“Anyway, standing up here talking to you,” I said, feeling more confident suddenly, “is actually the most time we’ve spent together in a year and a half, you big pain in the ass.” They roared like a beer-hall crowd as Bob watched me, and I found myself remembering him working his cell phone earlier in the night, and pictured shoving it down his throat with a toilet plunger. The smokers had joined in, they were yelling at Bob now, mocking me; one called him a pain in the ass. I stepped forward, trying to keep the momentum with me, and said, “After Bob moves to the Oval Office,” pointing to them, “he’ll send you guys some interns.” More yuks, far out of proportion to the dopiness of the joke. I raised my right hand and in a lame Clinton drawl said, “I, Bob, solemnly swear to set aside interns who can suck a bowling ball through a Krazy Straw for my dearest former roommate.” They yelled. Niloo had leaned into Bob’s shoulder, she had her hand over her mouth, her face was twisted frozen as she cracked up. I made one of those fists politicians use when they’re trying to be emphatic. Niloo couldn’t control herself. I said, “Is this funny to you, Niloo? Do you know what you’re in for?” Her face was crimped and she was sort of nodding. “Can I give you some advice?” I paused—why had I been screaming?—and continued, quietly this time. “Stand up and start running and never look back.”

I began shaking my head cornily. “You’re a nice person, Niloo. It’s such a shame.” More hilarity, a monsoon. “But if you’re going to live your life together”—I started doing a bad televangelist Southern idiot—“you must never stand directly in front of him after he has eaten a large meal. It’s very dangerous. And do not worry your pretty self about his latest diet, O.K.?” I made a puking, retching motion. “Don’t be surprised if he sticks his finger down his throat and throws up all over your car.” I took a breath and pointed at him. “I don’t know if anybody told you, Bob, vomiting and diarrhea are not the best answer to weight gain.” I was on autopilot. “Try Richard Simmons’s Sweatin’ to the Oldies.” I did a little dance move. People were really letting go now; one guy slipped out of his chair and a waiter had to dodge him. Bob was staring at me, immobile, his large mind turning.

Bob wasn’t going to be introducing me to Al Gore tomorrow.