“Does it matter?” I asked. We were in the enormous space-age kitchen, assembling trays of tiny, perfect food from the caterer’s boxes. There were, in different combinations, figs and pomegranates, mint, pink peppercorns, glazed tofu, duck breast sliders, curried lamb skewers, pear tart slices, and other things I couldn’t identify. I hadn’t intended on helping but I’d seen Jonathan’s anguished face poking out of a door, and I’d gone to investigate.

“It’s going to be fine,” I told him. We’d already hustled the cheese and charcuterie trays out to the grand dining room table. “Heat up the sliders. And the lamb. The tofu. Everything else, people will think it’s supposed to be that way.”

“Doug hired a bartender. And valet parkers, even. I don’t know why he couldn’t get servers.”

“It’s fine,” I repeated. “They’ll eat it and like it.” I wanted to get back to Aaron before he decided to be bored and blame me or drank any more Aperol cocktails.

I’d left him near the bar, in conversation with a man who either sold commercial real estate or else made commercials about real estate. It was a mixed crowd. There were some “pew-ets,” but also people who could have been stockbrokers or porn stars or anybody. Aaron spotted Lolly Robinette and asked if she’d had cancer, and I had to explain that no, she’d been a Buddhist monk, or maybe it was a lifetime thing and she still was one, anyway, she’d decided she liked keeping her head shaved. I waved to Lolly from across the room. I wanted to make sure I got a chance to talk to her.

“So this is your new posse,” Aaron said, in the kind of tone that invites you to say, “Screw you,” though I ignored him.

When we first came in, Doug had greeted us in the living room, standing barefoot on the white fluffy rug. “So great you could come,” he said, shaking Aaron’s hand. We hadn’t yet seen Ed. Doug was wearing (in addition to no shoes), a pair of camo pants and a black polo shirt. I always felt that his clothes were trying to send some message, and I hadn’t yet cracked the code.

“Thanks for inviting me,” Aaron said. “Beautiful house. I’ve been hearing a lot about it.”

“Yes, this is where Carla’s been slaving away all this time.” Doug grinned at me, as if he was hugely pleased. It was a little bit frightening.

“Yup,” I said. “The old sweatshop.” Ha ha.

Aaron said, “I guess I should read more poetry.” Like he read any.

“Our next issue’s going to focus on social justice and the poetry of incarceration. As well as some Venezuelan poets in translation. You should check it out,” Doug said encouragingly.

Aaron said that he would. We didn’t dare look at each other.