The Leftovers

sharing some kind of decadent dessert, starting something that would probably lead to bed and then end in tears? Why put either of them through that?
    The thing was, Kevin hadn’t given her any advance warning. He’d just sprung it on her a few days ago as he was heading out the door.
    Thursday at eight, he said, as if it were already set in stone. Mark it on your calendar.
    Mark what?
    Valentine’s Day. I made reservations for two at Pamplemousse. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.
    It happened so quickly and felt so natural that it hadn’t occurred to her to object. How could she? He was her boyfriend, at least for the moment, and it was the middle of February. Of course he was taking her out to dinner.
    Wear something nice, he told her.
    *   *   *
    ALL HER life she’d been a sucker for Valentine’s Day, even back in college, when a lot of people Nora respected treated it like a sexist joke at best, a Hallmark fairy tale from the bad old days, Ward bringing June a heart-shaped box of chocolates.
    Let me get this straight, Brian used to tease her. I give you flowers and you spread your legs?
    That’s right, she told him. That’s exactly how it goes.
    And he’d gotten the message, too. Even Mr. Post-Structuralist had brought her a dozen roses and taken her out for a dinner he couldn’t afford. And when they got home, she held up her end of the bargain, a little more enthusiastically and inventively than usual.
    See? she told him. That wasn’t so bad, was it?
    It was okay, he conceded. I guess once a year won’t kill me.
    As she got older, she realized there wasn’t anything to apologize for. It was just who she was. She liked being wined and dined, made to feel special, liked it when the deliveryman showed up at the office with a big bouquet and a sweet little note, and her female coworkers told her how lucky she was to have such a romantic boyfriend, such an attentive fiancé, such a thoughtful husband. That was one thing she’d always appreciated about Doug: He’d never failed her on Valentine’s Day, never forgot the flowers, never acted like he was just going through the motions. He enjoyed keeping her off balance, surprising her with jewelry one year, a weekend at a luxury hotel the next. Champagne and strawberries in bed, a sonnet in her honor, a home-cooked gourmet meal. She understood now that it was all for show, that he was probably rolling out of bed after she fell asleep and writing steamy e-mails to Kylie or some other other woman, but she hadn’t known that at the time. Back then every gift had seemed like one more nice gesture in a series that would go on forever, a tribute she deserved from the sweet man who loved her.
    *   *   *
    THERE WAS a candle between them and Nora’s face looked younger than usual in its flickering glow, as if the tension lines had been erased from the corners of her eyes and mouth. He hoped the soft light was doing him the same favor, giving her a glimpse of the handsome fellow he used to be, the one she’d never had a chance to meet.
    “This is a nice restaurant,” he said. “Really down-to-earth.”
    She glanced around the dining room as if seeing it for the first time, taking in the rustic decor with an air of grudging approval—the high ceiling with exposed beams, the bell-shaped light fixtures suspended above rough-hewn tables, the plank floor and exposed brick walls.
    “Why do they call it the grapefruit?” she asked.
    “Grapefruit?”
    “Pamplemousse. It’s grapefruit in French.”
    “Really?”
    She held up the menu, pointing to a big yellow orb on the cover.
    He squinted at the image. “I thought that was the sun.”
    “It’s a grapefruit.”
    “Whoops.”
    Her eyes strayed toward the bar, where a festive crowd of walk-ins was clustered, waiting for some tables to open up. Kevin couldn’t understand why they all looked so cheerful. He hated that, killing time on an empty stomach, not knowing when the hostess would wander over and call your name.
    “Must’ve been hard to get a reservation,” she said. “Eight o’clock and everything.”
    “Just good timing.” Kevin shrugged, as if it were no big deal. “Somebody canceled right before I called.”
    This wasn’t precisely true—he’d had to call in a favor from the restaurant’s wine supplier, who’d started out as a salesman for Patriot Liquors—but he decided to keep that information to himself. There were a lot of women who would’ve been impressed by his