"Want a bite?" she asks.
"I'm on a diet," I say. "But thank you."
"You don't need to lose any weight," she says, genuinely surprised. "You're kidding, right? You look great. Very fit."
"You can always be thinner," I mumble, staring at the traffic in the street, distracted by something - what? I don't know. "Look... better."
"Well, maybe we shouldn't go out to dinner," she says, concerned. "I don't want to ruin your... willpower."
"No. It's all right," I say. "I'm not... very good at controlling it anyway."
"Patrick, seriously. I'll do whatever you want," she says. "If you don't want to go to dinner, we won't. I mean - "
"It's okay," I stress. Something snaps. "You shouldn't fawn over him..." I pause before correcting myself. "I mean... me. Okay?"
"I just want to know what you want to do," she says.
"To live happily ever after, right?" I say sarcastically. "That's what I want." I stare at her hard, for maybe half a minute, before turning away. This quiets her. After a while she orders a beer. It's hot out on the street.
"Come on, smile," she urges sometime later. "You have no reason to be so sad."
"I know," I sigh, relenting. "But it's.. tough to smile. These days. At least I find it hard to. I'm not used to it, I guess. I don't know."
"That's... why people need each other," she says gently, trying to make eye contact while spooning the not inexpensive sorbet into her mouth.
"Some don't." I clear my throat self-consciously. "Or, well, people compensate... They adjust..." After a long pause, "People can get accustomed to anything, right?" I ask. "Habit does things to people."
Another long pause. Confused, she says, "I don't know. I guess... but one still has to maintain... a ratio of more good things than... bad in this world," she says, adding, "I mean, right?" She looks puzzled, as if she finds it strange that this sentence has come out of her mouth. A blast of music from a passing cab, Madonna again, "life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone..." Startled by the laughter at the table next to ours, I c**k my head and hear someone admit, "Sometimes what you wear to the office makes all the difference," and then Jean says something and I ask her to repeat it.
"Haven't you ever wanted to make someone happy?" she asks.
"What?" I ask, trying to pay attention to her. "Jean?"
Shyly, she repeats herself. "Haven't you ever wanted to make someone happy?"
I stare at her, a cold, distant wave of fright washes over me, dousing something. I clear my throat again and, trying to speak with great purposefulness, tell her, "I was at Sugar Reef the other night... that Caribbean place on the Lower East Side... you know it - "
"Who were you with?" she interrupts.
Jeanette. "Evan McGlinn."
"Oh." She nods, silently relieved, believing me.
..Anyway..." I sigh, continuing, "I saw some guy in the men's room... a total... Wall Street guy... wearing a one-button viscose, wool and nylon suit by... Luciano Soprani... a cotton shirt by... Gitman Brothers... a silk tie by Ermenegildo Zegna and, I mean, I recognized the guy, a broker, named Eldridge... I've seen him at Harry's and Au Bar and DuPlex and Alex Goes to Camp... all the places, but... when I went in after him, I saw... he was writing... something on the wall above the... urinal he was standing at." I pause, take a swallow of her beer. "When he saw me come in... he stopped writing... put away the Mont Blanc pen... he zipped up his pants... said Hello, Henderson to me... checked his hair in the mirror, coughed... like he was nervous or... something and... left the room." I pause again, another swallow. "Anyway... I went over to use the... urinal and... I leaned over... to read what he... wrote." Shuddering, I slowly wipe my forehead with a napkin.
"Which was?" Jean asks cautiously.
I close my eyes, three words fall from my mouth, these lips: " 'Kill... All... Yuppies.'"
She doesn't say anything.
To break the uncomfortable silence that follows, I mention all I can come up with, which is, "Did you know that Ted Bundy's first dog, a collie, was named Lassie?" Pause. "Had you heard this?"
Jean looks at her dish as if it's confusing her, then back up at me. "Who's... Ted Bundy?"
"Forget it," I sigh.
