The spring sky was a clock, and the moon slowly ticked across its hazy darkness. With some effort Mark brought his used Toyota to a smooth stop in front of his date's house. She sat beside him and he looked past the slender profile of her face to gaze at the lit doorway to her apartment. He had entered there a few hours earlier to pick her up, and now as she turned to face him her long, scented hair hid the entrance from his sight.

"I really liked being with you tonight, Mark," she said. He looked at her to find her eyes focused on his. Quickly Mark blinked and shot his eyes around the car, nodding. "Thanks for everything, dinner was really good," she said, letting the last word hang in the air like a feather.

"No problem," said Mark, watching his hands squeeze the steering wheel. "Goodnight," she said, and after a moment Mark heard the door slowly open. An instant later the door shut and echoed off the building, lingering in his itching ears. He jerked his head sideways to see her calmly rummaging in her purse for keys. While Mark's left hand continued to grab and rub the steering wheel, the right reached up to scratch his head. His face contorted with anger and suddenly his right hand slammed down into the center of the steering wheel. The horn's bellow startled him. Shana turned fully around, and her enchanting figure made Mark's lips quiver. Her eyebrows were raised the width of a wristwatch.

Mark waved abruptly and stepped on the gas pedal too hard. Shana's eyebrows reluctantly dropped as she watched the car speed away until its tail-lights were glimmers in the eyes of the night.

In his apartment that night Mark scribbled Shana's phone number on a piece of paper and stuck it to the refrigerator with a magnet. He dove onto the couch and watched TV, switching channels until his fingers itched. Then he went to bed.

* * * * * * * *

Things started to get busy at the store in the weeks following. Wedding season was arriving, and the intoxicating and generous air of love spread to people's wallets. Everybody wanted to buy a suit or rent a tuxedo or rent eight for all the best men. To meet the demands, Mark started working seven days a week stocking the racks, filing receipts, and helping the customers. He called Shana on two separate days during his lunch break in the first week. Both times he got the machine, and both times he left short messages without letting an unnecessary breath escape. She called his house a few days later while he was at work, but when he called she wasn't home again. The next week he started working overtime, and if he wasn't working he was sleeping. Shana called once early in the week, but Mark forgot to call her.

One Tuesday he got the afternoon off and went to his friend Gary's house to watch a baseball game. Gary installed carpet, and Tuesday was his day off. Mark went in without knocking. He found Gary on the couch watching the game, and gave him a firm clap on the shoulder.

"You married yet?" asked Gary, eyes on the tube. "What? We sell wedding accessories, Gary, not brides," Mark said.

"Yeah, right," mumbled Gary. Gary wore a baseball cap low on his balding head. When Mark flopped down on the scraggly couch next to Gary, Mark noticed the hat and smirked. Then he tapped the bill of Gary's cap with his fingers.

"Sunny out, isn't it, Gary?" he joked. As he said this some clatter came from the kitchen and soon Gary's wife Flo was standing behind them with a bowl of chips. She put the bowl in Gary's lap and put her other hand on his head. "Flo, I think it's too bright in here for Gary," Mark repeated. "I happen to like this hat, Mark," said Flo. "Wait until it's your turn, we'll see what kind of tricks you pull." Mark laughed. Flo climbed over the couch and sat on the other side of Gary.

"I've got plenty of time before that happens," Mark said as he ruffled his own thick hair with his hands. Gary leaned his head back and to one side as he faced Mark, and Mark saw a familiar set of squinted eyebrows and wisely pursed lips.

"You think you have time for everything," Gary said.

"Watch the game," Mark replied.

So the three of them watched the game and ate chips. Mark talked about how busy work was, and Flo told them both about all the cooking shows she had recently begun to watch. The conversation drifted while they soaked up radiation from the TV.

"Didn't you have a date a few years ago?" Gary asked Mark during a commercial. Mark chuckled.

"It was a few weeks ago, and yes I did," he answered. "A beautiful woman, too."

"So what happened?" Flo leaned closer to Mark.

"Yeah, where is she?" asked Gary. Mark turned to face them.

"We had a lot of fun, but I donŐt think I made the right impression."

"What are you talking about? What happened?" Flo continued.

"ell it to the expert,"said Gary, giving a short nod toward Flo. She slapped the bill of his hat and he smiled.

"ell, we had a great dinner and we went to a movie," Mark explained. "The whole time we were talking real good, but then everything got messed up at the end."

"You throw up on her?" Gary asked.

"Nothing like that," Mark said. "But I wanted to say something real nice and I couldn't. Then I accidentally honked the horn, and instead of saying something great I just waved and drove off. Then we lost touch."

"That's our boy, real smooth," Gary said. Flo gave Gary a firm squeeze on the upper arm and a reproachful look.

"Stop it, Gary." Flo was serious. She stared at Mark momentarily and then snapped out of the trance. "Mark, why can't you talk to women?"

"Yeah, most of them don't bite," Gary ventured under his wife's lasting grip.

"Gary!" Flo scolded Gary playfully. He returned her reproach with a spirited smack on the arm. Mark picked himself up off the couch.

"I need something to drink," he said flatly on his way to the kitchen.

Flo rose to her knees and turned towards the kitchen. Gary looked at the TV and tuned into the baseball game that had been neglected for conversation.

"Damn pitching," he said. "How did they let three homers go in the sixth? Just when I'm not looking. That's it, you guys are over." He picked up the remote control and started browsing. Mark was opening the refrigerator when Flo called to him.

"Mark, every woman you've ever met has probably liked you, and you never make anything out of it." To Mark she sounded like a nagging mother, but he wasn't bothered because maybe this was some kind of therapy for his problems. Gary turned around upon hearing his wife, leaving the TV to entertain itself.

"It's true, Mark," Gary began in his mocking tone, "all ten of the women you've met since school probably wanted to take you home. What gives?" Mark casually pulled out a container of fresh orange juice, and filled a glass from the cupboard. The other two waited while he patiently set his glass on the counter and returned the juice to the refrigerator.

"That's just it," he finally said. Gary and Flo watched Mark walk back around the couch and sit down again. Mark took a drink from his glass. "I don't know if I want to be taken home."

"But aren't you lonely?" Flo asked.

Gary leapt on the question. "Of course he is. He tells me every damn day."

"Shush," said Flo. Mark emptied his glass in a long swallow, and set it down on the floor in front of him."

"Yeah, I'm lonely, but I'm not sure I know how to fix it. Some of the girls do like me, I know they do, but I'm scared of the second date. And the third, and everything else. It's so easy to screw up. And who says they can help me? How many people have gotten married and regretted it?"

Gary raised his hand and smiled.

"Seriously," Mark continued after Flo lowered Gary's arm, "I know marriage is far off, but things can get serious quick. I don't want that, and sometimes I think I'm better off just working hard and not even risking a bad situation."

"Nobody said it was easy, Mark. But you've got to give it a try. Right?" Flo's motherly voice was back. Mark didn't feel like he was helping himself at all, and shook his head trying to understand what he really thought.

"I donŐt know." Mark's confusion erupted in his bothered voice. "Why? I'm not doing that bad right now. I'm getting along. Right?" Out of boredom, Gary twisted his face into awkward contortions.

"Sure, sure," he said. "You get to sleep alone every night. You're blessed."

"Look," said Mark, picking up his glass and rising. "Just cause you got married right after college, and now you're about to celebrate your fiftieth anniversary, doesn't mean I'm never gonna get anybody. I'm just taking my time." He did not disguise the bitterness in his voice.

"Second," Gary corrected, putting up two fingers.

"Whatever. Look, I'm gonna get going so I can run by Farmer Jack on the way home," Mark said in a softer voice. He went to the kitchen and the glass clinked in the sink.

"Alright," said Gary, sobering from the heavy spell of serious talk. "Thanks for stopping by. Take care, Mark."

"Yeah, don't worry about anything, Mark," Flo said when Mark came back from the kitchen. She waved as he headed for the door.

"Well, I won't worry about my hair falling out." Mark forced a smile. He was out the door when Gary's laughing shout got to him.

"At least I have a woman!"

* * * * * * * *

Farmer Jack was busy with midweek shoppers on their way home from work. The glare of the long lights blinded customers as it reflected and intensified off the linoleum floors. Mark navigated the aisles with unhurried efficiency, avoiding near-sighted customers with carts, crying children, and spilled boxes of cereal. Finally he got in a long line with his load of groceries, mostly TV dinners. In front of him a short man stood with slumped shoulders and a light blue shirt tucked into high-sitting slacks. Fuzzy grey hair trailed from his ears around his neck and under his chin. Mark curiously leaned around the man to see how the facial hair was handled. The man noticed Mark looking over his shoulder and turned around. His aged nose sloped narrowly downward, coming to a point on a wide upper lip. His wrinkled face was cleanly shaven but for the evasive, long white whisker here and there. In his hands were two loaves of sliced wheat bread.

"Need something?" the man asked. His voice meandered without bitterness. Mark was at a loss.

"You've got only two items," Mark burst out, and blindly pointed over a couple of aisles. "You can go to the express lane." The man deepened the wrinkles around his mouth with a smile. Even his eyes smiled.

"Who's in a hurry?" he asked. "I'm old. I've been shopping forever. There's nothing wrong with this line. So we wait. If we hurry, we might forget something, or miss a big thing."

"But you could be out of here so quickly," Mark insisted. His eyes hurt. The man continued.

"Why rush? This line is as good as the others. Maybe better. I met my wife in a grocery store. In line. Imagine if I were the hurrying kind. I'd be lost. Hurrying makes everything all messy. So we wait." Mark studied the man, who finally put his bread on the counter and spoke with patience. "I guess you never put things off," he said, almost asking. Mark grimaced while the clicking and whirring of the cash register and conveyor belt stamped these words into his gut.

At home Mark had two identical, old clocks that he had taken from his mother's house. One in the kitchen and one in the bedroom. They were bronze plated, dirtied by all the days to which the old but reliable clocks had been witness. As Mark put away his groceries his stomach moaned, and the clock confirmed that it was dinner time. He took out one chicken TV dinner from his bag of groceries and threw it on the counter for dinner. It took ten minutes for Mark to put away the rest of his groceries.

The microwave roared on high, and through the steamed window Mark saw his dinner bubbling up. He lightly held the phone against his ear and listened to ShanaŐs phone ring. It rang three times, and on the fourth the answering machine clicked on. Mark's confused hands grasped the piece of paper on which Shana's phone number was written. He listened to the message, heard the beep, paused, and hung up. He opened the drawer underneath the phone, dropped the paper in, and threw it shut again. The microwave beeped, and Mark carefully removed the scalding plastic dish. He ate quietly at the table, staring at the staggered, uncompleted diamonds that littered his wall paper. They wrapped around the kitchen toward infinity like discrete women along the trying road of romance. Crooked colored lines subtly connected the symbols like the navigator of such a road. Mark hardly ever dated the same woman more than a couple times. Always some self-imposed, terribly occupying project or commitment led him away before playful intimacy became profound promise. Mark followed the irregular pattern on the wall from left to right, passing the wall clock in every sweep. When he realized his head was awkwardly twisted backwards he looked down, watched his food fizzle, and took a small bite. Then his stare wandered back to the walls, the hands moved, and he'd get lost in the design again.

Mark left the table after finishing off the TV dinner. While he brushed his teeth he looked his mirrored self in the eyes. What am I afraid of? he thought. That old man sure was happy. What am I waiting for? The mirror was silent, and Mark rinsed his mouth and headed for bed. I don't want to go ahead, he continued, but I donŐt want to give up. Is there a middle ground? Mark got into bed and pulled the sheets up under his neck. But Shana doesn't really want me. I'm chasing a dream, and even that only half-heartedly. Just forget about it. The directive turned over in Mark's head until his eyes eventually closed and all was still save the big hands on his antique clock.

* * * * * * * *

A multitude of marriages continued into the summer, and Mark fell into his annual slump. Hordes of cheery women clogged the aisles for hours, pawing the dresses and asking for other sizes and colors. Men ambled along racks of tuxedos and flipped endlessly through catalogs of vest patterns. Demand nudged Mark close to the edge of tolerance, and he took extra time retrieving items from the back room. Days crawled by slowly, but the nights ran.

Clothes piled up on the washer, the refrigerator emptied. The TV kept Mark company, and an occasional call from Gary kept him awake. One night Gary called and asked if Mark could get him a good deal on a tux.

"A tux for what?" Mark asked first.

"Remember Ronald Gibson?" Gary asked. A short silence followed. "Anyway, he's getting married. I figured you'd be invited. I mean, I know neither of us really kept in touch with him after school, but you were as close as I was to him."

"Maybe I was," said Mark. He walked over to the stack of mail he let thrive on the kitchen counter and found his own invitation. "And guest," Mark read off the address. "Old Ron remembers me well, wouldn't you say, Gary?" Gary didn't laugh.

"At least he remembered. It's a great chance for you, Mark. Call up that girl."

"Shana?"

"Yeah. Flo says to call her up. She says she'll love it."

"No way," Mark said, tearing at the edges of the firm envelope. "We're done."

"Why?"

"I don't know. It's been too long. It's not worth it."

"Look, Mark, do what you want. I gotta go. How about the tux?"

"Sure Gary. Come by anytime, I'll set you up."

"Thanks."

Mark's bed was especially cold that night, and sleep dodged him like a good dream the morning after. He slid out of bed and roamed around the kitchen table. He ran his fingers over his wall paper, then found himself in front of his phone. He put his hand on the receiver and waited for it to ring. Then he opened the drawer in front of him and removed Shana's number. Mark knew the numbers without looking. The refrigerator hummed and he threw the paper into the trash.

* * * * * * * * *

Long tablecloths, fancy dishes, and sparkling silverware covered the many tables at the wedding reception. Mark and Gary wore matching black tuxedos, but Gary's vest was red and his belt was a bit longer. Flo wore a red dress to match her husband, and the three of them saw the groom at the entrance to the ballroom. They all laughed and reminisced, and the groom shared the story of his love. He had met his bride soon after college; they had started dating immediately, but had patiently waited for the right moment to wed. Now his life was perfect, and he was looking forward to a home, a family, and growing old.

While the groom greeted the rest of his guests with justifiably bright eyes and willing hands, the other three sat down at a table with more faces they recognized. At weddings, even the forgotten are remembered. Many had wives or boyfriends or girlfriends with them, some did not. Nobody seemed to be interested in retying the ends loosed by graduation, so after brief courtesies they all waited silently for a toast or speech to open the affair. Finally the bride's father rose with a glass of red wine whose shade was barely darker than his lively face. He rambled for a while, then sat down to great applause. Soon the bride and groom were dancing and the guests were all mingling while drink and merriment unleashed social masters and demons alike.

Mark stayed with his friends at the table, watching people dance and imagining what all his old friends' lives were like now. Gary started remembering his own wedding aloud, and Mark checked the time. Almost three hours had passed since they had arrived, more than a month since his date with Shana. Flo regularly corrected Gary's erroneous memory while Mark played with the flowers in the centerpiece, recalling all the spoken images from his best friend's wedding. Then Flo started recalling her own memories of her dress, the guests, the food.

"We had the most tender chicken in town," said Flo. "And the desserts, so sweet! Do you guys remember that?" Mark just looked at her while Gary mumbled some sort of affirmative through an emptying glass. "You have to remember the chocolate tarts, they were delicious. In fact, I got a recipe for some just like them from a cooking show the other day." At this Gary perked up and Mark surveyed of the dance floor.

"A cooking show!" burst Gary. "You're always watching those things, and then when you try to make something you screw it up." Mark smiled. On the dance floor he saw a radiant woman in a blue dress dancing with a tall man. He couldn't see her face from his seat, but the couple danced close against each other and he was jealous of the man.

"That's not fair," Flo said. "Cooking is very hard. I'm convinced it's a science of time."

"Yeah," Gary teased, "maybe it's a science of taking things out of the oven before they burn." Flo slapped him on the arm.

"Seriously, Gary, everything needs to be just right. You do want to just leave things in there, because you think they're gathering those tasty juices or need more time to soften up. I'm still learning that it's important to watch everything so carefully, and that if you leave things in for just a second too long the whole thing is ruined." Flo was flustered, but Gary still wore a jolly grin. Mark finally saw the woman's face. It was Shana.

"You always were a quick learner," Gary joked. Flo got up.

"You try it, then," she bit each word off. "I'm going to get something to drink."

Shana finally saw Mark watching her but another couple danced between them before he could identify an expression on her face. He turned around in his seat and alternated between sipping his water and staring into it.

"How about that?" Gary asked Mark, putting his arm on Mark's shoulder. Mark didn't react. "That's my wife," Gary said, a somber look growing on his face. This time the words partially registered and Mark turned to look at his friend. He saw a balding, married man, and he started to itch under his tuxedo. Gary's hand slid off Mark's shoulder as Mark got up.

"I'm getting out of here, Gary," said Mark. "Bring the tux back whenever you can." Then he walked off with a puzzle in his head and a pulsing maze in his chest.

Mark's feet skimmed the carpeting as he headed down the hall, and his rhythmic steps became audible when the song inside the ballroom stopped. As the exterior door sharply cut the outside air, it made a sound like science fiction characters hear when they warp through time. Mark's padded steps became heavy thumps on the cement. He heard the door close behind him, then quickly open again.

"Mark," said a woman in a voice just louder than conversational. Mark stopped walking and the woman's steps continued the quick-paced beat he had begun. He turned to see Shana walking toward him, the blue dress pressing closely against the figure he hadn't forgotten. She walked up to him and stopped, creating a silence.

"Don't leave yet," she said.

Mark rubbed his hands together, looking to the stars for a sign. "Go back to your boyfriend, Shana," he told her, now looking at her feet.

"I don't have one," she said.

He looked at her face. It was calm but her eyes were searching. So was he.

" It doesn't matter," he said, and walked away.

Back