"I guess it must be different for you," she said, "because you're a man."

"Don't give me that. All I'm saying is everyone likes to get laid, and if you don't have to work at it, all the better."

"So we just crash this swingers' party, pretending to be married, get laid, and have a good laugh about it?"

"Something like that," he said.

"Great plan."

"Isn't it?"

She knew he thought his flippancy would disarm her; but she knew that, so it didn't. Where did Mike get these ideas?

Just because something was possible didn't mean it had to be tried. Mention robbing a bank, and within a half hour, he has sketches of floor plans made on the backs of receipts, napkins -- whatever he has handy -- and he's tugging your sleeve to get you to go "case" the Bank of America security with him. 

In fifteen minutes, he was holding her apartment door open. "We'll take my car," he said.

"I'd rather take my own car," she said, wanting to point out that she had never explicitly agreed to go along with any of this, but she knew that her degree of tacit approval was the equivalent. Hell, she was searching for her purse.

"We can't show up in two cars. We're supposed to be married."

"You think they're watching the curb for people to pull up? Anyway, we can tell them we're just coming from work, so we had to come separately."

"We're not taking two cars. We can take your car if that makes you feel better, but we're not taking two cars."

* * *

The assurance of controlling her own car -- of being the one who would have the keys -- helped Claire to relax. Mike sat in the passenger seat with his body turned in her direction so that his back was against both the seat and the door. It couldn't have been comfortable. He established an air of furtive scheming there in the dark car, hands deftly pantomiming some intricate, surreptitious skill. Claire tried to glance over as they passed under a street light, but only caught a flash of the motion frozen in time. She listened more carefully. Picking a lock. That was it. He was contorting his hands to show himself picking a lock. Claire pulled herself from her own churning thoughts and realized that Mike was recollecting the time he once went to the zoo for three consecutive weekends to determine the best method to release the animals, which order to release them in -- just in case he got caught before freeing them all -- and enough details for a dozen contingency plans. 

"It was ethics that kicked the whole thing off, and in the end it was ethics that put a stop to it," he said, as if he were doing the voice-over for an A&E special all about the great Municipal Zoo Heist That Never Actually Happened. 

"It's better to have a couple of rare tigers alive in captivity than to have them killed in traffic, or shot in someone's backyard. It's better than them not being around at all. I guess my plan was a little half-baked. I was intent on getting them out of the zoo, but I hadn't actually thought that it was only half of the goal. Once they were out, they would actually be in a worse situation than before. Unless, of course, I could have managed to arrange an airplane. Well, a handful of planes, at least. Maybe one plane to get them all out of the state, or even down to Mexico, but then I'd have to split them up -- maybe one plane for each continent. Well, it would depend on the animals, of course. But first I would need trucks to get them to the airport. At least..."

"Did you say Appleseed Avenue?" Claire asked, hoping to stop the process before it really got going.

"Yeah."

"I can get there off of Gilbert, right?"

"Right. Gilbert to Warner, then Appleseed. Stay in the left lane on Warner. You'll have to turn left on Appleseed--"

"Got it."

"Sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. I'm a little tense about all this, you know. Just remind me when we get to Warner."

"All right. What was I talking about?"

Claire turned toward the side window not to let Mike see her grin. This was the guy who had planned the perfect murder how many times. When she turned back, she caught him turning away. He looked hurt. Just the fact that she had turned away was a signal, after all. You don't turn away to save someone's feelings, you turn away to draw attention to the point that you are such a considerate person that you would try to save someone's feelings, and that has nothing at all to do with saving someone's feelings.

Appleseed. That's right, Professor Downing lived on Appleseed. The street was only three blocks long, and ended in a cul-de-sac. What if it was his house? Or if he was there? That would not be cool. I mean, some salesperson from Dillard's or something like that, someone you would never have to see again, or at least never have to talk to again. And what if he was the one who picked you -- or you picked -- however it worked? What if he was terrible? What if he was good? What if he talked during it? What if he said he had always fantasized about you? Or that he loved you? Or what if you were the one who said it? What if he didn't say a word?

Now you're thinking like Mike. None of it mattered, because you suspect you won't actually make it all the way up the walk, anyway, much less into the door and into the foreplay of mingling, then into a bedroom, or onto a sofa, or wherever they have room for everyone. You probably won't even stop the car. Mike'll argue for a minute, but he'll settle down. It'll be like a trial run, you can tell him, and he can bring the right partner next time, when he really goes through with it. You'll treat at Schlotzky's to make it up to him, and listen to him talk with his mouth full of turkey on sourdough about whatever scheme comes to mind between your turning off the ignition and his getting his own fountain drink.

"Warner," Mike said. Then a few seconds later, "Warner, Claire!"

"What?" Claire snapped her gaze around to see if she had ran a red light.

"Warner. That was Warner."

"Oops."

 "It's not a big deal. Just turn around at the Safeway."

  She checked the rear view carefully, signaled to change lanes for a full three seconds before gliding over, kept the signal on as she braked smoothly and turned into the parking lot. She wanted to be careful about everything. What if she had run a red light right into cross traffic? Close calls were warnings. She turned off the ignition.

 "I don't want to go through with this," she said.

"Come on, Claire. You promised you would at least go inside with me," Mike reminded, in legal-beagle mode. This was contract law to him.

"I can't. I know someone who lives on that street."

"So?"

"So? So... I don't want him to see me there."

"What? You think everyone in the neighborhood knows what's going on at 3235 Appleseed Avenue tonight?"

"Well, you do!"

"I found out sort of on accident. Anyway, the guy I heard it from doesn't live around there. He went to one of their parties once."

"It doesn't matter. I'm not going. You can go if you want to. I'll drop you off on the corner."

"Claire," Mike said, seeming to grasp something more than the logic of the moment. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to force you to do this. I just got carried away. You know me. I get hold of an idea and I -- "

He realized he didn't know how that metaphor was supposed to end. Claire was a bit surprised that he knew this about himself, but it's not like he wasn't smart. She didn't want to look at him, because he might think she was gloating over his admission. That, and she knew if she avoided eye contact that he would think she was really distressed.

"Look, we said we'd open the door, and if either one of us wanted to back out at that moment, we could just pretend to be at the wrong party. I bet that sort of thing happens all the time."

"I know, I know," Claire said. She inhaled deeply and let it out in a puff. "Just give me a minute."

I should just offer to drop him off at a bar where I know he can score. Or I could call a friend if I had to. But he's not actually doing this to get laid. He's doing it for his own gratification, to prove he could beat the house, so to speak. 

So why does it have to be on Appleseed Avenue?

And what the hell was your presumably British professor doing in an urban honky-tonk, anyway? You were both with your own people, but there was no sense in pretending the other wasn't there. You were all adults, after all. It wasn't like being caught by a high school teacher. So what the hell, just go over and say hi, and he was on his way to do the same, anyhow. So what the hell, why not just this one dance as long as you're on the dance floor when the band kicks in and the singer is egging you on, telling you he won't start singing until you start dancing, and people clapping in time and calling for you to dance? And where did a guy with an accent like that learn to dance like this? So let him buy you a drink, then a few more dances, and what the hell I think I'm getting dizzy. That's not the same cologne you wear in class, is it? And then it was too late because it meant you had noticed before, and were paying attention now, so what the hell?   

What would he think if he saw you at a swingers' party? How would he think back to that night that really did start innocently enough with a little two-step?