The door opens a crack, and in the spilled, triangular glow, a tall kid wearing a red bandana over his streaming brown hair slips out. He stops six feet away and bends slightly forward--almost a butler's bow--saying, Excuse me, Miss Karr. Mind if I join you?

Who is he? With his formal demeanor and gold granny glasses, he could be a student--some Ivy League suck-up.

Join away, I say, adding as I flash my wedding ring, I'm a miz.

My goodness garcious, ma'am, he says, those are some seriously blinding stones you're flaunting. We met before . . .

And we had. David was a Harvard Ph.D. candidate in philosophy I'd once been introduced to at the back of a reading by mutual pals. Some kind of genius, David's meant to be, though his red bandana is the flag of a gangster or biker, ditto the unlaced Timberland work boots.

I ask him how long he's been coming, and he says not hardly any time, and I say it's my first go, and he asks me if I get it, and I say if I got it, I wouldn't be out here smoking. He says same with him, adding while he drank a lot, he mostly did marijuana, which can't be so bad because it's natural.

I say--cleverly, I think--Strychnine's natural.

[...] After you, Miz Karr.

It brings me up short--his outlaw wardrobe paired with the obsequious ma'am thing--and I say testily, Are you fucking with me?

No ma'am, he says, his hands flying to his T-shirted chest.

Then it strikes me that he's just a shy kid from the Midwest raised to say ma'am like I do to every waitress and dry cleaner. We scuttle inside like a pair of field mice from our inept exchange.