But God, last night had been so good. For the entire bus ride back to Philadelphia, Abby kept her eyes closed, and thought about how Sebastian had touched her; the sound of his voice, the way he’d looked at her. How it had felt to be so desired by someone who was, himself, so desirable. How perfectly in tune they’d been. It felt like, for a handful of hours, she’d stepped into someone else’s skin, even someone else’s life, and it had been wonderful.
Abby replayed every minute, from their first kiss to the last touch of her fingers to his shoulder, determined to inscribe every detail on her mind. When the ride was over, she deleted the photo of the guy’s license from her phone, pulled her backpack down from the overhead rack, stepped out into the diesel-scented sunshine, and headed south, toward her apartment, toward the dogs who’d be waiting for her on Monday morning, and the guy who’d be waiting on Saturday night.
Abby
Philadelphia August 2023
Give it to me,” Abby said in her sultriest voice.
Mark shook his head, feigning reluctance. “I don’t know. Are you sure you’re ready?”
“Oh, I’m ready,” Abby purred.
Mark hesitated, then pulled his phone out of his bag. “Okay, standard disclaimer. This is not my patient, or a patient at any institution with which I am affiliated. No one’s HIPAA rights were violated.”
“Just hand it over.” Abby reached across the table, palm extended. She was in a wonderful mood. She and Mark were at Estia, one of their favorite restaurants. He’d come with pictures, and they had the entire weekend ahead of them.
Mark shook his head, giving her a rueful look before handing Abby his phone. She turned it around and looked at the picture of a foot with a big toe’s nail that had gotten so long it had curved down, completely covering the tip of the toe, curving toward the sole. She squealed. “Ew!”
“Yeah, that’s one for the gallery,” Mark said modestly.
“How did that happen?”
“How does anything happen?” Mark replied. “You just decide to let it go for a few days. And then a few days turn into a week, and a week turns into a month, and the next thing you know…”
“… you’re wearing toenail slippers.” Abby texted the picture to herself, picked up her own phone, and added the image to her “Nasty Feet” album. “Have you ever seen anything like this?” Mark was a podiatrist, which meant it was at least possible that he had.
“No comment.” He patted his lips with his napkin, then sighed. “You know, sometimes I think you just love me for my photographs of medical oddities.”
Abby made a show of thinking it over. “Nah,” she finally said. “I also love you because you talk to my mother so I don’t have to.”
“I do,” said Mark.
“And you’re handy for getting things off high shelves.” Mark was only a few inches taller than she was, but it made a difference.
“I got that jar of pickles open that one time,” he said. “Don’t forget that.”
“As if I could.” Abby reached across the table and, tenderly, touched Mark’s cheek. “If it wasn’t for you, I might still be there, standing in my kitchen, trying to get that jar open.”
“You’d have had to resign yourself to a gherkin-less life.”
“And that,” Abby said, “would have been a tragedy. So you see? You have many fine qualities. And you’re paying for dinner.” Their eyes met. “You are paying for dinner, right?”
“I am indeed.” The truth was, Mark paid for most things. He made much more money than Abby did—how much more, she didn’t want to think about. They’d talked about it, early on, with Mark arguing that it made sense for him to be the one who picked up all the checks when they went out to dinner and paid for things like theater tickets and vacations. It’s my pleasure, he’d told her, so sweetly and sincerely that she’d immediately believed him. Whenever he’s around you, Mark looks like the heart-eyes emoji, Abby’s best friend Lizzie had said once. Like he can’t believe he got so lucky. And Abby felt lucky, too.
A waiter set down a bowl of baba ghanoush and a basket of pita triangles fresh from the oven. Abby picked up a wedge of warm bread. Mark picked up a spoon.
“So listen,” he said.
“I’m listening,” Abby replied, feeling warmth and affection, and the slightest twinge of anxiety. Mark was smart and handsome, hardworking and successful. He was funny, and he appreciated Abby’s sense of humor. And he loved her. Over the past two years, they’d built a life of shared routines, of puzzles and Netflix and Sunday morning walks through South Philadelphia that ended at the French bakery in the Bok Building （Abby would get a croissant or a pain au chocolat; Mark would get a glass of water）。 Their relationship had progressed without a single hitch or misstep. They’d slept together after their third date and had agreed to be exclusive the next morning. In the months that followed, they’d attended weddings and brises and baby namings as a couple. They agreed on most of the big things, and rarely fought over the small ones. At some point, they’d move in together, and at some point after that, Abby assumed, Mark would propose.