The best way to prepare for an evening out when you're pushing 70 is to put the blue eyeliner on before you make coffee in the morning. Eyeliner always looks best after being napped in, blinked on, and showered with, and over the span of a day achieves the smudgy look so prized by Egyptians. The same is true for blush. Put a lot of it on early, and as the day passes it may begin to look natural. I recently found out that if your face is as lined as mine it is better to use cream than powder. I had always thought it was the other way around. "Put it on the apples of your cheeks," said the pretty young woman who had also asked as tactfully as she could if I spent a lot of time in the sun.
"Every chance I get," I told her.
By 6:45 both blush and eyeliner looked perfect. I wore a black skirt and a red velvet shirt and my best flowered Betsey Johnson tights, since my ankles are now my best feature. I showed up on time. Three young women were ahead of me in line, whispering, then one turned around and shyly declared that she loves my books. I thanked her, we blushed, and they were shown to their table. What a lovely way to begin an evening, I thought. Oh, I wish Luther had seen it, I thought.
I had prepared myself to see Luther's face fall when we met, but he betrayed no disappointment or surprise. Hello and hello, a pleasant shaking of hands, we took a seat at the bar. He was handsome. His shoulders were like great big folded angel wings. He was tall. His face was bony and also very deeply lined, and he looked as if he made things. We ordered drinks. I had a Manhattan, he had a ginger ale. When did you stop drinking, I wondered, because he didn't look like a man who'd been ordering ginger ale all his life.
Was I hungry? Oh yes. We moved to a table by the window overlooking the icy creek I can never remember the name of.
I think I loved him from the moment he looked at the menu, read "petit rack of lamb," and asked the waitress how big the portion was. "That's just what they call the way they cut the chops," she explained, "nothing to do with size." He had the lamb and I forget what I had. (I never forget what I have.) We talked about making things, we talked about how he began a sculpture, "with a gesture," he said, swooping his arm in the air. We talked about what he did after the gesture part was over, and what he did was a lot like what I do with writing, figure out what it's all about by heading off in different directions, and it was all very exciting. He talked about the boring suburb where he grew up, and how in his early 20s he had become a wilderness leader. Then when he was proficient at everything, rivers, mountains, rock climbing—"there was nothing left," he said, " but to take acid and go into the woods." Acid scares me to death and so do the woods. I asked if he'd ever had a bad trip. He shook his head. "The trick is to get out of the house in time," he said.
"When did you stop drinking," I asked.
"Eight years ago," he said.
We looked out the window at the creek, the shifting patterns of dark water and thin pale ice, and the flat rocks on the bank. "I have already recorded the shape and color of those stones," he said. This reminded me of Matt Damon telling Franka Potente, "I can tell you the license plate numbers of all six cars outside," but I didn't say so.