This was my cue. I stepped in and said, “We could use those computers to replace some of the dialogue that goes on at parties. Really, boys, didn’t you get your fill of profundities back in your sophomore year?”
“Maybe not,” said Frank, “but long before then I learned eavesdropping is rude.”
I had always appreciated a good rejoinder, but Frank’s voice did not carry the typical touché. His smile remained polite and unchastising. I withdrew again, but when I returned to the group in the living room I took up a new position on the floor, which gave me a partial view of the kitchen door. The game of Speculation continued, but I bowed out so as not to have my attention divided.
Finally, Frank and the other man came out of the kitchen and stood next to our seated circle. I was drunk, so drunk I could feel the tiny contortions my face was going through trying to find the smirk I wanted. The effort was pointless. Frank said goodnight without singling me out by word or gesture. And off he went.
He was, I told myself, too tall, too skinny, too humorless, too forgettable (and gap-toothed, besides), to get away with that condescending attitude. I hadn’t had a challenge in a long time, and as petty as this one was, I decided to finish the evening with it: I turned to Gloria and asked which apartment he lived in. She looked at me in amazement.
“Him? You don’t know the first thing about him,” she said, implying she did.
With my opening line decided upon, I left the party and knocked on his door. It took three knocks before he answered. He was wearing a bathrobe that was meant to reach the shins but only made it as far as his knees.
“What is the purest form of love there is?” I asked.
His smile was tight and tolerant, enough to push my courage back into reserve. “Right now,” he said, “the purest form would be the consideration we give our neighbors when they want to sleep. Good night.”
Well, I thought, not bad. Not bad at all. It could be he was not half so dreary as I imagined. And different, much different from the other men I’d met at these parties.
As always when I had drunk this much, I stayed at Gloria’s. She rolled her eyes when I came in. “My God”—she laughed—“you must really be smashed.”
“Why?”
“Going up to the weirdo’s.”
“The weirdo?”
“That’s what they call him.”
“They who?”
“People in the building.” She cocked her head, her smile now puzzled. “Why did you go up there?”
“To”—thinking quickly—“apologize.”
“Apologize! For what?”
“I was rude to him in the kitchen. How is he weird?”
“The girls come and go at all hours. He ought to put up a revolving door.”
“Him? Come on! He’s not the type.”
“No, he’s not the type—for anything conventional. And you ought to get a load of the girls.”