THE CRUISE

Two singles, they were seated together at dinner on the first night of a cruise to the Mexican Riviera. Alice was forty-something-high, newly divorced, childless, a legal secretary for a downtown firm. George, sixty-ish, was a recently widowed professor of business, a successful (or just plain lucky) investor. His two grown daughters had prevailed on him to get away on his first cruise.

Alice and George had traded the above basic information and made other innocuous conversation during a leisurely meal. Having finished their entrees, they were awaiting delivery of dessert when Alice declared, “I’m not going to bed with you.”

George was mildly surprised. Their conversation had been devoid of sexual innuendo. He hadn’t made any overtures, and certainly had not intended to do so. He thought to diffuse any inadvertent anxiety, so he said, simply, “You’re right.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, suspiciously.

By way of explanation, but not apology, he replied, “I came on this cruise for a change of pace, some new scenery, some good food, a little pampering, perhaps a little light conversation. I wasn’t seeking sex, and didn’t want any involvement. So I’m in agreement with what you said. Whether you don’t want to go to bed with me, particularly, or with anyone at all, or why, doesn’t concern me. I don’t think that being seated with someone at dinner requires, or entitles, me to inquire about their sexual preferences. Enough said. I’m more interested in what you think of the entertainment on board.”

“Entertainment?”

“Yes. The pianist.” He gestured toward the man seated at a nearby electric keyboard.

Alice paused. Maybe she had overreacted again, as her therapist had warned. Maybe this guy really hadn’t said anything suggestive, but was just being pleasant. Oh, hell. She turned to look at the piano player, who was fumbling through a futile attempt to play a Scarlatti something. Uncertain whether this was a trick question, she hedged, “Is he sight-reading?”

George replied, drily, “Barely. Maybe with one eye.”

Alice giggled. Guessing that they were again on safe conversational ground, and that the pianist wasn’t George’s cousin, she ventured, “My ten-year-old niece plays better.”

George nodded. “For what they charge on this cruise, you’d think they’d offer something better. Unless he’s a guest who just seated himself there.”

Alice warmed to the subject: “No, I saw him earlier, playing for the cocktail hour. With the girl drummer.”

George nodded.

Alice said, “You’re right. We do deserve better. Someone should say something.”

George wasn’t looking for a cause. “Maybe he’s the captain’s cousin, with a sick wife at home.”

Alice rolled her eyes. “I doubt it. I may say something to the cruise director. Anyway, I think I’ll skip dessert. Shall we get some fresh air?”

George smiled, slightly. “Spoken like a true music-lover. Have a good airing. I’ll hang in for the tarte tatin. Maybe catch you later.”

Alice caught herself glaring, and turned away to avoid George’s notice. “Yes.” Then she rose slowly, trying to suppress a rising resentment at George’s self-control, and her own lack thereof, and left the table. “Smug know-it-all,” she thought. “Damned right, I won’t go to bed with him!”