It was the late 1980s, and I had not kissed a woman since a night in early autumn when I took my girlfriend Mina to see the Yankees at the Stadium. After the game she informed me, while we lingered in our seats and watched the crowds shrink away (it was a practice of mine to be the last person out of a stadium), that if I did not want to marry her sometime soon and start a family, then she, being twenty-seven and not getting any younger, really thought we should put an end to the whole charade.
We had been dating almost a year, and it was not the first time she had ever threatened this. Nor was it the first time I had ever responded that I wanted to wait until things were right. As I tallied up the runs, hits, and errors in my scorebook, however, it was definitely the first time she had ever shouted, “Arthur! I’ve had enough of your waiting, so why don’t you add that into your little checkbook.”
“It’s not a checkbook. It’s a scorebook.”
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