He thought things were going pretty well.

They had gone to dinner and then to a movie. She even agreed to come back to
his apartment for a drink.

He hoped she didn’t mind that he ordered for her at the restaurant.

“Broiled monk fish,” he said. “It’s high in gluten.”

And he hoped she wasn’t annoyed that he picked out dessert.

“No calories in Jello,” he said.

And he hoped she wasn’t bothered that he picked the movie.

“Don’t you just love Westerns?” he said.

And he hoped she wasn’t upset that he bought her popcorn.

“No salt. No butter,” he said. “No clogged arteries.”

And he hoped she wasn’t insulted when he asked her to take off her shoes before walking on his shag rug.

“Crushes the fibers,” he said.

And he hoped it didn’t offend her when he slipped the coaster under her glass of cran-apple wine, when she set the glass down on his pine coffee table.

“Leaves rings,” he said.

And he hoped she wasn’t uncomfortable sitting on the plastic covering that was still on his couch.

“Keeps it clean,” he said.

And he hoped he hadn’t bored her by going on and on all night, talking about the frozen food business.

“I was nominated for the Frozen Food Hall of Fame,” he said. “Not many people can say that.”

And he hoped she wasn’t disconcerted when he showed her his collection of G.I. Joe dolls.

“Some are anatomically correct,” he said.

Yes, he thought, things were going to work out well between them.

He glanced at his watch. She had been in the bathroom a long time. He went to the door and knocked.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

There was no answer.

He tried the door. It opened.

The room was empty. The window was wide open.

“Oh dear,” he said. “The heating bill.”

He shut the window behind her.