"What are all these T-shirts I've been seeing?" she asks. "All over the city? Have you seen them? Silkience Equals Death? Are people having problems with their conditioners or something? Am I missing something? What were we talking about?"
"No, that's absolutely wrong. It's Science Equals Death." I sigh, close my eyes. "Jesus, Evelyn, only you could confuse that and a hair product." I have no idea what the hell I'm saying but I nod, waving to someone at the bar, an older man, his face covered in shadow, someone I only half know, actually, but he manages to raise his champagne glass my way and smile back, which is a relief.
"Who's that?" I hear Evelyn asking.
"He's a friend of mine," I say.
"I don't recognize him," she says. "P & P?"
"Forget it," I sigh.
"Who is it, Patrick?" she asks, more interested in my reluctance than in an actual name.
"Why?" I ask back.
"Who is it?" she asks. "Tell me."
"A friend of mine," I say, teeth gritted.
"Who, Patrick?" she asks, then, squinting, "Wasn't he at my Christmas party?"
"No, he was not," I say, my hands drumming the tabletop.
"Isn't it... Michael J. Fox?" she asks, still squinting. "The actor?"
"Hardly," I say, then, fed up, "Oh for Christ sakes, his name is George Levanter and no, he didn't star in The Secret of My Success."
"Oh how interesting." Already Evelyn is back poring over the menu. "Now, what were we talking about?"
Trying to remember, I ask, "Conditioners? Or some kind of conditioner?" I sigh. "I don't know. You were talking to the dwarf."
"Ian is not a midget, Patrick," she says.
"He is unusually short, Evelyn," I counter. "Are you sure he wasn't at your Christmas party" - and then, my voice lowered - "serving hors d'oeuvres?"
"You cannot keep referring to Ian as a dwarf," she says, smoothing her napkin over her lap. "I will not stand for it," she whispers, not looking at me.
I can't restrain myself from snickering.
"It isn't funny, Patrick," she says.
"You cut the conversation short," I point out.
"Did you expect me to be flattered?" she spits out bitterly.
"Listen, baby, I'm just trying to make that encounter seem as legitimate as possible, so don't, uh, you know, screw it up for yourself."
"Just stop it," she says, ignoring me. "Oh look, it's Robert Farrell." After waving to him, she discreetly points him out to me and sure enough, Bob Farrell, whom everyone likes, is sitting on the north side of the room at a window table, which secretly drives me mad. "He's very good-looking," Evelyn confides admiringly, only because she's noticed me contemplating the twenty-year-old hardbody he's sitting with, and to make sure I've registered this she teasingly chirps, "Hope I'm not making you jealous."
"He's handsome," I admit. "Stupid-looking but handsome."
"Don't be nasty. He's very handsome," she says and then suggests, "Why don't you get your hair styled that way?"
Before this comment I was an automaton, only vaguely paying attention to Evelyn, but now I'm panicked, and I ask, "What's wrong with my hair?" In a matter of seconds my rage quadruples. "What the hell is wrong with my hair?" I touch it lightly.
"Nothing," she says, noticing how upset I've gotten. "Just a suggestion," and then, really noticing how flushed I've become, "Your hair looks really... really great." She tries to smile but only succeeds in looking worried.
A sip - half a glass - of the J&B calms me enough to say, looking over at Farrell, "Actually, I'm horrified by his paunch."
Evelyn studies Farrell too. "Oh, he doesn't have a paunch."
"That's definitely a paunch," I say. "Look at it."
"That's just the way he's sitting," she says, exasperated. "Oh you're - "
"It's a paunch, Evelyn," I stress.
"Oh you're crazy." She waves me off. "A lunatic."
"Evelyn, the man is barely thirty."
"So what? Everyone's not into weight lifting like you," she says, annoyed, looking back at the menu.
"I do not 'weight lift,'" I sigh.
"Oh go over and sock him in the nose, then, you big bully," she says, brushing me off. "I really don't care."
