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you’re not done that sandwich, I’ll eat it ’cause I know that wonderful boy of yours made it for you.”
    â€œScavenger.”
    â€œHey, I don’t have anyone at home making me sandwiches, thanks very much. I take what I can get.”
    â€œYeah, but you’ve got enough boys buying you dinner.”
    â€œGive me the fucking sandwich.”
    Ronnie smiled and offered the other half in her direction. “You’re welcome to it.”
    Ronnie stood up, kicking clumps of cut hair from underfoot and brushing crumbs from her lap. As an afterthought she turned and reopened the paper to page sixty-two, carefully tearing out the picture of Charles W. Stern. She folded it twice into a tiny tight square and stuffed it into the billfold of her wallet.
    â€œMan, this shit is delicious,” Lisa said with her mouth full as Ronnie returned to work.
    On Thursday evening Ronnie told Aaron she was running some errands and instead went to see Charlie read at the university. She sat quietly in the back of a theatre with what felt like endless rows of seating and watched as Charlie read a handful of poems and gave his talk on the creative process. She barely understood any of it, the poems or the creative process, and was embarrassed as she watched those around her nod in agreement or stand in single file at the microphone to ask him questions about his genius.
    They would announce their credentials before they spoke, as if to prove to him that they were allowed to speak.
    â€œMy name is Emma, and I’m doing my master’s in . . .”
    â€œMy name is Alan, and I have my Ph.D. in . . .”
    â€œMy name is Joyce, and I’m the author of . . .”
    My name is Ronnie, and I cut hair.
    She began to think coming had been a terrible idea. Without the confidence and buoyancy of a bottle of red wine and a little black dress, Ronnie felt like a stupid girl whose job it was to bring canapés on trays. She pulled on a frayed piece of wool from her blue cardigan and longed to retreat out the back door.
    Onstage Charlie was a different man than the one she had met at the party—now confident, learned, his answers constructed of words Ronnie didn’t know. Despite her insecurities, she was pleased to be in the same room as him, happy to know he still existed a week later, that she hadn’t imagined him at that party.
    When the talk was finished and the audience burst into a wave of applause, Ronnie was sure Charlie had spotted her at the back of the room. He paused ever so slightly, shifted his frame toward her, and seemed to squint in her direction, before his face relaxed into an expression of pleasure. He was escorted off to a table piled with books by a pretty blonde girl, barely twenty and likely a university volunteer, but instead of lining up or waiting for him to finish his signing and say hello, Ronnie pulled on her coat and left. When she was in the street in front of the venue she felt hot with the embarrassment that she had stalked him and was worried about what he would think. It didn’t occur to her to be concerned that she had an urge to see him at all. That she had lied to Aaron about where she was.
    On her way home from the event she picked up some dog food and milk from the convenience store, proof to show Aaron that she was engaging in something innocent and helpful. The items were unnecessary, given that Aaron barely looked up from his place on the couch when she wandered into the living room and said hello.
    â€œHow was your day?” he asked absently, flicking through channels until he settled on a predictable sitcom complete with canned laughter.
    â€œUneventful,” she offered, nestling in beside him.
    She lay her head in his lap, and while he ran his fingers through her hair, she thought of Charlie.

( CHAPTER FIVE )
    CHARLIE

    I write because it makes me feel interesting, wanted, desirable, wise. Because it’s an itch that won’t be