Claire LaZebnik - Knitting Under the Influence

“There you go,” Sari said. “And here's your pasta.” She set it down in front of him and his fury instantly vanished. He plunged happily into the pasta, tears still wet on his face.

“He couldn't really have tasted that” Jason said.

“You'd be surprised,” Sari said. “Each time you offer him something, he'll be a little more comfortable with the idea, and he'll let himself taste it a little more. At some point, he may even decide he likes it. If you keep it up, I promise you his diet will expand. You just have to insist for a while.” She looked over her shoulder to include Maria. “You both have to.”

“We will,” Jason said.

“Remember-he doesn't get anything he already likes without trying something new first.” Sari pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’ve got to go.”

Jason followed her to the front door and, as she shouldered her backpack, he said, “Look, I don't know how-” He stopped. “I was just wondering-” He stopped again with a short awkward laugh. Then he said, “It's just that Maria's here for the rest of the evening, and I don't have any plans. I was wondering- hoping-that maybe you'd come get a drink with me. Or dinner. Whatever you want. Would you? Please?”

Sari felt a flash of pleasure and triumph. Jason Smith was asking her out on a date. And he was nervous about it. Her fifteen-year-old self squealed with joy. Then she remembered she wasn't fifteen anymore.

She said, “Thanks. I can't.” She sounded rude. She decided that was a good thing. “Goodbye,” she said and reached for the doorknob.

Jason put his hand flat against the door so she couldn't pull it open. “Wait,” he said. “I’m sorry. But I just have to ask. Did I do something to make you angry? I feel like maybe I said or did something-” He paused, took a breath, started again. “Maybe at the walk? Please tell me. The last thing I’d want to do is offend you in some way.”

It almost came out then. Did he really want to know how he had offended her? She thought of the stories she could tell, of the times Charlie had been humiliated and insulted and hurt in a million different ways by Jason and his friends.

But if she told him that, he would probably apologize, say he was sorry he'd ever been such a stupid kid. Then she would end up saying something conciliatory, like it was okay, she understood, it was all in the past… She didn't want to be conciliatory. She wanted to be angry. She needed to be angry.

So she smiled at him and said, “Don't be silly. You haven't offended me at all. And I don't want to offend you, either, so please understand-this kind of thing happens to me all the time. In fact, it happens to everyone who works at the clinic. Sometimes, unfortunately, people misinterpret our concern for their kids-read more into it than is actually there.” She tilted her head with a little sigh. “It's no one's fault. Just a little misunderstanding.”

“Oh,” he said. His face was turning red. “I’m sorry. I thought-” Once again he stopped.

“You don't have to be sorry,” she said. “And please don't be embarrassed. Like I said, it happens all the time. And, really, I think it's very sweet of you to ask me out.” She knew the word “sweet” would kill him. “But this is just a job for me. Even though I come to your house. You get that, right?”

“Of course,” he said, stepping back from the door. “Of course.”

“All right then,” she said with a deliberately fake heartiness. “I’m glad we got that all out in the open.”

He just nodded, not looking at her.

“So I’ll see you Monday?” she said.

“Yeah, all right.”

He couldn't close the door behind her fast enough.

She had totally humiliated him. She should feel good about that-revenge was supposed to be sweet, wasn't it?

But it was Friday night and she had no plans. She'd end up knitting row after row of that stupid baby blanket while she watched crappy TV and sipped at a glass of cheap wine. All by herself.

That really sucked.

Kathleen wasn't spending much time in her apartment. After work, she was either out with Kevin or at his house. She stayed over a lot of nights, and even when she bothered to come home, it was only to sleep.

It wasn't until she ran into Sam Thursday morning in the parking garage of their building that it occurred to her it had been a couple of weeks since she'd last seen him. He was dressed in a suit and tie and looked tired and grim as he walked toward his car.

Kathleen was heading into the building from the opposite direction, wearing the same tight electric-blue dress she had worn the night before to a club-when it had made sense to be wearing a low-cut dress that showed an almost indecent amount of her long lean thighs. She ran to catch up with Sam.

“Hey,” she said from behind as she reached him.

Sam turned around. “Kathleen,” he said. “Now I understand why I haven't seen you in a while.” He nodded toward the dress as if it explained everything.

Kathleen put her chin up and said, “I’ve been busy.”

“I can see that. Are you going into the office later? Or have you stopped doing that?”

“Of course I’m going in,” she said. “I’m still working.”

“Oh, I didn't say you weren't working,” he said. “You're clearly working hard.” He inclined his head politely and walked off.

That night, she and Kevin had a quiet tête-à-tête at a small, extremely expensive Italian restaurant in West L.A. where everyone who worked or ate there seemed to know him by name, and then they went back to his house, where they soaked in the hot tub for a while, which of course ended with them wrestling under the sheets together, and then Kathleen told him she had to go back to her apartment. “I need a good night's sleep,” she said, sliding off the bed and on to her feet. “And some clean clothes.”

“You should leave stuff at my place,” Kevin said. He was sprawled on the bed, where the rumpled Frette sheets bore witness to their recent activity. “I’ve got a whole second closet I only use for tuxedos and ski clothes. It's mostly empty.”

“Thanks. I’ll think about it.” Kathleen pulled her dress over her head.

“Want me to come with you?”

“You don't want to. The place is just a big empty mess.”

“How can it be empty and a mess?” he asked.

“I don't know,” she said. “It just is.”

When she got home, it was even worse than she had remembered. Since she'd mostly been using the apartment as a big walk-in closet, clothes were tossed all over the place. A lot of them were dirty-after years of living with a housekeeper, she was having trouble getting used to doing her own laundry.

She pushed enough stuff off of her “bed” to clear some space for herself and went to sleep.

She woke up early the next morning, hurled herself into the shower, threw on a pair of decent black pants and a sweater (worn once or twice since the last dry cleaning, but not noticeably dirty), and raced up the back stairs. Sam's kitchen door was locked. She pounded on it. He might have already gone to work, she thought, and pounded harder.

Suddenly, it opened.

“What do you want?” He was wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. “It's eight o'clock in the morning.”

“I thought you left for work early,” she said. “You were already heading out this time yesterday.”

He ran his fingers through his rumpled gray and black hair. “I had an early meeting yesterday. And it almost killed me. I’m not a morning person.”

“I’m getting that sense,” she said. “Anyway, you're up now. I’ll run out and grab us some bagels and coffee.”