I sprawl on the couch with unseemly comfort, prop my feet on the table, and wrap my legs around the chair. I do not tack a ladylike lilt on the end of my racking coughs, nor do I disguise my flatulence. When someone comes to call, I am discreet and polite. But usually I am alone. This solitude is like a child’s dream of being a grown-up, that same delirium of eluding discipline that drives each college freshman to longer, later discussions in the dormitories: past fatigue, past pleasure, even, merely because she was not permitted to stay up so late in her father’s house. The freedom is startling, exhilarating, addictive. It must be used and abused.

Perhaps it is different for others, but I came to this freedom suddenly, after long, if voluntary, subjugation. I am learning slowly what it is that I want. These trivial discoveries web my days with pleasure, and I am my own audience, and the audience of the goldfish, and of the scarred old toad in the garden.

They were still in bed when I got there. I let myself inside the house and took the stairs to Sam’s room. Rennel sat on the foot of the mattress, smoked his pipe, and stared at Carlotta while he discussed philosophy with Sam.

When I saw them, and when I got a whiff of Rennel’s rank, expensive tobacco, I wanted to go back out right away. Carlotta was curled up next to Sam, one of her long, pale arms displayed on the blanket, holding a cigarette, looking bored. Sam sat up against the wall with the blanket pulled up around his belly, talking to Rennel. He looked uncomfortable.

Rennel puffed proudly at his pipe and offered it to Sam. “Try it now. This is a new lot. My mother sent it air mail so it’s very fresh. Just try this.”

Sam took the pipe, looked quickly at Carlotta, and then pulled obligingly at the pipe.

“It’s very nice.” He handed it back.

Rennel offered it to me. I shook my head.

“The thing is, Omar, that Wittgenstein was a homosexual. He was already outside the bounds of accepted society in so many other ways that it isn’t at all surprising that he was free to approach philosophy with an unconventional, or even apocalyptic, perception.”

Rennel glanced at Carlotta to see if she grasped his profundity. Her cigarette glowed in the dim light, her eyes were half-closed. She’d fall asleep soon. Sam wasn’t listening; I noticed his arm touching Carlotta’s beneath the blanket. They must have just gone to bed when Rennel arrived. Sam made a face at me, he wanted something. I understood.

“Uh, Rennel.”

“Yeah?”

He looked irritated. I’d interrupted his train of thought.

“I’d like to talk to you. I’ve been looking for you. Can you come with me?”