weight than the fact that we had created the tension ourselves. I didn't really want another Perrier, but Willa managed to find room for another brandy.
When we stepped outside, the fresh air sucker-punched her and almost knocked her down. She grabbed my arm, caught her balance. 'I can feel that last brandy,' she announced.
'No kidding.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'Nothing.'
She drew away from me, her nostrils flaring, her face dark. 'I'm quite all right,' she said. 'I can get home under my own power.'
'Take it easy, Willa.'
'Don't tell me to take it easy. Mr. Holier-than-thou. Mr.
Soberer-than-thou.'
She stalked off down the street. I walked alongside her and didn't say anything.
'I'm sorry,' she said.
'Forget it.'
'You're not mad?'
'No, of course not.'
She didn't say much the rest of the way home. When we got into her apartment she swept up the faded flowers from the kitchen table and started dancing around the floor with them. She was humming something but I couldn't recognize the tune. After a few turns she stopped and began to cry. I took the flowers from her and put them on the table. I held her and she sobbed. When the tears stopped I let go of her and she stepped back. She began undressing, dropping her clothes on the floor as she removed them. She took off everything and walked straight back to the bedroom and got into the bed.
'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.'
'It's all right.'
'Stay with me.'
I stayed until I was sure she was sleeping soundly. Then I let myself out and went home.
I tried Gary's number in the morning. I let it ring and no one answered, neither man nor machine. I tried him again after breakfast with the same result. I took a long walk and tried the number a third time when I got back to the hotel. I put the television on, but all I could find were economists talking about the deficit and evangelists talking about the Day of Judgment. I turned them all off and the phone rang.
It was Willa. 'I would have called you a little earlier,' she said,
'but I wanted to make sure I was going to live.'
'Rough morning?'
'God. Was I impossible last night?'
'You weren't so bad.'
'You could say anything and I couldn't prove you wrong. I don't remember the end of the evening.'
'Well, you were a little fuzzy there toward the end.'
'I remember having a second brandy at Paris Green. I remember telling myself that I didn't have to drink it just because it was free. He bought us a round, didn't he?'
'He did indeed.'
'Maybe he put arsenic in it. I almost wish he had. I don't remember anything after that. How did I get home?'
'We walked.'
'Did I turn nasty?'
'Don't worry about it,' I said. 'You were drunk and you were in a blackout. You didn't throw up, turn violent, or say anything indiscreet.'
'You're sure of that?'
'Positive.'
'I hate not remembering. I hate losing control.'
'I know.'
There's a Sunday afternoon meeting in SoHo that I've always liked.
I hadn't been there in months. I usually would spend Saturdays with Jan.
We'd make the rounds of the galleries and go out for dinner, and I'd stay over, and in the morning she'd fix a big brunch. We'd walk around and look in shops and, when the time came, go to the meeting.
When we stopped seeing each other, I stopped going.
I took a subway downtown and walked in and out of a lot of shops on Spring Street and West Broadway. Most of the SoHo art galleries close on Sunday, but a few stay open, and there was one show I liked, realistic landscapes,
