Up close he seemed vast. Paul Bunyan-y, as though he’d drunk up the contents of that swimming pool to quench his thirst, though he didn’t look quenched. Those outdated glasses had just a tinge of purple to the lenses. Impossible to tell whether this was fashion or prescription, something to protect his eyes. His retinas, I told myself. He was all the way at the bottom of the hoop of the horseshoe, his body at an angle. I sat at the edge of the booth to give him room.

He said, “Better?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Are you a real doctor?”

He stretched then, the tomcat, his arms over his head. His big steel watch slipped down his wrist. “Sure.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m not a medical doctor,” he allowed.

“I know that,” I said.

“Then yes. Yes, I’m a doctor.”

The table had an air of vacancy: he’d eaten his breakfast, and it had been tidied away except for the vest pocket bottles of ketchup and Tabasco sauce, and a basket filled with tiny muffins. I took one, blueberry, and held it to the light. The waiter delivered the second Bloody Mary I hadn’t ordered, unless by telepathy. “You have a PhD,” I said.

“Yes.”

“It’s strange.”

“That I have a PhD?”

“That we call people who study English literature for too long the same thing we call people who perform brain surgery.”

“Oh dear,” he said. “Psychology, not English literature.”

“I’d like to see your suite.”

He shook his head.

“Why not?”

“I’m married,” he said. “You know that.”

I did. Her name was Evaline. He mentioned her all the time: he called her Evaline Benjamin, the Love of My Life.

“That’s not what I mean,” I said, and I tore the little muffin in half, because maybe it was what I meant. No, I told myself. Every time I walked down a hotel hallway I peered into open doors. Was there a better room behind this door? A better view out the window of the room? Out of all these dozens of rooms, where would I be happiest, by which I mean, least like myself? I only wanted to see all the hotel rooms of the world, all the other places I might be. I was waiting to be diagnosed.

He said, “You’re a nice young woman, but you won’t cut yourself a break. All right,” he said. “Okay. We can go to my suite. They’ve probably finished making it up.”

Even the hallways were pink and red, the gore and frill of a Victorian valentine: one of those mysterious valentines, with a pretty girl holding a guitar-sized fish. The suite was less garish, less whorehouse, less rubescent, with a crystal chandelier, that timeless symbol of One’s Money’s Worth. The two sofas were as blue and buttoned as honor guards. A mint-green stuffed rabbit sat in a pale salmon armchair.