"I think, Evelyn, that..." I start, stall, start again. "...that we've lost touch."
"Why? What's wrong?" She's waving to a couple - Lawrence Montgomery and Geena Webster, I think - and from across the room Geena (?) holds up her hand, which has a bracelet on it. Evelyn nods approvingly.
"My... my need to engage in... homicidal behavior on a massive scale cannot be, um, corrected," I tell her, measuring each word carefully. "But I... have no other way to express my blocked... needs." I'm surprised at how emotional this admission makes me, and it wears me down; I feel light-headed. As usual, Evelyn misses the essence of what I'm saying, and I wonder how long it will take to finally rid myself of her.
"We need to talk," I say quietly.
She puts her empty water glass down and stares at me. "Patrick," she begins. "If you're going to start in again on why I should have breast implants, I'm leaving, " she warns.
I consider this, then, "It's over, Evelyn. It's all over."
"Touchy, touchy," she says, motioning to the waiter for more water.
"I'm serious," I say quietly. "It is f**king over. Us. This is no joke."
She looks back at me and I think that maybe someone is actually comprehending what I'm trying to get through to them, but then she says, "Let's just avoid the issue, all right? I'm sorry I said anything. Now, are we having coffee?" Again she waves the waiter over.
"I'll have a decaf espresso," Evelyn says. "Patrick?"
"Port," I sigh. "Any kind of port."
"Would you like to see - " the waiter begins.
"Just the most expensive port," I cut him off. "And oh yeah, a dry beer."
"My my," Evelyn murmurs after the waiter leaven.
"Are you still seeing your shrink?" I ask.
"Patrick, " she warns. "Who?"
"Sorry," I sigh. "Your doctor."
"No." She opens her handbag, looking for something.
"Why not?" I ask, concerned.
"I told you why," she says dismissively.
"But I don't remember," I say, mimicking her.
"At the end of a session he asked me if I could get him plus three into Nell's that night." She checks her mouth, the lips, in the mirror of the compact. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I think you need to see someone," I begin, hesitantly, honestly. "I think you are emotionally unstable."
"You have a poster of Oliver North in your apartment and you're calling me unstable?" she asks, searching for something else in the handbag.
"No. You are, Evelyn." I say.
"Exaggerating. You"re exaggerating," she says, rifling through the bag, not looking at me.
I sigh, but then begin gravely, "I'm not going to push the issue, but - "
"How uncharacteristic of you, Patrick," she says.
"Evelyn. This has got to end," I sigh, talking to my napkin. "I'm twenty-seven. I don't want to be weighed down with a commitment."
"Honey?" she asks.
"Don't call me that, " I snap.
"What? Honey?" she asks.
"Yes," I snap again.
"What do you want me to call you?" she asks, indignantly. "CEO?" She stifles a giggle.
"Oh Christ."
"No, really Patrick. What do you want me to call you?"
King, I'm thinking. King, Evelyn. I want you to call me King. But I don't say this. "Evelyn. I don't want you to call me anything. I don't think we should see each other anymore."
"But your friends are my friends. My friends are your friends. I don't think it would work," she says, and then, staring at a spot above my mouth, "You have a tiny fleck on the top of your lip. Use your napkin."
Exasperated, I brush the fleck away. "Listen, I, know that your friends are my friends and vice versa. I've thought about that." After a pause I say, breathing in, "You can have them."
Finally she looks at me, confused, and murmurs, "You're really serious, aren't you?"
"Yes", I say, "I am."
"But... what about us? What about the past?" she asks blankly.
"The past isn't real. It's just a dream," I say. "Don't mention the past."
She narrows her eyes with suspicion. "Do you have something against me, Patrick?" And then the hardness in her face changes instantaneously to expectation, maybe hope.
