I am walking across Central Park with a thawing fish under my arm. A brief rest on a park bench in the shade would be nice, but in the 94-degree heat, I fear salmonella. The crowds, the sun, the humidity-all so oppressive I consciously breathe deeply to relieve the feeling of faintness. Memories spawn energy. Late nights of Richeborg and four-hand Chopin on the piano well into the gray depths of morning. The May Day surprise with a picnic on a haystack in the Valley with a setting like a private stage with a 360-degree backdrop of cardboard cut out mountains. I am reminded that he is a romantic, talented man who just happened to cross my path in Alaska, but who really lives in this concrete Disneyland in some fifth floor walk-up on the Upper East Side.

It is, I remember, one room with a droning fan and the blessing of rent control. It is, he tells me in his lilting letters, a nest among the wilds of humanity. Life for Robert has become a tethered one, anchored to a computer. Robert has pointed out in the past that he used to live to write, but now he writes to live. I am determined to remind him that he has a gift that it will flow through him again soon. I am determined to keep any questions revealing doubt to myself. After all, it will be the first time I will have seen him in six weeks. And, too, today is the second month anniversary of my missing menses. I come bearing surprises that must delivered personally with special handling.

I would like to think that this reunion is his idea -- a rushing to outstretched arms, a relief from lingering phone calls which so pointedly lack the connection of touching. But something in his last call has left me wondering about a few things. He is nearly flat broke and for a man this is more than a temporary material discomfort. Even the way he responded when I said I would take a cab and stay with a friend. No real disappointment. Didn't I think it would be better to wait until fall when he has more money to show us around, to take us on a carriage ride in the Park after a night at the Theater? Until a few weeks ago, Robert had been total poet of the Postal Service. Express Mail love notes with two day old roses. Extravagance beyond sensibility when I thought of how he'd call before the notes arrived and tell me everything that was in them. Extravagant because even Express Mail was only there days ahead of regular Priority Mail. We had that kind of relationship, though, fitful with impulse. Even chocolates and champagne with microscopic bubbles. We would sit on the porch under a down comforter and watch the Alaska sky dissolve from orange to purple to gray and talk about the writing gazebo and nanny and golden retriever we'd have someday. And by the second bottle we'd be groping under the comforter until fear of the neighbor's eyes drove us inside. It amazes me that even now my knees buckle with these thoughts.

As I turn from West Drive to the Belvedere Castle it occurs to me that I should have called first even though I had hinted that I would come to his city this summer. At least I am not coming empty-handed. The gel packs next to the fish under the newspapers are melting and cool droplets of newsprint-tainted water are leaving a trail down the front of my white-knit pants. I wonder if the public restroom has a mirror so I can scrunch my hair once more, wipe the moisture from my face and dab my lips with Maybelline Kissing Cooler. I head for the urine-drenched concrete structure and pause at the entrance where sounds of panting discourage me. Safety over vanity. A mature decision, I think, hosting the fish into the cradle of my arm. A woman passes, eyeing the bundle like some horrible unknown. It occurs to me that people dispose of fetuses in wet newspaper bundles.

Instead I look for a car with a clean window at the Park's edge, one without a "No Radio' sign, and primp quickly with my free hand. Another passing stranger glances cautiously and I gesture innocently, "just checking my lipstick," you know. I cross the street, careful not to jaywalk or get thumped by a taxi. More incredibly long blocks to the East Side. My feet are hot and my oversized tee shirt is sticking like a sodden tent. It looks so close on the Street-Wise in Mid-Manhattan map but by now I've gone through three ethnic regions and there is a thin black man at my elbow asking angrily, "Spare change? Can you hear, woman?" I am boldly stepping forward, ignoring him. I think: I'm on a mission, caught on the scent.

Past small stores flowing to the curb with ripe fresh fruit, pungent in the heat. Past sweaty doormen in old doorways who tip their head oh so lazily as I march down their sidewalks. Cars honk and children tip over on bicycles. I wonder, should I call from a block away or just ring his door buzzer. "Hi. I am downstairs with a fish." Or should I even wait until another apartment dweller goes out, then slip in the door and climb up the five flights of stairs to knock on his door? I don't even want to think that he won't be there. It's impossible in my head scene. There is the tether of the computer, I reason.

It is almost an hour and a half of walking by the time I arrive at the right address. I am wilted with the elements and streaked with newsprint. I stand in front of the entrance and look at the old door, the façade over it, and to the mailboxes. I have a feeling of endearment for the metal missive connection. It has been a long day and I am ready for iced tea and his droning fan, to collapse in the blue velvet chair by the window that he sits in when he calls me. I think the real reason I have walked so far with this package is that, just once, I want to impress him. I know I must be grinning when I reach for the door, but before I can see my reflection, the glass moves away, pulled from the other side. I am met with a thin-lipped, sandy-redhaired woman who is connected to me in a way that is sensed immediately.

"Can I help you?'

"Ah, maybe -- I'm looking for Robert Gerstram."

"Oh?"

"I'm a friend from Alaska."

And before I ask the next obvious question, this feeling hits me, you know the one -- where your mom told you the family dog died while you were at school and you'd already seen the empty chain on the way in the house and it slams together in your head so fast, it pushes the air out of you?

"I'm his roommate, Susan."

"Oh?" I say, with a nonintentional echoing of her first response. "Listen, he never said anything -- I -- ," I stammer, and hand her the fish.

She takes it briefly and passes it back, like it has a fuse or something. I hold it for a beat and thrust it into her arms. I can feel my heart ready to push through my ribs and I can see her hands trembling. I gently take the fish back and she holds her purse up.

"I'm on my way to the store to get him some food, if you want to walk along."

The way she says "him" lets me know we're in the same boat. If it weren't for the other surprise I have with me, I would tip my hat with the grace of an Englishman and lick my wounds in private. But there is a spark in this interaction which unveils a new feeling in me. A feeling I am not very familiar with, a feeling something like anger.

We walk in rapid silence, weaving in and out of business professionals who spew from a subway exit on their way home. We look at each other in quick, indirect glances. She is small, petite even, and strong. I guess that she is an actress. OK, now I remember this strictly platonic roommate Robert mentioned once.

"Strictly platonic?" I had asked.

"Absolutely." He had answered.

And then I'm sure we went on to dream talk about the next feature of our future perfect marriage.

We enter the grocery store, which looks and feels like a giant food boutique. I follow her up the aisles while she thrusts selections into a shopping basket. I wonder if this is a rote selection, and then we join the line at the meat counter. I offer to hold the loaf of French bread she is wrestling with, awkwardly trying to balance it in the small basket. I hold it opposite the fish, as I imagine one would hold twins.

"What brings you to New York?" she asks, eyes straight ahead, scanning the goods under the glass.

"I'm...actually I was...just visiting."

"Half a pound of the artichoke pasta," she orders from the counterman in the white apron.

"I want you to know that I was under some false impressions here. There's been some sort of---"

"And a quarter pound of the Jarlsberg," she says breathily.

She bolts toward the checkout line and starts fumbling through her purse. The total is $14.64 and she hands the cashier a wrinkled twenty-dollar bill. The cashier smoothes out each fold slowly.

"I just have one question," she begins and falters, " -- Were you -- did you -- did you screw him?"

And how, I want to yell, standing there like a traffic signal with three green lights, a fish, a loaf of bread, and my surprise -- all without a prayer of changing things. I remember the fields, the porch, the floor. Instead, I lower my head and whisper.

"Is he who you want to be with?"

She reads my face and speaks with resolution, edgy with emotion but surefooted:

"Not anymore."

I stand there and scrutinize my emotions for motivation and nobility. I can't find either. The sluggish cashier lazily opens the drawer. Could she be eavesdropping? Susan grabs her items and throws them in a plastic sack without waiting for her change. I follow behind, my load jutting out like antlers. She is three yards ahead of me on the street. I think he was lucky to have such a fiery woman. Then she turns and waits for me to catch up to her.

"I want you to take these things up and talk to him -- tell him we've met and I've gone to stay with friends."

I motion that my arms are full and we keep walking. I think the idea is too challenging for the circumstances. I almost smile because we are hurrying down the hot Street passing food packages back and forth like too many footballs. When we reach the apartment steps, she has decided that we will both face him to "avoid confusion later."

Climbing the five flights of stairs in air getting hotter with each level of ascension, emotions soaring like disturbed bats in a cave, I sink to my knees near the top. Susan's cool hand touches my damp arm. Something flutters in my tummy. I take a deep breath and stand up. The lure of this coming confrontation hits me with adrenalin. At the entrance to the door, we are met with the sounds of running water. Robert is no doubt in the shower.

Susan lets us in and I start to put the fish in the refrigerator. Deciding the action is too familiar under these conditions, I return it to the crook of my arm like some shield. We decide to sit in the living area while he finishes his shower. She is holding a lock of her dark curry-colored hair in her fingertips, mouthing it as she pulls it back and forth. I am across the room in the blue velvet chair, cradling the fish, mentally cooing, "There, there dear fish." I think of this strange destination in its voyage upriver to spawn. I think that at least the blue chair is real, everything he said it was.

"Robert, there's someone here to see you," Susan calls out when the faucet tightens. She is restrained, neutral enough to alarm him.

"Who?" he calls, with a touch of concern that I would expect for a tax auditor or a subpoena server.

What expression should I have? What should I say? I have time for a half-open mouth with a bit of a smile that could be friendly or sarcastic. He steps into the room with a towel around his waist, takes one sweeping pan, his mouth freezing in a similar expression with no discernible smile and announces, "I'm leaving. I've got to go."

Susan then tells him he isn't going to go and he turns to me in a silent lunge. "Get out!" he orders, gripping his loose towel.

Well, I think, the battle lines have been gouged.

They are arguing now about who is supposed to leave and who will not, and why, and I stop hearing them. The artwork is tasteful, the touches for home apparent on many levels. I see his computer next to the bed, the only bed. I think of the parting gift he had given me, the beautiful rust and sapphire Turkish rug. It would look lovely in here.

Robert sits down, defeated, and begins to trivialize our involvement. I realize that I am hugging the salmon across my lap, as though concealing my ace in the hole-my one wild card. This would be the perfect time to announce my surprise. I say it in my mind, "And to top things off, we're pregnant!" and for once in my entire life, I decide to wait. I ask for a glass of water. While Susan is getting it for me, Robert seethes under his breath.

"Get out. Don't ever come back here."

My eyes travel from his to other objects in the room. It is as though I am disrobing him with each thing I see, and he is squirming, caught in his own miserable literary web. Susan returns with the glass of water and casually sums up details that Robert, the writer, has somehow managed to leave out. She is sitting in the rocking chair again, punctuating her facts with her feet.

"We've lived together for two years." Push the floor, rock the chair. "It's been a troubled relationship that has been a great deal of work -- for both of us." Push. "But one thing he has promised me is that we're monogamous. We made love this morning." Push. "We've been making love since the day he returned from Alaska." Push. Push.

While I listen, I stare at him, wondering how a sane person can have this duality. Love letters to one woman, lovemaking with another. The tugging I had felt on the steps earlier has disintegrated to disgust. I begin to feel guilty about leaving her with the bag. I debate the question of leaving the fish. I could carry it back across the park or I could just leave it here like some strange signature. I decide that now we are familiar enough for me to take it to the refrigerator. I stand and stroll out to the kitchen, stepping gingerly between them, watching for trip wires around the gouge. Susan rises and follows me. I wonder if she'll cry and make things worse.

Instead she is calm. She stands at the sink watching me rearrange the condiments in the refrigerator and says, "You know, I'm glad this happened -- "

Robert then bursts into the kitchen. He can't stand to be left out now. "Now, will you leave?" he asks, on the verge of being rational.

"---Because otherwise I would have believed that the chick in Chicago was the only time. And I'd have stayed with him, and probably married him..."

"We'll talk, we'll talk everything out," Robert assures her with the confidence of a captain on a ship half under water. I feel sorry for him now because he believes he can regain control.

I feel a tad small in the gratification this gives me. But I don't hate him enough to tell my secret.

By the time I get down the five flights for stairs, I realize that I have forgotten to wash the fish smell and newsprint off my hands and arms. A mongrel dog, probably part Australian Shepherd, takes snappily to my side with more than a friendly curiosity. He leaps up to sniff and trots evenly with my ground-covering stride. I am grateful for the company as I reach the park once again, as it now approaches dusk. I feel so light, both arms swinging feely. I talk to this dog. I tell him all about Chopin's Nocturnes and Etudes. How the Etudes are meant to be played sequentially and how they highlight selected difficult passages from his other works. And I tell him that Nocturnes are for salon performances. I tell him about George Sand and their widely speculated romance. I tell him how I'm not going to have a baby next winter and how there will be no nanny or writing gazebo. This and a few other tidbits in a city full of people who don't notice things like people talking to dogs.