"Arcadia was an ancient region in Peloponnesus, Greece; which was founded in 370 Bs.C., and it was completely surrounded by mountains. Its chief city was... Megalopolis, which was also the center of political activity and the capital of the Arcadian confederacy..." I take a sip of the port, which is thick, strong, expensive. "It was destroyed during the Greek war of independence..." I pause again. "Pan was worshiped originally in Arcadia. Do you know who Pan was?"
Never taking her eyes off me, she nods.
"His revels were very similar to those of Bacchus," I tell her. "He frolicked with nymphs at night but he also liked to... frighten travelers during the day... Hence the word pan-ic." Blah blah blah. I'm amused that I've retained this knowledge and I look up from the port I've been staring thoughtfully into and smile at her. She's silent for a long time, confused, unsure of how to respond, but eventually she looks deeply into my eyes and says, haltingly, leaning across the table, "That's... so... interesting," which is all that comes out of her mouth, is all she has to say.
Eleven thirty-four. We stand on the sidewalk in front of Jean's apartment on the Upper East Side. Her doorman eyes us warily and fills me with a nameless dread, his gaze piercing me from the lobby. A curtain of stars, miles of them, are scattered, glowing, across the sky and their multitude humbles me, which I have a hard time tolerating. She shrugs and nods after I say something about forms of anxiety. It's as if her mind is having a hard time communicating with her mouth, as if she is searching for a rational analysis of who I am, which is, of course, an impossibility: there... is... no... key.
"Dinner was wonderful," she says. "Thank you very much."
"Actually, the food was mediocre, but you're welcome." I shrug.
"Do you want to come up for a drink?" she asks too casually, and even though I'm critical of her approach it doesn't necessarily mean that I don't want to go up - but something stops me, something quells the bloodlust: the doorman? the way the lobby is lit? her lipstick? Plus I'm beginning to think that p**n ography is so much less complicated than actual sex, and because of this lack of complication, so much more pleasurable.
"Do you have any peyote?" I ask.
She pauses, confused. "What?"
"Just a joke," I say, then, "Listen, I want to watch David Letterman so..." I pause, unsure as to why I'm lingering. "I should go."
"You can watch it..." She stops, then suggests, "at my place."
I pause before asking, "Do you have cable?"
"Yes." She nods. "I have cable."
Stuck, I pause again, then pretend to mull it over. "No, it's okay. I like to watch it... without cable."
She offers a sad, perplexed glance. "What?"
"I have to return some videotapes," I explain in a rush.
She pauses. "Now? It's" - she checks her witch - "almost midnight.
"Well, yeah," I say, considerably detached.
"Well, I guess... it's good night then," she says.
What kind of books does Jean read? Titles race through my mind: How to Make a Man Fall in Love with You. How to Keep a Man in Lone with You Forever. How to Close a Deal: Get Married. How to Be Married One Year from Today. Supplicant. In my overcoat pocket I finger the ostrich condom case from Luc Benoit I bought last week but, er, no.
After awkwardly shaking hands she asks, still holding mine, "Really? You don't have cable?"
And though it has been in no way a romantic evening, she embraces me and this time emanates a warmth I'm not familiar with. I am so used to imagining everything happening the way it occurs in movies, visualizing things falling somehow into the shape of events on a screen, that I almost hear the swelling of an orchestra, can almost hallucinate the camera panning low around us, fireworks bursting in slow motion overhead, the seventy-millimeter image of her lips parting and the subsequent murmur of "I want you" in Dolby sound. But my embrace is frozen and I realize, at first distantly and they with greater clarity, that the havoc raging inside me is gradually subsiding and she is kissing me on the mouth and this jars me back into some kind of reality and I lightly push her away. She glances up at me fearfully.
"Listen, I've got to go," I say, checking my Rolex. "I don't want to miss... Stupid Pet Tricks."
"Okay," she says, composing herself. "Bye."
"Night," I say.
We both head off in our separate directions, but suddenly she calls out something.
