I reminded him that he had wanted to get to know my inner world, and what better time for deep conversation than now? Before he could regroup, I suggested we discuss literature.
I asked whether he liked Jack London. It seemed like an especially appropriate topic under the circumstances.
Then I began cheerfully summarizing “To Build a Fire,” that famously grim story about a man who freezes to death because he underestimates the cold. In my sweetest voice, I pointed out that the whole tragedy could have been avoided if he’d respected the weather.
The meaning was not lost on Walter. The look he gave me from under his brows had nothing to do with romance, soul-searching, or personal growth. It was pure survival instinct.
The little details he’d probably fussed over before leaving home—his coat, his hat, his carefully curated thoughtful-man image—now looked ridiculous. Finally, unable to take either the cold or my commentary any longer, he cut me off.
He said he had to leave immediately because something urgent had come up. He started fumbling around for an explanation, muttering about important matters that suddenly required his attention.
I asked, as mildly as possible, what kind of urgent matter could appear in the middle of a Friday night date we had planned in advance. The question hung there in the freezing air.
Cornered by his own bad excuse, he blurted out that it was work. He had, he said, just remembered that he needed to send his boss an important report right away.
