But as I keep walking toward the courts, I realize that I don’t share his despair. The thought of Maud and her beau zipping their way up to the nth floor in his Midtown high-rise co-op doesn’t disturb me. I can see the two of them walking down a long corridor until they finally reach his apartment door, a bit awkward and hesitant, yet grateful that their steps are muffled by the thick carpeting. The cuff links, the necktie, the image of her legs wrapped around his bare waist, don’t disturb me either. I’ll play tennis, they’ll play at lovemaking. Who’s the happier of us? Who knows?
