The Circle

know, because they
     think my dimples help. Maybe they do. I don’t know. I just wish there were five of
     me.”
    “You sound terrible, Annie. Take a night off.”
    “No, no. I’ll be fine. I just have to answer these queries from some subcommittee.
     It’ll be fine. But I better go. Love you.”
    And she hung up.
    Mae called Francis. “Annie won’t go out with me. Will you? Tonight?”
    “Out-out? There’s a band here tonight. You know the Creamers? They’re playing in the
     Colony. It’s a benefit.”
    Mae said yes, that sounded good, but when the time came, she didn’t want to see a
     band called the Creamers play in the Colony. She cajoled Francis into her car, and
     they left for San Francisco.
    “You know where we’re going?” he asked.
    “I don’t. What are you doing?”
    He was typing furiously into his phone. “I’m just telling everyone I’m not coming.”
    “Finished?”
    “Yes.” He dropped his phone.
    “Good. Let’s drink first.”
    And so they parked downtown and found a restaurant that looked so terrible, with faded
     and unappetizing pictures of the food taped haphazardly to the windows, that they
     figured it might be cheap. They were right, and they ate curry and drank Singha and
     sat in bamboo chairs that squealed and strained to stay erect. Somewhere toward the
     end of her first beer, Mae decided that she would have a second, quickly, and that
     shortly after dinner she would kiss Francis on the street.
    They finished dinner and she did.
    “Thank you,” he said.
    “Did you just thank me?”
    “You just saved me so much inner turmoil. I’ve never made the first move in my life.
     But usually it takes a woman weeks to figure out she’ll have to take the initiative.”
    Again Mae had the feeling of being clubbed with information that complicated her feelings
     about Francis, who seemed so sweet one moment and so strange and unfiltered the next.
    Still, because she was riding at the crest of a Singha wave, she led him by the hand
     back to her car, where they kissed more, while parked on a very busy intersection.
     A homeless man was watching them, as an anthropologist would, from the sidewalk, miming
     the taking of notes.
    “Let’s go,” she said, and they left the car, and wandered through the city, finding
     a Japanese souvenir shop open, and, next to it, alsoopen, a gallery full of photorealistic paintings of gigantic human haunches.
    “Big pictures of big asses,” Francis noted, as they found a bench, in an alley-turned-piazza,
     the streetlamps above giving it the look of blue moonlight. “That was real art. I
     couldn’t believe they hadn’t sold anything yet.”
    Mae kissed him again. She was in a kissing mood, and knowing that Francis wouldn’t
     make any aggressive moves, she felt at ease, kissing him more, knowing it would be
     only kissing tonight. She threw herself into the kissing, making it mean lust, and
     friendship, and the possibility of love, and kissed him while thinking of his face,
     wondering if his eyes were open, if he cared about the passersby who clucked or who
     hooted but still passed by.
    In the days that followed, Mae knew that it could be true, that the sun could be her
     halo, that the leaves could exist to marvel at her every step, to urge her on, to
     congratulate her on this Francis, what the two of them had done. They had celebrated
     their shimmering youth, their freedom, their wet mouths, and had done so in public,
     fueled by the knowledge that whatever hardships they had faced or would face, they
     were working at the center of the world and trying mightily to improve it. They had
     reason to feel good. Mae wondered if she was in love. No, she knew she was not in
     love, but she was, she felt, at least halfway. That week, she and Francis ate lunch
     together often, even if briefly, and after they ate, they found a place to lean against
     each other and kiss. Once it was under a fire exit behind thePaleozoic. Once it was in the Roman Empire, behind the paddle courts. She loved his
     taste, always clean, simple like lemon water, and how he would remove his glasses,
     look briefly lost, then would close his eyes and look almost beautiful, his face as
     smooth and uncomplicated as a child’s. Having him near brought a new crackle to the
     days. Everything was astounding. Eating was astounding, under the bright sun, the
     heat of his shirt, his hands on her ankle. Walking was astounding. Sitting in the
     Enlightenment