arrive there. I would visit M. and then return home, or I would visit and then drive around aimlessly, pretending I had another destination. I would not let on that I no longer wrote, did not think myself a writer any longer.
“You’re Clare, aren’t you?”
I nodded, pulled out a chair for her. It bothered me that I hadn’t seen her approach. She was not wearing the long skirt I had imagined, but sandals, yes (though not Birkenstocks), a summery blouse, pressed jeans.
“Did you sleep well? Was the hotel comfortable?”
We began with such pleasantries, inanities before ordering lunch from our hovering waiter.
She had this annoying habit of twisting a strand of her hair as she listened. It should have been charming, adolescent girl-like, but it made me think she wasn’t paying attention. I wanted to tell her to stop it. She neither looked nor acted as I’d imagined she would—-a woman nearing 40—-she seemed more like an uncertain girl.
Later I would realize that this was perhaps a defense mechanism on my part: a way not to fall in love with her. Concentrate on her flaws and I would not lose myself to her. But why drive more than 500 miles to reach that conclusion? I could not see it then.
Of course when I drove away I regretted that it hadn’t gone better. The fact that she wanted to talk mostly about writing hadn’t helped of course. I carried on some patter about the novel I was writing and watched her as I spoke, twisting a strand of hair round her finger—she seemed nervous, almost desperate.
Did she believe me? Could she tell I was fabricating everything, that writing was for me just the discussing of it? She had nice things to say about my previous books, carefully crafted phrases I did not take too seriously. She was flattered of course by my interest in her, in her work, in the stories that she wrote so beautifully.
“Will you try a novel?” I asked her.
“Oh! It takes me so very long just to write a story…. Some have taken me years, you know I start them, go back to them, get stuck… I suppose I might, but I haven’t really any “novel” ideas, I’m more of a poet, really, masquerading as a story writer…”
I thought she had a point there.
“Shall we order dessert? Coffee?” She ordered the crème brulee; I followed suit. “What about you?” she asked. “Tell me about your own life…” as if we’d been talking about hers. We hadn’t. I’d learned nothing of her husband, her daily life. I reminded myself to ask.
“Oh… quite dull really…. I’m divorced, have been for over five years. My life is really uneventful, the life of a small town…” The thought of my town made me feel ill suddenly. I’d lived there since my ex and I had left the city, then stayed on after the divorce when quite obviously, like a patch of poison ivy or a slice of moldy bread, it didn’t agree with me. But then nothing seemed to agree with me. I was aware of that. I’d grown, more than ever, hard to please.
“It’s a charming little village,” I heard myself tell her. “You know, where everyone knows everyone else, the postmaster knows who’s writing you letters and sending you packages, the neighbors check in on your cats while you’re away…”
“Oh!” she said, “I might find that stultifying.”
“Not at all! Reassuring really. To feel part of something—connected…”
“Well, yes, I suppose…though one has a bit of that here too, in the neighborhood…”
And so we continued in this mundane vein until “Is it influencing your fiction? Small town life?”
And I’d said yes, said some more about the novel I was writing (as I suddenly saw it): a thinly disguised village appearing at its center. I knew from previous publications how being a writer in a small town was both a curse and a blessing, and decided to shift the conversation to more solid footing. “Everyone wants to read what you’re working on, then sees themselves in it even when they’re not. The town wants to own you--this writer in their midst—as if you could bring some coinage to the town, put it on the map… but they rarely like what you’ve written. It’s rather awkward. One misses the anonymity finally….”
“Yes…” she said. “I can see that…” Then after a pause, “Do you ever get stuck? Lose the thread, find yourself unable to write?”
I shifted uncomfortably. How much should I tell her? “Well, yes, sometimes…. I find a long walk helps, or reading… What about you?”
She mumbled something I couldn’t hear, spooned the last of her crème brulee from the china dish. “It’s always a struggle. One long struggle. Nothing enjoyable about it.” She smiled then and I saw that she was really quite stunning.
I remembered to ask about her husband, the “quality of her days.” I wanted her to be unhappy, but I cannot honestly say that she was. She professed a good marriage, a love and respect for him. I felt myself wilting. She had everything going for her, and it didn’t look like any of it was going to rub off on me, the smell of this sulfur-city notwithstanding.
“Shall we walk for a bit? Before you head off? You’re heading to Halifax today is it?”
I nodded. We paid our bill, splitting it quite fairly and without too much awkwardness.
It felt good to be out of the restaurant, the clinking of china and silverware, the tinkling of conversation.

Strangely, we had trouble saying goodbye to one another. We spoke of letters we would write, e-mails, another visit possibly. “If you like, if you don’t mind…you could send me part of the novel you’re working on? I’d like to read it…”
I told her I’d consider it, that I didn’t usually show anything until I’d reached the end of it, and I was nowhere near the end of my novel, was finding it very difficult, troublesome, in ways the other novels hadn’t been…
We said goodbye, a kiss on the cheek, a light hug on the street corner. I watched her walk away. Was she really 40? She looked no more than 26 to me.
It wasn’t something I had planned, but as soon as she’d left me, walked two blocks or so west, I began to fall in step behind her. I thought I would see where she was headed: was it home? Or did she have another appointment? I knew, like me, there were no children; at least she had never mentioned any--. I had nothing else to do, and the thought of my car, the long drive home or some meandering drive to nowhere, disheartened me.
She did not seem in a hurry, stopping now and then to take in a store window: brightly colored leather purses and shoes; now a bookstore (would she venture in? No, she did not--). Not at all in a hurry to get back to home and husband--of course he must be at work. Her writing would be done for the day. She was a morning writer, an early riser. How clear her conscience must be--able to take in shoes and handbags! I envied that. I was in a muddle—that much was clear—or I would not be following her. And if she saw me? I had to take care that she did not. It would be the end of me. Exposed. The roots of a tree thrown up for all to see; the ugly veins beneath the opaque stockings…
And now she was stopped before a chocolate shop. Was she really so self-indulgent? Or would she buy a gift for someone else—surely not her husband? I watched from a distance, took out my cell phone, dialed a random number as I slipped into a doorway, one that still offered me visibility.
She emerged, must have been ten minutes later—I didn’t time it but so it felt—with a small package. What if it were meant for me? What if she sent it to me? This was crazy, she had no reason to indulge me… but I felt a flutter: a moth, not yet a butterfly of hope—and then I lost her. It could be argued that hope—however small—does that. It obscures reality. She had been in front of me, just two blocks away, and now I could not see her anywhere. Another store perhaps? A cross street? I pondered the possibilities and just as quickly lost interest. It wasn’t right to be following. Quite wrong, intrusive really.
I went into the chocolate shop; I’d stock up for my long drive—I loved chocolate as much as the next person, more perhaps—especially the gourmet variety—wrapped as they were in blue and gold tinfoil. I felt strangely elated as I paid for my gift box, as if, in fact, she had already given it to me.