When the speeches finally sputtered out, young people in black T-shirts and slacks, Secret Service earbuds wired to their skulls, herded the crowd toward the exit. The literati scrabbled like fiddler crabs, snatching their swag bags packed with glossy consumer magazines, CDs and bad perfume, pinching and clawing, then scuttling off to flag a cab. I was aiming for an exit when one old fool sneezed on me! For a moment, I wanted to beat his face in, but then…

Success has its price. But it also has its rewards. And here she was, my compensation for enduring this trial. Brown-eyed, smooth-skinned, scented like the spring flower she was. She smiled shyly at me and said, “Richard Morris! I can’t believe it! I…I…” She actually stuttered as she pretended to be awed. This goddess wore designer glasses, signifying erudition. Her hair was smooth and perfectly cut, her face unblemished. Her fragrance was like wine before the first sip. Before I said a word she blurted, “I read your book. It was so wonderful! The judges have their heads up their asses!”

Out of the corner of my eye I spied Leon laughing it up with the winner. I turned my back on them and ingested the lovely praise. When my new friend was a student at Amherst or Princeton or wherever, she wrote her thesis on my first novel, blah-blah-blah. But wait, there was more! With cocksure vigor she launched into a debate of magical realism (she had read my pointed essay in The New York Review of Books last year) and announced “You’re full of shit”! She argued her case with a verbatim quote! Nothing in the world is more erotic than a beautiful stranger uttering one’s exact words. I fell into her eyes, the pact was sealed.

I had a car and driver for the evening so I offered her a ride home on my way to my own uptown pied-a-terre where I would be staying the night. As we maneuvered the traffic, she chattered on about aesthetics and style, theme and structure. I focused on the aquarium world drifting beyond the tinted windows where people strolled, lapped ice cream cones, hailed cabs, entered and exited buildings. Each individual represented a single priority, living from moment to moment, fleeing or pursuing, praying or narcotizing.

In a deep reverie by the time we stopped outside my building, I discovered that my acolyte had decided she didn’t want to go home just yet. I understood. She was curious, eager to see my unique two thousand square feet of living space. She had an urge to visit my library, my art collection, my media center, my kitchen. My shower cabinet.