“Eat,” Ernest said, slightly nudging Catherine.

Catherine glanced up at me. “I bet they’re theater people,” she murmured.

“Yeah, they could be,” I said.

“What theater people?” asked Ernest, spearing one of his steamed potatoes.

“Maybe we can take in a show,” said Catherine. “You know, we have been to New York three times straight in as many years and have not seen one show. It seems a sin to come to New York and not see a show, even if Ernest does think they all stink.”

“I never said they all stink.”

“You said Broadway stinks.”

“I don’t remember saying Broadway stunk.” He glanced over at the “theater” crowd for a minute but didn’t seem to take any special notice. He glanced at me, then Catherine. “Maybe it was the season.”

“I don’t think you understand the theater.” To me. “He likes everybody’s music in the world; it’s all good music to him, but he doesn’t understand the theater.”

“Because I don’t like everything?”

“I think it’s a sin to come to New York and not go to a show.”

“I’ll remember that,” I said with a laugh.

“I hope I don’t see my line in one of your books,” said Catherine, pouting. “You’re a regular snapping turtle; you snap up everything. Ernest saw one of his lines in your last book.”

“What line?”

“I don’t remember which one, do you Ern?”

“Hmm.” He was chewing. He swallowed. “I don’t remember. Something about decadence, I think.”

“It had to do with decadence, I know that. Well, anyway, he saw his line, and he was really pleased and flattered. I’m telling you right now I wouldn’t be flattered at all. Anyway, I’m going to make myself a little fortune-cookie-like strip of paper and paste that line to one of my own works. It’s mine, do you hear?”

She tapped my knuckles with her fork. A piece of melted cheese stuck to a knuckle. I licked it off. I thought of Fitzgerald forbidding Zelda to use certain experiences. This one’s mine; you can have that one. Oh, but you took the best experience!

The woman with the scarf said something. It was loud enough to get the voice but not the words.

“She has a voice like a warning, doesn’t she?” Ernest asked.

Catherine glanced at me and waved her little finger, then she scratched her nose. “You can have that one. I’m generous tonight.”

“Maybe we can try Off-Broadway,” said Ernest.

“Now do yourself,” Catherine would say if she read to this point. But I can’t do myself. You can never do yourself. Even with my descriptions of Catherine and Ernest, and the little scenes, every other person in the world would come along and describe them differently. Are those the folks? Not only are we ourselves as different from others as snowflakes, but we’re as different from ourselves as snowflakes in the way that others would describe us, and sometimes even in the many ways that we’d describe ourselves. Have a thousand people describe Catherine and you’ll have a thousand Catherines. Have a thousand people sit on those steps with Ernest, or at that table in New York, and you’d have a thousand scenes. Like that time Catherine was reading the international issue of Time and started laughing. “What?” I asked.