Spent most of the weekend holed up watching movies, reading the paper, ignoring the people leaving messages on my answering machine. Finally called James back this afternoon; he wasn't in, but by then I was ready to do something. I went to the used bookstore by the park, picked up something to read, and headed over to Gilbert's for a sandwich. Afterwards I went to the coffee shop for dessert. They were doing a brisk business in lemonade, frappes, and ice cream.

I got an ice cream and made my way to a window table in the back, sighing a little as I sat down. Only a couple of the chess guys were there; it was still pretty early.

I took the first bite of my ice cream, savoring the chocolate syrup and the sprinkles. I had a good spot for people-watching. Shoppers, couples pushing strollers, a few girls with pleasingly short tops and low bottoms, a couple of ugly tourists. They were mostly coming in and out of the shops; it would be the restaurants' turn later, closer to dinner.

I looked more closely. What happened to that little place next to the antique shop? The sign was down and the windows were papered over. The Whatever-it-was Bistro -- why couldn't I remember its name? probably because I always called it Oiseau Bistro, back when... oh, dammit. Back when Stacey and I would go there. When was I there last, five? six years ago? I poked savagely at my ice cream.

So they'd picked up one too many chops off the kitchen floor and had been closed at last. Good. Wonder what was going in next? Probably another coffee shop; God forbid someone should have to cross the street to get a mochaccino.

After I finished my ice cream, I trudged back the car and drove down to Whole Foods to get some groceries. Back to my place. The flashing number on the answering machine was in double digits; I let it blink some more while I put the stuff away.

A beer, the Simpsons, another beer. I put the bottle down and looked around: high time to do something about the clutter. I limped around the apartment gathering newspapers and getting things ready for the new week, half-listening to the messages on my machine.

Suddenly I stopped short. The last message was playing. My brother Mark. He'd called this afternoon.

Mark? Using a telephone? I tossed the newspapers by the door and stumped over to the phone. Stupid warthog. Had he called on Sunday afternoon on purpose, so he wouldn't catch me in?

I repeated the message and listened to his dull, plodding voice: last-minute change of plans, got extra time off, driving up to mom's for the Fourth of July, would I like to go up with him....

Accept a charity ride? from my brother Mark?

No way in hell.

I deleted the message, finished with the papers, and lowered myself into my chair. I clicked the TV on -- something about Hitler versus Nostradamus on the History Channel -- but I wasn't paying attention.

You're being stupid, the tiny rational part of my mind insisted, stupid, how long has it been since you've seen your mother, you've got the time, an easy trip, a natural thing for Mark to ask, stop being such an ass....

I sighed in frustration and disgust. It's bad enough that I can't just drive up there myself; even when I still had the hand controls on the old car, it was too long, and now with the 'Vette.... there's just no way I can make the drive alone. So if I want to get up there, I have to either fly, take the train, or get a ride. Long drives with Mark were always bad enough, but now? sitting next to the walrus all those hours, knowing the whole time that, once again, he's doing me a favor?

No way.

I slumped further in my chair. At least that call gave me something else to do tomorrow -- composing the email in which I'll say thanks but no thanks. And something else to take my mind off Stacey and Stacey's Mark: how I'm going to explain this to my mother. Maybe Wilson will be able to remind me of something I'm supposed to be doing that weekend.