ne P.M. in a fashionable restaurant. Crystal goblets tinkling with ice water, gentle thuds of heavy cutlery being set on thick damask, murmurs 6f laughter, and my host drones on and on. I am supposed to wear clothes with satin labels and collect matchbooks as trophies from these celebrated restaurants, yet to me they offer only a steady diet of crhme fralche---cloying and nonnutritious. When I think of the assaults on my sen- sibilities, of the fact that I am doing nothing of value with my life, I m amazed by the way I cope. If I break and nibble the end of my crusty roll Arthur may catch the hint and suggest we look at the menu. Damn. He wants a second drink--won t I have something too? No. One waiter takes his order while another tips the remains of a small bottle of Perrier into my glass. Perhaps I ll gobble the other end of my bread as well or chew on the carnation in the bud vase. Oh, Lord help me. Give me strength to do what s expected and seem to enjoy this. Arthur s grown heavier in the two years I ve known him. He must eat out of frustration. It could be sexual; he may worry that the young men starting to outperform him in business 9LQ 11
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