“Good evening,” said Edgar. “It’s so good to meet all of you, and please don’t mind us.”

“We figured you might end up here, and we think it’s wonderful,” said Adam. “You have our blessing.”

“Mazel tov,” added DuShawn.

“And out of respect for Carter,” said Louise, “I’m not going to bring up England’s economic meltdown, bigoted treatment of immigrants, or ancient yet ongoing class wars.”

“And I love you for that,” said Edgar. “And we’ve brought you a centerpiece.”

“And we’ve prepared an offering as well, to welcome you,” said Adam. “And Louise even helped.”

Louise hefted a gift basket and removed: “A jar of Prince spaghetti sauce.”

“Two cans of Royal Crown Cola,” said Adam.

“A paperback romance novel called Royal Pursuit,” said DuShawn. “I’ve highlighted all the juicy parts, as a how-to guide.”

“And if that doesn’t work,” said Adam, “here’s a sex toy I bought on Amazon called the Royal Reamer.”

“And most importantly,” said Louise, holding up two flimsy golden cardboard crowns with printed-on jewels.

“We got them from Burger King,” Adam explained.

“We told them it was your birthdays,” said DuShawn.

“Edgar,” I asked, “if you killed them you couldn’t be arrested, right, because of diplomatic immunity?”

“But I wouldn’t do that,” said Edgar, “because I think these are the finest tributes I’ve ever received. I like them even more than the oil painting of a llama I was given by the envoy from Peru.”

“And now we’re going away,” said Adam.

“And we’re not going to crouch outside Carter’s door,” promised Louise, “and record whatever noises we hear on our phones.”

“Or shout ‘Nice one!’” said DuShawn, “or ‘Do it!’”

As the three of them retreated I heard Adam whisper, “Beyond cute,” and Louise reply, “Nice white boys in heat.”

“We are going to mentally delete all of that,” I told Edgar, herding him into my bedroom. As I did this and shut the door behind us I had two explosive thoughts: first, that I was most likely the only person on Earth to bring a future king of England into a room containing a framed photo of Ruth Ginsburg and a set of mugs from Broadway hits, and secondly, that I was about to have sex with someone I actually cared about, which could result in both extreme joy and many shipping containers’ worth of panic attacks.

Adam and DuShawn could be heard crooning “Tonight” from West Side Story; DuShawn had danced in the most recent, heatedly sexual revival. I cracked open the door and told them, “If you don’t stop that and go to your room I’ll make you watch the sequel to Mamma Mia!”

There was a gasp and the sound of scurrying and a slamming door.