Marie lived in Inlet, NY, a tiny town in the Adirondack park. It was surrounded by forested mountains and punctuated by a glimmering lake. It was breathtakingly beautiful, but not unproblematic. The winters were long and snow might fall five months out of the year – and fall in spectacular quantities. She expected to be trapped inside her house at least ten days per winter.

It was one of those days. If she had not made plans to meet Herrick, she likely would have stayed in, warm and blanketed, with her cat curled up in her lap, and a cup of tea in her grasp. But she couldn't cancel, not when he was driving in from far away. So she put on her snow gear and trudged the couple of miles to the restaurant where they were to meet.

She got there early, so she could settle in before he arrived.

The restaurant was a shabby little place. The food was nothing special, but it was a desirable location nonetheless, because it had a view of the lake.

The hostess, Pat, noticed right away that Marie was dressed up and wearing lipstick.

“Do you have a date?” Pat asked.

“No. Not really... Possibly. We’ll see.”

“Do I know him?”

“Definitely not,” Marie said, “He’s not from around here.”

Pat picked up the menus and pointed towards the big picture window at the back of the room and said, “I’ll give you the best seat in the house."

“Thank you.”

“Have you met this guy in person before?"

“Yeah, we lived together for a couple of years. Many moons ago,” Marie said.

Pat began to sing the Peaches & Herb classic, “Reunited, and it feels so good!"

Marie flushed, and said, “I didn’t know you could sing!”

Pat said, “I’ll sing at your wedding, for free.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Marie sat down, and looked out on the frozen lake. Atop the ice there were several little huts and some tents, belonging to ice fishers. It was an unseasonably warm day for December; it might have been thirty five degrees. Marie wondered if the fishermen ever misjudged what the ice could support, and fell down into the frigid water and drowned. Did they die immediately? Or did they have a few last seconds of sentience, in which they could regret their risk-taking?

She caught sight of herself, reflected in the window.

She was not in the habit of looking at herself critically.

She saw that she was old. Still pretty, still slim, but there were deep lines by her mouth, and around her eyes. Her once round cheeks had sunk in. Her neck looked slack. Her hands had grown claw-like, and her knuckles protruded. Her hair looked dry.

Time had not been kind. And he had not seen her since she was twenty-one, and at the height of her beauty.

He would certainly be disappointed, she thought.

But, she reminded herself, looks aren’t everything. And she was a much more interesting person that she had been at twenty-one. She had written many songs, and the score of a musical. She was a much better pianist now. She had raised a child. She had a master’s degree. There was no earthly reason why she ought to feel afraid of being judged, and found lacking.

What she wanted was for him to regret that he had not been with her all these years.

The door of the restaurant swung open and a blast of cold air swept across the room and chilled her face. A man, bundled up in winter clothes, stepped inside, stomping the snow off his boots. Initially, she wasn’t sure if it was Herrick. But then he pushed back the hood of his coat, and it was him.

A rush of emotion made her momentarily weak. How she’d missed his face!

The years had altered him, too. He walked carefully, as though he’d repeatedly injured his back. He had a bit of a gut. Though he still had an impressive mane of hair, it was white now, and his hairline receded at the temples. And his blue eyes were red-rimmed and tired.

But he was still the most attractive man she’d ever seen.

She was ashamed of the desire she felt towards him. She scolded herself, silently:

Remember that he married somebody else. Remember that he’s done without you for thirty years. Don’t lose your head. Don’t embarrass yourself. Have some pride.

“Marie!” he exclaimed.

She got up, feeling breathless, and walked towards him. He rushed towards her and grabbed her into an embrace. He held her like he used to, with her face pressed next to his heart, his chin on top of her crown. He stroked her hair and repeatedly kissed her forehead. She felt perfectly content with his arms around her. There was no where in the world she would rather be. And it frightened her.

"I can't tell you how many times I've pictured this moment," he said, "You look really good. Thank you, for meeting me."

"The pleasure's all mine."

They sat down on opposite sides of the table.

Pat brought over a basket of buttered garlic bread set it on the table.

"And who is this?" Pat asked Marie.

"Pat, this is Herrick," Marie said.

Herrick said, "How are you?"

Pat said, "Don't I know you from somewhere? You look really familiar."

"I've got one of those faces," Herrick said.

Pat was a woman of years, and she probably remembered when Herrick's band had a video in heavy rotation on MTV.

They ordered drinks and Pat disappeared into the kitchen, no doubt to gossip with the cook about Marie's date.

A sudden shyness seized Marie. She pretended to be engrossed in the menu. She knew that she ought to say something, but couldn’t find words. She reminded herself that, besides being lovers, they had once been the closest of friends. They'd talk for hours, about everything and anything.

But maybe he's somebody different now, she thought.

Herrick said, "So do you live here all year round?"

"Yes. My great-aunt left me her camp."

Herrick raised his eyebrows.

"Is it on Fourth Lake?"

The camps on Fourth Lake were sprawling, luxurious. They sold for hundreds of thousands of dollars.

"Fifth Lake. It's a tiny little cabin. Low ceilings. You'd have to duck your head to walk through the door."

"A hobbit house?"

Years ago, he had sometimes called her a hobbit, because at 5'2", she was a foot shorter than him. Plus, at the time, she was in the habit of wearing a velvet cape.

"It suits my purposes."

"Do you live alone?"

"I do."

"Do you like living alone?"

"Yes."

The minute the word escaped from her mouth, she realized it wasn't true. She was lonely. She often wished for company.

"My daughter visits frequently," she said.

"Your daughter, what's her name?"

"Lindsey. "

"She's grown?"

"Yes."

Herrick said, "My daughter is thirty two. Her name is Holland."

She thought, only a celebrity would give their child such a name. But she said, "That's a pretty name."

"Yeah, thanks. I'm living with her, currently. She's a single mom, so I mind her child during the day so she can go to work. I like to tell people that I'm helping her out, but really, she rescued me. I lived alone for about two months after my wife left me. I started bringing home strangers every night and drinking until I passed out. My daughter finally intervened. She told me I had to come and live with her, because I couldn't be left unsupervised. I don't know what made her think I'm qualified to babysit! I wasn't around much when she was a baby, because that's right when the band got popular. I'd never even changed a diaper! But it's such an amazing experience. Babies learn so much from one day to the next. This past week, he started grabbing steak off my plate and feeding himself. He's never had solid food before - he just figured it out, I guess from watching me eat!"

"That's awesome."

But she was thinking to herself, I don't want to hear about your child or your grandchild. You weren't around for my wedding, my divorce, my daughter's entire existence. You missed everything that matters. We're strangers.

She tried to suppress the feelings of resentment. She reminded herself that she had chosen to leave him.

She turned her head and looked out the window, just in time to see an ice fisher reel in a furious, writhing perch. She felt sorry for the fish. It probably had not been on its guard. It had probably thought that it was safe in the winter. But you could never be too careful.

When she glanced back at him, he was looking at her, with a grave look upon his face.

"What are you thinking? Are you thinking about how much you hate me?"

"No," Marie said, "I don't hate you. I guess I just feel sad about our estrangement. It seems like a waste. It seems like we could have been friends all these years."

He shook his head and said, "No, we couldn't have been friends. My wife was insanely jealous. I never was allowed to have female friends."

Marie thought, Your wife knew you were a cheater, of course she was jealous. But she said, "Why did you end up getting divorced?"

Finally he said, "We weren't compatible. I can't say I didn't love her. I did. It was just a minor love. For a long time I thought that I could convert it into a deep love. I thought that, if we shared enough experiences, our love would get more profound. But it didn't. And she knew that I wasn't as interested in her as I should have been. She used to say to me all the time, "What do I have to do to get your full attention?" And I felt really bad about making her feel inadequate. But there was nothing she could do. She didn't know anything I didn't know. She didn't see anything from an interesting perspective. She didn't have any weird passions or compulsions. She never understood why I was driven to create. She was ...ordinary. Basic. I could predict every word that ever came out of her mouth."

Marie wondered if everything he'd said, about them not being compatible, about their love being "minor" was true, or if it was just his wounded ego talking.

Pat brought their drinks and placed them on the table.

They ordered food, though Marie's stomach was churning and she doubted she'd be able to eat anything.

When she returned her attention to Herrick, he was looking at her, intently. As though she was someone to him.

"Herrick," she said, "You are somewhat famous."

"Was," he corrected her.

"You are probably solvent. You still have hair. Why not get yourself a pretty, young girlfriend? Somebody you've never cheated on? Someone you've never hurt? I'll never really be able to trust you again. Wouldn't you rather have a relationship built on trust? And if you're here out of some sense of guilt...I absolve you. You're not obliged to make up for past wrongs."

"In my experience, Marie, people don't really change. You are probably still somebody I could love."

But Marie didn't know if she was still capable of romantic love.