Triangle

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“M aybe I’ll go to Baltimore.”

“You mean…” She looked at him. “To see…”

“Doug,” he answered.

“Really?” Mo Anderson asked and looked carefully at her fingernails, which she was painting bright red. He didn’t like the color but he didn’t say anything about it. She wouldn’t listen to him anyway.

“I think it’d be fun,” he continued.

“Oh, it would be,” she said quickly. “Doug’s a fun guy.”

“Sure is,” Pete Anderson said. He sat across from Mo on the front porch of their split- level house in suburban Westchester County. The month was June and the air was thick with the smell of the jasmine that Mo had planted earlier in the spring. Pete used to like that smell. Now, though, it made him sick to his stomach.

Mo inspected her nails for streaks and pretended to be sort of bored with the idea of him going to see her friend Doug. But she was a lousy actor; Pete could tell she was really excited by the idea and he knew why. But he just watched the lightning bugs and kept quiet. Unlike Mo, he could act.

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