Feints

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FEINTS

I.

"She won't go for it. She's not stupid, you know."

Maybe not, but I'm starting to think you are. Ryan's attitude was wearing on me. We had been over the plan half a dozen times over as many beers. I had considered it sober, with a buzz, and drunk. It passed each stage of my standard screening process. I had thought it through from everyone's perspective. It would work.

"She doesn't have to be stupid-just interested. Trust me; it will work." I didn't have to tell Ryan that Diane's interest was quite specifically directed at him. It had been for years and he'd known it for as long. He just had to be reminded that the scheme didn't depend on making a fool of her but upon letting it appear that she was making fools of us.

Apparently he was convinced, or at least interested enough himself. He turned to practical matters. "So when do we try it?"

Finally, a positive attitude. But not as positive as mine. "Now."

"Oh, Jesus. This is ridiculous. I'm not ready now. I have to think about this-how to approach it, what to do."

"You jerk," I said with mock venom. "There is nothing to think about. You just be there; the rest will take care of itself." I dropped some money on the table and initiated our retreat from the booth. Walking out past the projection screen, I realized that neither of us had even looked at the game we supposedly came to watch. Normally, you couldn't have gotten me away from the game. But this was not to be a normal day. We walked out into the bright light waiting for our eyes to adjust and our slightly pickled brains to recall where we had parked the car.

The drive home continued to tax my abilities to keep Ryan convinced-as well as my patience. "But Ron, what if Diane . . .?" "How are we going to . . .?" "Who is supposed to . . .?"

I was beginning to despise Ryan-a strange feeling in light of our current connivance. Finally, I put an end to it. "I'll worry about getting things started. Once it gets going, do you think you can handle it or will you need help from me."

My comment was carefully calculated to shut him up. It did. All he could manage to say was, "Well, you know her better than I do." Indeed I did. After six years of marriage and one kid, I ought to. I wondered if his comment had been designed for the same purpose as mine.

We drove on in silence-a big improvement, the son-of-a- bitch.

II.

I hadn't had a day like this for years: Chrissie at her Grandma's house, Ron off with Ryan for their male ritual of beer and football, and me lying in my lounge chair in the pool with a wine glass floating next to me. If it went on for hours, it would still end too soon. As it happened, it ended much too soon when I heard the car door shut and R