“Well” I said, “I think they call that stealing. I thought they paid television actors better than that.” 

“Maybe on some shows,” she replied. “But I’m just a working actress struggling to get by.”

 “Sure,” I responded. “Four-hundred thousand per episode must be difficult to live on.” 

“Ah,” she said, “you’ve been checking up on me.” 

“I always keep track of people who insult me and walk away with a smile on their face,” I retorted. 

I certainly wasn’t going to explain that the two women who managed my life were captivated by Maura Owens-Baden and had been steadily feeding me a diet of information about every facet of her life.  In fact, realizing that I remembered the figure so quickly bothered me a bit.

“Well,” she replied, “in the interest of tradition, why don’t we go have a cigarette and you can explain exactly how I have managed to insult you during the extensive time we have spent together.”

            With Maura still wearing my jacket, we walked toward the rear of the yard.  She pulled out her cigarettes and lighter and handed the lighter to me. 

“If I remember correctly you don’t own a lighter.” 

With some indignation I replied, “I certainly do own a lighter. It just happens to be in the pocket of my jacket which I no longer appear to possess.”

“Exactly where I suspect it was on the evening we met,” she retorted.

“Now,” I said, “you have insulted me twice.  Once by implying that I had a lighter the evening we met and second by telling me that you disapprove of me.” 

Maura’s face expressed amusement.  “I’m fairly certain that you did have a lighter before, since you were smoking alone when I saw you from inside and I don’t remember telling you that I disapprove of you.”

In a tone that sounded a bit self-pitying, even to me, I responded, “when I introduced myself before you said, ‘I already know who you are and you don’t need to impress me.’”

“How was that an insult?’ she asked.  I did know who you were and I do enjoy your songs, or should I say I am impressed by the songs you write?” 

Okay, point, game, set – but I wasn’t going to concede the match. 

“Well,” I replied weakly, “you have taken my jacket.” 

“No,” she said. “I was seated behind you and when you didn’t come back for your jacket, I rescued it so that it wouldn’t get lost in the crowd. Besides, it looked lonely.” 

For the first time in a long time I genuinely laughed until I had tears in my eyes.  I conceded the match to her.

            When I finally regained minimal control I said, “since we’ve cleared up that confusion, could we start over again?” 

I held out my hand.  “Hello, I’m Kyle Sullivan, and would you mind letting me have a cigarette and a lighter from the inside pocket of that well tailored jacket you’re wearing?” 

She smiled broadly. “Hi, I’m Maura Owens-Baden and you are certainly welcome to a cigarette.  I’m glad that you like the jacket. I’m getting rather attached to it myself.”

“In that case, consider it a present,” I responded.

“I will,” she replied. “Thank you.”

“Incidentally,” I asked, “how did you know who I was when we met in New York?”

“We rode up in the elevator together,” she responded. “You were wearing a striking pinstripe suit and talking to a man with black hair.”

“Well,” I retorted, “at least you like my clothes.”

She looked amused. “That’s not all I liked. You looked appealing, in a solitary sort of way.  I asked one of my friends at the party who you were and he told me that you were Kyle Sullivan.  When I heard your name I connected it with the songs you had written and I was even more intrigued.  It wasn’t accidental that I was on that balcony when you were there.”

“If you were interested in knowing me why didn’t you talk to me?”

“You appeared remote,” she replied. “It seemed like you didn’t want me to bother you.”

“I wasn’t being remote. I was trying to remember how to interact with an attractive woman.  I told you that when you were leaving.”

“Well,” she responded, “you’re doing much better tonight.” .  .  .

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