“Purcell must have beat State in the Homecoming Football game,” Emma answered. “Students are doing laps on the bypass. It’s a tradition.”

“Tradition?” he responded with mocking. “These kids would be doing the same thing if we lost.”

He got out of the car to assess the blockage, though the prospect for getting back to the other side of town anytime soon seemed dim. Thunderclouds were egging on a premature nightfall, and the students were anxious to take full advantage of it. Bumper-to-bumper traffic was inching along so slowly celebrators occasionally got out of their vehicles to engage in boisterous exhibitions; several young women popped out of sunroofs sporting only Halloween masks. As Michael watched and listened to the pagan exuberance, he detected some disconnection between what was going on in front of him and what he thought he saw and heard on the other side of the road in a field. Those individuals nearest him were clearly enjoying themselves, yet it was harder to determine the state of those out in the fading dusk. Fleeting glimpses of nude bodies in waist-high grass suggested something of an unsanctioned nature. The sound of drunken girls screaming at all hours of the night was not unusual in a college town, but these cries also included those of men. Given none of the participants could be fully seen, the noise was unsettling to hear. Michael got back into the car without mentioning it, but Emma noted his change of expression.

“Did you see something out there?”

He shook his head, indicating he had not, but in an unconvincing manner.

“I was wondering if you saw it.”

“Saw what?”

“The horse.”

“A horse?”

The young woman realized he had no idea what she was talking about. “The horse over at the stable by Nadir Road got out last night. But no one knows if it escaped or was stolen. It might be some Halloween shenanigans. I thought maybe you saw it roaming around out there in the dark.”

“Fortunately not.” Michael looked back over his shoulder at the row of storefronts and turned off the ignition key. “Let’s eat something.”

The painter was not always so guarded or scripted in what he said, yet he had grown guarded out of some repressed memory of impropriety dating from youth. He could not tell what people were thinking when they were listening to him, even though he was sure he would eventually offend (or disenchant) them if he spoke too freely for too long. He did not generally have proof of this, but he nevertheless twisted on his words for hours after a conversation, or until his next meeting with the person assuaged his inexplicable remorse. It was an irrational preoccupation, but it was hardwired in him. Given this, Michael’s modes of adult discourse were limited; and given Emma was a woman—and a woman to whom he was strongly attracted—, he had only one good option with her in their present straits. Silence would not only be his best defense against provoking her unanticipated (and unwelcome) candor, but also the best defense against his own imprudent remarks. Regardless, the deli was little more than a large window with stools, and its closed-in character invited frankness.

Emma was matter-of-fact as she blew on her hot split-pea soup. “I should probably leave after we eat.”

Michael eyed his Reuben sandwich moodily.

“You look sad,” she observed. “You should be happy.” She reached across the table to squeeze his fingers. “We have forty-eight more minutes together.”

What she had meant by happy was certainly grateful. He would not stroke her ego by expressing any gratitude.

“Are you upset with me because of what I said about your friend?”

“Omar is my brother.”

“Of course.” She blew on her soup, again. “I would not come between you and him. I would hope you could trust me, too.”

Again, where was the trust in a woman who would cheat on her fiancé?

“You can ask me whatever you want, Michael. I hope you know that.”

She was trying to lure him into letting down his guard so she could pummel him with another speech on friendship. His lack of reply settled over the table like a noxious fog.

Emma sat up to peer over it. “Why are you so grumpy?”

“Am I grumpy?”

Her spoon clicked dully in her bowl.

“Why was Erica at the service?” he asked.

She looked up. “Was Erica at the service?”

“Why would she go if she hated Jacques so much?”

Emma shrugged. “Erica’s bark is worst than her bite.”

“What does that mean?”

“They had a thing for a while.”

“A thing?”

“A midnight thing.”

Michael could never fathom casual attitudes about sex.

“Why do you care?” she inquired.

“I don’t care.”

“But you’re grumpy. And even though you won’t say why, I know it’s to do with me.”

The edge of his answer frayed with feeling. “It’s just that I don’t understand.”

Emma fished a piece of ham out of her bowl to nibble on. “What don’t you understand? We’re spending time together, and we’re having a nice meal.”

His sandwich served as a wedge to blunt a reply.

“What we have is artistic,” she continued.

He riled at her insincere appraisal of their union.

The young woman tried to probe his look. “Are you thinking we’re in a relationship?”

He did not want to hear her deny it with her lips, so said it for her. “No.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

She had denied it anyway, by letting his characterization go unchallenged.

“What’s the matter, Michael?”

“It’s just that I don’t understand.”

“You’ve already said that.”

He used different words. “It’s confusing for me.”

She was too blithe. “It’s confusing for me, too.”

“But my confusion is materially different than yours.”

“How so?”

Michael would not delve into specifics. “It’s to do with contradiction.”

“Contradiction?” she repeated. “Yours or mine?”

He was at another impasse.

Emma looked over with bafflement. “You speak in riddles. I can’t help you if you speak in riddles.”

He now stared broodingly at his pickle slice.

She jabbed at another morsel of meat, asking pointblank, “Are you a virgin?”

“Of course not.”

The remark had at least garnered an unequivocal response; Emma left it at that.

Michael rived a piece of sour dough bread and slapped it down on her plate. “Eat your soup, Emma. You never eat your food.”

“But I am eating.” She picked out another piece of pork. “See?”

“And what’s this vegetarian malarkey, anyway?” he griped. “Just one more contradiction.”

The sandwich maker pointed toward the window. “Looks like traffic is letting up a little.”

Michael glanced at the dark glass, seeing Emma push away her bowl with a frown in the reflection.

“Excuse me.” She leapt to her feet and rushed to the bathroom.

The man remained seated and mulled over the frustrating exchange. Swallowing his pride, he got up after a few minutes to check on her; she was sitting half-in and half-out of the bathroom stall, wilting under a sputtering fluorescent light. “Are you okay?” he asked.

Her cheeks were blotchy, and strands of mucus dangled from her nostrils to dab the rim of the dirty toilet. He knelt down beside her to see bits of her feeble meal floating in the commode.

She croaked, “I have a taste for meat these days. That’s all.”

The man flushed the toilet and tore off a length tissue to blot her nose and face. “Do you need to go to a doctor?”

“No.” Her gaze fell contritely on the bowl. “I’m pregnant.”

Michael plopped down more forthrightly to his knees. “What?”

Her hand lit on his forearm in a needful way. “The main reason I took a week off from school was because I went to Chicago to have an abortion. But I couldn’t go through with it.”

He was thrown. “But I thought you took off school because your father died?”

She had no more secrets. “I have no father, Michael. Or, at least, there aren’t any men among my mother’s acquaintance I would want to claim as my father.”

The round of revelations placed him solidly on the cold floor. “But the wristwatch?”

“Secondhand store. I bought it for you.”

The broadsided man fumbled for a next question. “Does he know?”

“You mean the father?”

“Yes.” He looked down at her ring. “Does he know?”

“Evan knows nothing,” she rasped. “Nor will I tell him.”

He was now completely lost.

Emma explained in her own way. “It’s harder to fall out of love than it is to fall in love, Michael.” She took hold of his hand. “Help me up.”

With one last piece of tissue to blow her runny nose, he flushed the toilet a second time and rose against the stall partition, pulling her up off the grimy floor with him.

On returning to her feet, she sighed. “Sometimes all a woman wants is to be swept off her feet.”

Everything from a woman’s mouth was a riddle to him. “What are you going to do about school?”

“I’m still leaving school.”

“But your scholarship?”

“I may not have a scholarship for much longer.”

Michael asked a question to which he did not know the answer. “Why would they take your scholarship away?”

Her eyes again fell on the toilet bowl. “There’s a scandal on school. Everything connected to Seth Bowles is under investigation, including the scholarships under his control.”

Michael scrambled. “But his tapes are of undergraduates…”

She hastened to add, “there’s nothing to keep the school from tarring me with the same brush.”

“You must stay and fight,” he insisted.

“I can’t stay here.” She pointed out the front of her soiled dress, squeaking, “I missed.”

He took her over to the sink to wipe down the garment with a soapy paper towel. A new dynamic existed between them, although Michael was slow getting up to school on it.

“Can we go back to your place?” she sniffled.

“Yes,” he said, throwing the wet towel away in the same receptacle. “Let’s go home.”