Then there was the third drawing. Everyone knew, theoretically, statistically, that there’d have to be a male/female pairing not only in terms of the odds but because that was what this was all about, that was why it mattered, because possessiveness—I, me, exclusivity, the marriage game, the property game—was the enemy of group consciousness and harmony. Or at least that was what Tim proposed. And Dick seconded. And everyone seemed to agree was a good idea, a very good idea. He’d agreed too, but as the third Saturday rolled around he found he was having second thoughts. Maybe he was just out of sorts that evening, not angry exactly, but impatient with the whole tenor of the exercise, all of them sitting around waiting for the sacrament to take hold and yet at the same time wrought up with the tension of this game—a game that broke down the conventions, but a game all the same—and all he could think was that it wasn’t right because it undermined the first principle of any session: mind-set. If you were wrought up you could hardly expect to soar. Set and setting. Wasn’t that the mantra? He made a mental note to question Tim about that, to modify the game, neutralize it, maybe do a private drawing and simply announce the names the next morning, because what was the point of putting everybody through this week in and week out?

But then he was seated there on the carpet, a cognac in hand and the first stirrings of the drug coming on, and Tim reached into the hat and announced Lori’s name. Lori. He’d never even thought of her, nor, apparently had anybody else, given their reaction—no one applauded, no one laughed or whistled. He looked to her—they all did—where she was seated on the floor, barefoot, the whiskery head of Jackie’s dog in her lap and one shoulder propped up against Dick, who was seated, as always, in the lotus position. What was she wearing? A turtleneck, a black turtleneck that clung to her and defined her in a way a blouse never could have. He wasn’t blind, and his eyes had followed her across one room or another a hundred times, but he’d always thought of her as a girl, as one of the kids, the teenagers, and how old was she anyway—eighteen? Nineteen? She reddened and let her smile transform her but she didn’t get up to take a bow, mock or otherwise, or show herself off the way Fanchon had—she let her eyes jump to Tim’s, then shot a quick glance around the room and went back to stroking the dog’s ears. He did a quick calculation, he couldn’t help himself: he was thirty-five and she was nineteen. Or eighteen. Which was sixteen—or seventeen—years younger.