Fellow Travelers

by Thomas Mallon

Tim kept at it until 2:05, through the bride’s vigorous toss of her bouquet—“That gal can play on my team anytime!” someone roared—and the newlyweds’ departure in a black limousine, not the red Cadillac rumored to be a wedding present from some of the senator’s Texas supporters. Back out in Dupont Circle Tim soon felt himself sweating through his blue suit. His steno pad was already soaked from his own palm; thank God, at least, for ballpoint pens. Looking at the top page of his notes, he realized he would soon be mystified by his own abbreviations unless he made a fair copy, with amplifications, right away. So once he’d bought a half-pint of milk at the big Peoples drugstore, he sat down amidst the late lunchers and sun-catchers on a bench near the Circle’s western rim. Across the expanse of grass he could hear the last of the wedding guests laughing through their departures.