Over in Flanders, Phylida bent over suddenly and the people seated by her jumped backward out of their chairs. Phylida, I realized, had either just thrown up or had knocked something over or had fallen comatose onto the ground. That’s my woman. I was marrying Drankenstein. I was the bride of Drankenstein. What a wonderful couple we’d make. How fun we were at a party. What a future we had. Phylida reared her head after a moment, eyeballs rolling high into her forehead, with her sweaty brown-rooted old hair plastered against it, and I imagined my being up here again—next year? the summer after?—toasting her at our own wedding, and I thought: I might as well kill myself. “Bob,” I said, and waited for his expression to change. No change. He was looking at me like I was a stain on your carpet that you scrubbed and it got worse. Ah, what the hell. I raised my empty glass and the place got silent. “How come you never call me back anymore, you fat, pusillanimous, popcorn-eating, obsequious, spermy, whoring, curry-barfing ass licker?”

Had I gone too far?

“That,” Phylida said, looking up at me when I returned to the table, her face gaunt and sculpted, “was a disaster.”

I said, “We can go now.” The party started breaking up then. We stood and got ready to leave.

Anne opened her mouth wide and laughed when our eyes met. “That was quite a testimonial,” she said. “What else do you know about Bob?” I felt a haze, like mucus, covering my eyes. I watched her as she stood and moved closer, clearly excited.

“What else do I know?”

She had one of those high waists with hips that were just a bit too wide so her dress sat up there like a slipcover hanging on a sofa pillow. “Tell us something really juicy.” I thought I’d said enough.

BACK AT THE hotel, Phylida pulled her dress up over her head and threw it in the corner under the desk, kicked her shoes off, pulled down her nylons, and sat on the edge of the bed in her underwear, groaning. Even hunched over like that, there wasn’t a blip of fat on her. She put on her spaghetti-strap camisole. I stared at her long torso, her strong shoulders, her long neck. She looked like she was made out of rubber. I waited for her to look at me. “Are you gonna go right to sleep?” I said.