In a bar in Harvard Square, no wider than most alleyways and just as dark, are a man and a woman sitting close together, shoulders touching, holding hands, staring deep into each other's eyes, searching each other's face for permission to recapture what escaped them twenty years ago.
"How long will you be in town?" he asks.
"Until tomorrow afternoon. My plane leaves at three," she says, wishing he hadn't noticed her getting on the bus. But he did see her, and in the middle of a crowd of people waiting to cross the busy intersection, he lifted her up and off the step just before the door closed and the bus pulled away. By the time she recognized him and realized what was happening, he was laughing and twirling her around. Traffic was stopped at the signal light, and people rushing to cross the street paused to stare and then smiled as they hurried past. In the very next instant he skirted her through the first doorway they came to and into the nearest booth.
"It seems like yesterday when I held you close."
"Don't say that... it's been twenty years," she says looking away.
"What do you mean... don't say that. It seems like yesterday. What if I hadn't seen you getting on that bus? I might never have found you again." He brushes her cheek with his fingertips.
"Can't believe you recognized me. It's been twenty years," she says. "Things change, people change." She's uneasy, not sure how she feels, everything is happening so fast; and besides, the past, she believes, should be left to itself. She sighs deeply.
They first met each other in the spring when she was a senior in high school and he was attending classes at Boston University. By fall, against the wishes of her parents, she moved into the city to share his apartment and his bed. There, in that one room, they shared laughter and tears and survived the turmoil of the sixties.
He can hardly believe it... finally he's found her again and feels overwhelmed with passion. He thinks... she's beautiful, just like I pictured her to be. In a most haunting way, her gray hairs reflect flickering light from the candle on their table. He leans back against the booth mesmerized.
"I would recognize you anywhere, anyplace, anytime," he pauses, then says, "Do you remember the last time we were together."
The image floods into her mind and she catches her breath, covers her mouth with her hand, then softly says, "It was awful. You were shouting so."
"So were you. We were foolish. We never should have parted. You know that... don't you?"
"We were young and impetuous," she says, reaching for her glass.
The last time they were together, they argued over some of his friends. She disliked them and refused to be home if they came for the weekend. In a rage he walked out. Now, sitting there, shoulders touching, they agreed that they both behaved unreasonably, but that it was a culmination of all the fits and starts their relationship had endured.
"I went back to the apartment, a week later. You weren't there. No one knew where you were," he says. "I looked everywhere for you. Even called your aunt. She didn't say anything about you being there. I wished she had. I thought you had gone home. Then I got your letter."
"Always did take you too long to cool down," she says, leaning towards him, nudging him teasingly. "It was over. You knew that. We had taken it as far as we could."
"So you said."
"We needed space. I needed time."
"But twenty years?" he says. They laugh. Then more serious, he says, "Parting like that left too much unfinished... too much. There wasn't any closure." He moves close, their noses touch, they kiss, and for an instant their bodies yield to memory.
"You look just the same. Do you know that?" She leans back as if to get a better look at him. "Look at you... British field jacket... hiking boots. You look like your plane just touched down from Tangiers, and your pockets are filled with contraband."
She giggles. He leans closer, touching her cheek, whispering, "I want to hold you all night."
She turns her head until their eyes meet; then, she quickly looks down at the glass she is turning round and round between her fingers.
"Is there someone? Someone in your life?"
"No," she says, "there's no one... but..."
"But?"
"I brought my daughter with me."
He catches his breath and for a moment doesn't speak, then a smile spreads his face. "You have a daughter? How old is she?"
"She's thirteen."
"Great. Tell me about her."
"I have two boys... fifteen and seventeen," she says. "They're home."
His smile wanes and he feels the sting of a back-hand. He thinks... she married. "You got married."
"Yes. And divorced. I hoped you would find someone and get married. I always wished that for you."
"I didn't. How long have you been divorced?"
"About four or five years... I'm not counting...." She talks on as if she needs to explain, to apologize. "It's simple really, things just didn't work... we squeezed what we could out of each other."
"Sounds like you're talking about toothpaste," he says.
She shrugs saying, "I never thought about marriage that way... but I guess it fits."
"I don't know..." his voice drifts off, "I never married." He motions towards the bar for another drink.
"Maybe you were lucky," she says.
He thinks that's a lousy thing for her to say, since some things are better found out for one's self.
"Do you still want to get together tonight? I'd like you to meet my daughter. You could come to the hotel." Her eyes widen and her heart quickens, "I'd like that," she says, waiting for him to respond.
He's not listening. He's wondering what it would be like to have a daughter. Quickly putting that from his mind, he asks about her job.
"Ten years ago I got my engineering degree... in design engineering...." This time as she talks, his mind drifts back to the day they separated, the shouting, the vicious words and how she said she was sick of their lives not going anywhere, of his going-nowhere friends. Finally her voice intrudes upon his thoughts.
"... it's a large corporation that designs and produces hydraulic lifts for hatchbacks."
"And bombers," he says interrupting. "Isn't that a contradiction?"
"What do you mean?"
"How we forget?"
"Forget what? What are you talking about?"
"Your beliefs... our beliefs. Remember the demonstrations? We worked so hard to make a difference. Don't you remember... we were into trees and dirt... things like clean air, equality... the marches for civil rights... don't you remember our talks on manipulation of the classes by governments, corporations?"
She breathes deeply and says, "Of course, I do," adding, "We were just kids."
"Kids! For kids we made some pretty hefty decisions."
"Common... we looked at things idealistically."
He can't believe what she is saying or the lightness in the tone of her voice. "If I remember correctly some of us were making decisions that changed the course of our lives... as well as the country's," he snapped.
"Those decisions were important to the times. It's the eighties now. It's different. We're different. There are different priorities now... for all of us," she says.
His mouth falls open with unspoken words. Silence hangs heavy between them as seconds turn into minutes.
Finally half smiling he says, "So you have three kids."
"You'd like them," she says.
"Probably. I never had anything against kids."
She closes her eyes for a second, the air suddenly feels thick and heavy. She reaches over and touches his arm. Consumed by the nearness of him, she suddenly feels glad he saw her getting on to the bus, and the love she used to feel for him rushes over her.
"I really loved you," she says looking longingly at him. "I always will." She nudges his shoulder with hers and says, "I told you about me, now tell me about you. What are you doing these days?"
He looks at her for a moment then answers slowly, "I work for the Center for Constructive Change." Seeing the raise of her eyebrow, he continues, "Some of us are still doing it... fighting hunger, poverty... the population crisis."
Her face tightens. She remembers, he thinks. He can see hurt come into her eyes and now wants to hold her tight to him, to tell her it's all right, that nothing matters but finding each other; but instead, he blurts out, "Some of us took the kid stuff seriously."
Her cheeks flush and she looks down into the empty glass on the table in front of her.
"Remember that decision we made?" he says.
For an instant her eyes spit anger and she lashes out, "You made."
"I made when you and I were committed to each other," he says.
"You wanted it. It was your choice."
"I know, I know, and I'm not sorry." Suddenly he feels released from the past, and he looks at her. "Honest, I'm not sorry for any decisions I made as a kid... but you must admit..." his eyes twinkle and he smiles, "deciding never to have children certainly limited my choices." A short pause, then with a wide grin, he adds, "For marriage."
She hears laughter and glances up towards the door where people are coming in. "Let's go somewhere else. Some place where we can be alone," she says, the words sticking in her throat.
"Damn," he snaps his fingers together, "I've got this meeting at six."
"Come to the hotel when you're finished." She feels panicky, not wanting it to end here and suddenly she's sure he's the only man she ever really loved.
"Why don't you come with me?" he says, watching her closely.
"Where?"
"I'm giving a lecture on the possibility of a nuclear holocaust. We're in the process of identifying and educating freeze supporters. It won't take long. I have one film to show."
She hesitates. "My daughter is waiting for me."
"We'll go pick her up." He is being cynical; she doesn't notice. "She can come. The experience will be good for her. In fact, I recommend it."
"I don't know," she pauses, "I'm not sure that's..."
He raises his hand, "Hey... it's okay... never mind."
"I would, but we're..."
"No... it's okay really. I understand." He lifts his glass to his lips and swallows, all the while thinking she's right, things have changed and yet in some respects they haven't at all. He wishes he hadn't spotted her getting on to the bus and that relationships didn't hurt so much.
He runs his fingers through her hair and brings his hand to rest on the back of her head. Pressing his cheek against hers, he says, "I thought about you so many times."
Tears come into her eyes.
"Let's walk," he says.
Outside in the growing grayness of late afternoon, they walk silently side by side passing storefronts, towering brick buildings. and concrete walls covered with layers upon layers of peeling posters. She reaches over and takes his hand, then leans close. They had often walked along with her hanging onto his arm like this, when the walls of their one room apartment bulged from the intrusion of friends and loud political discussions.
"Do you remember the skinny cot we slept on?"
"Could I forget?" he said. "My back ached every morning."
"Was it the cot or the sex?" She says squeezing his hand. He grins; they laugh and playfully push each other while weaving in and around people gathering to watch a street dancer.
"I'm really glad you recognized me getting on that bus."
"I feel like all the planets have gone retrograde," he says, moving slightly to miss bumping in to a woman who was bent over picking through discarded trash, "Little bit of Karma."
"What?"
"Nothing... nothing," he says.
Wrapping his arm around her, he stops walking and hugs her tight. Standing there in the middle of the sidewalk, holding tight to each other, people brushing passed, he becomes sharply aware of the contrast between his terrorist appearance and her sophistication. And what a short time ago felt magical now makes him feel awkward.
He steps back looking down at her; there's a short pause, a catch in his breath and then, with only the slightest hesitation, he says, "It's five. And my meeting is at six."
Before she can speak, he hails a cab, which pulls instantly to the curb and in one sweeping motion he swings the door open for her to get inside. When she does, he steps back on to the curb and she realizes he isn't coming with her. Almost desperately, she reaches out grabbing his hand.
"Please come to the hotel after your meeting. We're at the Sheraton."
She thinks she sees him nod before he brushes his lips over her hand, kissing her fingertips every so lightly, yet she isn't sure. The car door closes and she barely can see him as she strains to look through the yellow grime on the window. She calls out to him, but she knows he doesn't hear because he hurries off down the sidewalk without looking back.
As the cab pulls away from the curb she turns round to look out of the rear window. Fixing her eyes on the back of his khaki jacket, she watches him disappear into the swirling mass of people crossing the intersection.