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
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