Ricardo knew Felicia would arrive late in a flurry of apologies and explanations. Still, he chose to arrive at Marsha's Bistro early to get a table by the window overlooking Virginia Highlands, home to Atlanta's hip galleries and bookstores. He enjoyed people watching and he enjoyed being seen.

Tall and thin, with carefully trimmed blond hair graying at the sides, he wore a yellow and gray shirt with white slacks and no socks. The top three buttons of his shirt were open. A gold necklace, matching the gold stud in his left ear, glittered in the fluorescent light of the cafe. He frowned as he recalled that Felicia once noted he looked like a man wearing amulets to ward off the evil spirits of approaching middle age.

After ordering a Campari and soda, he assured the waiter, whom he knew as Andre, that his friend would soon join him. He watched as Andre in tight jeans turned toward the bar.

Felicia strode into the restaurant just as he finished his first drink and ordered another. He watched her wind her way through the crowd. She walked with a sense of authority, her heels clicking as if she were much taller than her five feet, two inches. Heads turned, not because she was beautiful, but because her confidence made her sexy. Her face opened to a full smile when she spotted her friend.

"Sorry I'm late," she said. "I'm terrible, I know, but I refuse to pay for parking in the afternoon. I finally found a spot a few blocks away." She may have lost some of her New York accent, Ricardo thought, but she certainly kept the attitude.

"So to save three dollars, you left your dearest friend waiting. I should be angry with you." Ricardo stood up and held out his arms. "Instead, I demand a hug and a kiss." She balanced on her toes and Ricardo bent at the waist in a well-practiced greeting.

As soon as she sat down, he told her to order a drink and an entree under ten dollars. "I sold a painting this morning, but I'm still not rich enough to afford you." They laughed comfortably. "What's it been? A month? You must catch me up on everything. Derek tells me you have a new love in your life. Is his name really Larry? Not even Laurence? How drab."

Ricardo saw her confident gaze transform for an instant to a nervous stare. "It was good talking with Derek. He sounded upbeat, considering...."

"Don't change the subject now, girl. Tell me all the dirty details." He was determined to keep conversation light.

Felicia talked about Larry. "This time it's real," she said. "I can feel it." As she spoke, Ricardo tried to recall how many times he'd heard her say those same words since her divorce three years earlier.

She stopped talking long enough to order a shrimp salad and an iced tea. Ricardo ordered a hummus wrap, but showed considerably more interest in another Campari.

"You should have at least three drinks with lunch," he told her. "Helps keep things in perspective by desensitizing you for the rest of the day."

She laughed a bit too much and avoided his eyes.

Ricardo needed to talk, but he was afraid of what he might say. Until recently, he and Derek routinely invited Felicia and her latest romance to their home for dinner. This time, with Derek in the hospital, Ricardo suggested lunch at a crowded restaurant. It was a way to protect themselves and each other. They both understood this without either uttering a word.

The food arrived, and she continued where she had left off. "He's everything I'm looking for. He's fun, he's smart and he's wonderful in bed. What more is there?"

"Not much." Making a mental note to return to Larry's third attribute, Ricardo added as straight-faced as possible, "But you have to ask yourself one question: How does he make you feel?"

Ricardo stared into Felicia's deep brown eyes. He had never met anyone with eyes like hers, so dark and mysterious. They sucked in poor, unsuspecting men and refused to let go of them. He recalled the brief fling they had in college. He knew he wasn't attracted to her as a woman, yet he felt compelled to try. There was no conversion, they laughed afterwards, but more chemistry than either of them cared to admit. 

"I'm waiting for an answer." The long pauses when he spoke with Felicia drove Ricardo crazy. She'd stare into space with a slight smile on her face, as if she had to journey for an answer. "How does he make you feel? Like a little girl or like his mother?" He finally asked impatiently.

She narrowed her eyes. "Like a little girl, I guess."

"Conviction. I need conviction." Ricardo was speaking too loud for the small restaurant. An elderly woman seated next to them gave Ricardo a disapproving look. A broccoli sprout dangled from his bottom lip and Felicia instinctively reached and brushed it aside.

"OK, he makes me feel like a little girl. The way he...."

"Wrong."

"What do you mean 'wrong'?"

"He should make you feel like a little girl and like his mother. My goodness, do I have to teach you everything?"

Now it was Felicia's turn to act annoyed. "Don't give me your fag bullshit. Explain yourself, Little Ricky."

"Ricardo. Act nice or I won't impart my wisdom or let you share my dessert."

"I'm sorry, Ri-car-do, although it says Richard on your driver's license. I'll be nice."

"That's a little better," he said, acting hurt by closing his eyes and wetting his lips. "Now, as I was saying, if you truly loved him you'd want him to take care of you and you'd want to take care of him."

"That almost makes sense."

"Of course it does, girl. I heard it on Oprah!"

They both laughed. "Look," Ricardo said in his let-me-momentarily-step-out-of-character voice. "There's no way of knowing if this is the one or not. It takes time. You'll just have to wait like the rest of us."

"But waiting is a bitch."

"Tell me about it." He felt his voice break and his eyes glaze.

Felicia squeezed his hand.

After a moment, he leaned forward. "Now's the time to tell me about Mr. Right's sexual prowess."

Before Felicia could speak, the waiter cleared their plates and asked if they were interested in dessert. Like a hungry dog suddenly shown his food bowl, Ricardo almost panted as he ordered a chocolate éclair. "With two forks, please." Whispering, he turned to Felicia. "The éclairs are to die for, but I'll look like Marlon Brando's younger brother if you don't help me out."

She readily agreed.

"Now, let's see. Where were we? Oh, yes. Your boudoir."

Ricardo knew how comfortably Felicia would share the most intimate details of her sex life with him. In the old days, he would do the same, but lately both of them found it so difficult to talk about what they really needed to say. Derek's illness created an invisible fence between them. As close as they were, they remained separated and separate.

"Last night, I had three orgasms in a row. That hasn't happened since...since before Dalton and I were married." Pausing, Felicia added, "but Larry has this annoying habit of asking if it was good afterwards."

"Oh, I hate that."

"I know. I mean couldn't he tell?" They laughed. "I'm sprawled out on the bed, drained, and he wants to know if it was all right."

"Men," Ricardo said. "Anxieties and insecurities, seasoned with testosterone. They're all the same. But utterly delicious." They giggled like two schoolchildren making fun of their teacher.

Suddenly, Ricardo grew serious. "You are using protection, aren't you?"

"Of course."

"I've lost too many friends."

"I know." Felicia reached out once more. Lowering her eyes, she asked, "And how is Derek? Really."

"He has his good days, still able to joke.  He says the hospital food is the worst part of dying." Ricardo appeared about to say more, but changed his mind, swallowing hard. "He sends his love. He enjoyed talking to you on the phone the other day."

She spoke quickly, anxiously. "I'll stop by to visit one of these evenings, I promise." She kept her eyes lowered. His mind wandered to old times when she and Dalton, and he and Derek, would go out together. She used to get so angry when people stared at them, but Derek would laugh. "Hey, they're probably admiring your stamina being with three studs like us."

Ricardo looked at his friend. Her eyes gave her away. She was deep inside her own head.

"You're wandering again, Felicia." He snapped his fingers as if trying to break a trance.

"I was just...."

"I know where you were. Don't go there. It only hurts more, believe me."

He felt a tear tickle his cheek. She reached across the table to wipe it away.

The waiter appeared, carrying dessert. The two friends grabbed their forks desperately and submerged themselves in chocolate and cream. Once again, they were joking and laughing.

When the bill arrived, Felicia asked, "Should we get another éclair for Derek?"

Ricardo's face turned red. "He can't eat chocolate anymore." He felt his body shiver. He could no longer control his tears. Felicia took his hand.

"Enough." Ricardo took out his wallet and paid the bill. Felicia left the tip.

"I'll pay next time," she said.

"You certainly will," he responded.

As they left the restaurant, Felicia turned and said, "You know I love you."

"And I love you."

"And I love Derek, too. Please give him my best." She hugged her friend. "I know I should visit him. It's not the same as a phone call. I...I just can't."

"I understand and Derek understands."  He tried holding back what he needed to say, but the words tumbled out like objects in an overstuffed closet. "He misses hugs, Felicia. He misses you."

Felicia closed her eyes, holding back tears.

After a moment, Ricardo said, "Let me walk you to your car and then you can drive me to the hospital."

"Sure, but I have to get back to work."

"Of course."

They walked down Highland Avenue to St. Charles where Felicia parked her car. Ricardo took her hand in his and squeezed it reassuringly. She quickened her pace, her heels clicking on the pavement. "Maybe there's time for a quick visit," she said.

Wayne Scheer taught writing and literature in college for twenty-five years before he retired to follow his own advice and write. Some of his work has appeared in The Pedestal Magazine, The Moonwort Review, The Cynic Magazine, Slow Trains, and Flasher's Dozen. His writing awards include a Pushcart Prize nomination. Wayne lives in Atlanta and can be contacted by e-mail at wvscheer@aol.com.

August 2005