But when Catherine came back and Ernest returned with the wine, I didn’t say one word to him. I wouldn’t behave naturally, though the three of them joked and reminisced. Occasionally, he’d glance at me, offer a smile that I would not return, until they stopped being offered. At the door, I offered him a hand. Cold fish and chilled Spumante.

“So long.”

My look said, “Don’t make anything of it.”

His: “Not to worry.”

Catherine, all gay, colorful, swirling-print dress, walked him to the elevator.

When she came back inside I was in the kitchen stacking dishes.

“You behaved like an ass tonight,” she said.

“I ate your Cracker Jacks,” I said, “but I’m not eating the prize.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? You could have behaved better to our friend.”

She turned the kitchen light on. I’d been working by the light from the hallway.

“I don’t like to be set up,” I said. “I don’t like to be fixed up.”

“Who fixed you up?” she said. “We’re all friends here.”

I said nothing.

“Anyway, so what’s wrong with being fixed up with a prize like that?” she asked.

I regretted having used the metaphor of prize. Worse than “doll” for a woman.

“I like picking a man out of a crowd, by chance,” I explained.

“So let’s go find you a crowd. Just give me time to plant Koshoo in it.”

“Too late now,” I said, throwing a glance at her, digging in her nose, oblivious. Then she seemed to snap to attention, in the world again.

“You’re a fool,” she said. “If I didn’t have Ernest I’d grab that doll myself.”

I grimaced, started filling the sink with soap and water.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Washing dishes.”

“What the fuck do you think I’ve got a fucking dishwasher for?” she asked.

She popped open the door of it and we stacked the dishes inside.

“Just promise you won’t try to fix me up again,” I said. “I’m perfectly capable.”

She snapped the dishwasher door closed and pushed a button.

“All right, kiddo,” she said. “But me, if I were free, Black, a woman, and over thirty-five I’d . . .”

“Use the dishwasher?” I asked.

She looked at me. A traffic light turning from red to green.

“You darn right. You darn right. You darn right. My clock’s working, babe, even if yours isn’t. I know I’m no spring chicken.”

She took hold of my elbow and we “no spring chickens” marched into the living room, where Ernest greeted us with a beautiful wide smile.

“Did you see how this woman behaved?” she asked, dropping my elbow and giving me a “naughty girl” look.

“She behaved all right to me,” he said. “How was she supposed to behave?”

“When he’s eating he wouldn’t notice the devil,” said Catherine, dropping down on the sofa.

“I’d notice the devil,” he said.

“Yeah, if he went after your grits.”

“I’d give him my grits; it’s my prime rib I’d put up a struggle for,” he joked. Then he glanced at me. “You weren’t bad, kid. I thought you handled yourself real well.”