So I said, “Bethany, Malison is my writer, and I think I could understand him if he were speaking Egyptian.” And she said, “I didn’t realize you owned any writers, Anastasia. Are there any others in your stable?” Stable is a familiar word to Bethany. Before I turned her on to Malison, she was wearing fucking jodhpurs to class, arranging her hair into a French braid, and drawing horse profiles in the margins of her notebook. Before I turned her on to Malison, Bethany’s writing consisted of florid little sentences beginning with “’Tis” and “Ofttimes,” as if she’d been writing with a fucking quill that she dipped into an inkwell while sitting on an embroidered chair bathed in soft candlelight. Then, overnight she started writing like Malison and going out of her way to mention his name in class. Then in critique she trashed my story, saying that my writing is obviously based on Malison. I was writing like Malison before I even knew who Malison was. I’ve always written like Malison, so I said, “Maybe Malison is writing like me,” and she said (in front of the whole class), she said, “And where exactly would Malison have read any of your work?” She’s so full of herself since she had that story published in Post-Plane. Who reads Post-Plane?

Bethany is so transparent. I’m sure if Malison did talk to her he only did it in order to get a feel for the stupidity of his audience. She told me she’d invited him out for a post-lecture drink, but he’d said he needed to get right back to New York because his wife was expecting a baby. This was just an excuse to get rid of Bethany. Malison was lying, giving her the shake. I know, because Russell Marks told me that he saw Malison’s wife, Teresa Compton, at a restaurant in New York City two months ago, and Mark told me that it looked like Teresa Compton had lost weight. Lost weight! How pregnant can she be? Mark also told me that Malison and Teresa are filing for a divorce and living in separate apartments, so I highly doubt she’s pregnant. Malison was just throwing up a smoke screen to protect himself from Bethany. I know this for a fact because directly after talking to Bethany I called The Chesterton and asked them if A. Davenport had checked out. I had them connect me to Room 822. When Malison answered, I hung up. I didn’t want to introduce myself over the phone, so I politely hung up, and if this rain doesn’t stop within the next sixty seconds I’m going to say to hell with it and run back to that hotel, rain or no rain.