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something—is memorable,” I said. “And call me Nick, by all means.”
    She smiled. A lovely smile, quick and bright and altogether winning—and stunning aquamarine eyes. Today she was wearing black
     spandex pants and a matching top. I looked at her again, this time without benefit of a vodka martini. She was even more beautiful
     than I had remembered.
    “You’re not in your booth?” I said.
    “I’m not officially on duty,” she replied. “I was sent here more to learn what happens at ABA, and possibly as a reward for
     good conduct.”
    “You’re lucky,” I said. “Most of us would be happy if we could treat this as a holiday.”
    “But surely you can keep whatever schedule you like, Nick.”
    “Sure. But I still have to show the flag from time to time. Is this your first visit to Washington?”
    She nodded.
    “Then you ought to go sight-seeing.”
    “It would be more fun,” she said, looking at me directly, and speaking in measured tones, “if I had a knowledgeable guide
     to show me around.”
    For a moment I stood perfectly still, without a word to say. I realized that I was being offered an invitation by this beautiful
     young woman; I was both touched and flattered. But—
    “I only wish I could oblige you,” I said, shrugging. “Unfortunately—”
    “You’re tied up.”
    “Yes. I am.”
    “Too bad,” she said. “I guess I’ll have to resort to a guidebook.” And she strolled off down the aisle.
    I knew I had rejected an overture that would not be made to me again. Why? I wondered. Because I no longer believed in casual
     encounters? Because I did not wish to be involved, even in a fleeting liaison, a flirtation? It wasn’t that I felt too old
     for Susan Markham, not at all. Then what was it that held me back?
    The passage of time, I suppose. ABAs past and ABAs present.
    At ABAs past, I somehow felt that a successful seduction was almost obligatory, whether it was a conquest or simply a matter
     of serendipity.
    Elaine, for one… she hadn’t been sent to Washington by her publisher, but had come on her own, and had no room at the hotel,
     so she spent the night in mine… Though she was determined to be chaste, her resolve weakened before the night was over and
     she cast off the slip she was wearing, cried out:
“This isn’t
fair
to you!”
and mounted me, taking me into her willing young body…
    Vicki, for another… she had worked at Barlow & Company
for a time, hut then moved to another firm. We happened to he alone in an elevator at the Shoreham… she having come from the
     pool, still in her bathing suit with a towel over her shoulders… When she dropped her room key on the floor of the elevator,
     I picked it up, and when we got to her floor, I left the elevator with her, the key still in my hand, and when we reached
     the door of her room, I unlocked it and went in with her… Bless you, dear Vicki…
    Then there was Martha… I invited her to my room for drinks before going out to the Jockey Club for dinner… We had the drinks
     but forgot about the dinner and ordered from room service… later she said:
“I didn’t plan to go to bed with you, Nick… yes, I did; I wore my prettiest underwear.”
We had planned to make love in the bathtub, but forgot about that, too, left the water running and flooded the bathroom floor…
    There were others, of course, all of them fondly remembered; and some who found me resistible, or found other men more attractive,
     or just weren’t there for me. Failure can often be as poignant in recollection as success, and far more instructive.
    During the lunch break I called Margo Richmond, hoping her voice would relieve the somewhat sour taste of the self-restraint
     I had experienced in refusing Susan Markham’s invitation to show her Washington.
    Though I half expected an answering machine when I called her apartment—we talk to more machines on the phone these days than
     people—Margo was there.
    “Nick,” she said, “it’s