Cara paced in the patch of sunshine on her linoleum floor, telephone mashed to her ear.
"Tell me you didn't," her friend Judith shrilled on the other end. "You met this guy at an Italian-American club dance, and you invite him over. This is smart? This is safe? Cara, do you watch the news?"
"This is not a blind date," said Cara. "He comes to the dances at least once a month and I've seen him at Vitello's Deli. Name's Alex Cacciato. He wrote his telephone number on a napkin--"
"Which you mysteriously can't find."
"It's in my car. I thought I put it in my bag, but it must be in my car." Actually, Cara had ransacked her neat little Escort, even under the floor mats and in the seat cracks. But the guy had to be okay. Lived in the neighborhood, Mayfield and Murray Hill, Little Italy. Her territory. A local, or maybe one of the artist types who were moving in, seeking low-rent studios.
"Cara, don't let him in. Say you're sick and don't let him in."
Cara covered the receiver and took three calming breaths. "Judith, I'm thirty-three. The ol' Timex battery is running down. If I'm going to--you know--"
"Get married. Say it."
"--to have a lover, or even any fun, I need to risk. This morning I found a spider vein on the back of my leg. Listen, he has this sexy moustache. Green eyes. Buns to die for. He's so cute--"
"So was Ted Bundy."
)
