in the first brittle conversations, the first nervous sex. Passions turned into needs; strong opinions devolved into peevishness or rage. Will didn't mind, not really. He told himself that anything could happen. Anything still could. He had affairs, and always held on to some kind of friendship after the sex and the hope were gone. He worked out at his gym, ran five miles every other day, spent hours shopping for the right pair of boots, and yes it was all vanity but he wanted something that lay beyond simple vanity and the small, sour satisfactions it offered. He was looking to fall into conviction, so he no longer needed to stare covertly and wistfully at strangers. So he no longer needed to envy foolish boys, or the muscles of men less muscular than he.
Because he wasn't tired he walked four blocks out of his way to have a beer and watch the women play pool. He stood gratefully in the dark yellow heat of the bar, watching them clear the table. This band of women was notorious; nobody could beat them. Hardly anyone tried. Men sipped their drinks and watched the women beat one another. On the far side of the bar, in another room, a few determined souls danced to “Smalltown Boy,” though on a cold weeknight in April even the disc jockey didn't look like he believed in music.
A thin woman in black jeans banked the 2 ball, sent it spinning into the corner pocket like blameless competence being born. Will said something appreciative to a man standing near him, or the man said something appreciative to him. They'd never agree on who spoke first. It would never seem to matter who spoke.
“These women are good.”
“Terrifying.”
“I always wanted to be the kind of guy who's good at pool.”
“I sometimes forget that I'm not. I walk around like somebody who's good at pool. I try to walk around that way.”
“How exactly does a man who's good at pool walk?”
“You know. Confident. He struts. Maybe a little bowlegged.”
“Ambitious. I mostly just try not to fall over.”
“I fell on the way here. I tripped over nothing, this little bump in the sidewalk about a sixteenth of an inch high. While I was strutting along looking like a man who's good at pool.”
“You fell ?”
“I stumbled. There were people around. And you know, I'm never sure how to recover when something like that happens. I can never decide. Do you go on as if nothing had happened? Do you smile and shake your head? Do you look back at whatever it was you fell over?”
“You can always just sit down on the curb and weep.”
“I guess so.”
The woman in black jeans cracked the cue ball into the 6, which knocked the 10 ball into a side pocket.
“I'm out of clever things to say now,” the man said.
“Me, too,” Will answered.
His name was Harry. He was neither handsome nor homely. He had hard, thin arms and a cowlick. He had a quirky face, eyes with flecks of yellow in them, and lines bracketing his mouth. He was forty and he looked like forty. The name Harry fit him. Harry was the right name for his dishevelment, his black-rimmed glasses, the graceful shifting of his ass inside the baggy, wrinkled wool slacks he wore.
They finished their beers. They left the bar together, without having agreed on what they were doing. Will was tired of pretty boys and he was still in love with pretty boys and he wanted, in some numbed way, to rest. He walked along the wet black streets with Harry. He felt neither attracted nor repelled.
“This is where I turn,” Harry said. They stood on the corner together. Droplets haloed the lights, scraps of neon shone on the asphalt. Harry took his glasses off, wiped them on his jacket.
“Do you think we should trade phone numbers or something?” Will said.
Maybe they'd be friends. Maybe they'd have sex, and become friends.
“Yes. I think we should.”
“I don't have a pen.”
“I don't think I do, either.”
“Maybe we should just go home together.”
“I don't know. I've pretty much decided to stop sleeping with guys right away.”
“Actually, I'd more or less decided the same thing.”
“It gets things off to a funny start, sleeping with somebody before you know if his parents are alive or dead. Not that I think anything is starting up.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I always think I'll be sort of smooth and butch and graceful. And I never am.”
“Neither one of us has tripped yet.”
“That's true.”
“Maybe