and Charlotte had any kind of assured future—or past, for that matter; he himself wasn’t even completely convinced that she was seeing him exclusively. He felt surprised at any gallant show from a man who, only minutes before, had described a theater director he and Charlotte knew as a “hideous cunt,” sending Charlotte into fits of laughter. Stephen shrugged; he fixed the chipped surface of the table with a look that struck Bruce as defiant. Bruce watched him. His hair was gray and almost shaved at the temples; his face was thin, all angles.
“I don’t know,” Stephen said. “I honestly wasn’t sure if you were her new boy when I first walked in. She’s never been with anyone like you before. But it makes sense. She deserves someone who will balance her, the way you seem to. Do you mind my saying that?”
Bruce shook his head. Had Stephen been watching them from some hidden place before he’d walked by their table? Had he deduced all this in thirty minutes? He tried to remain wary. He reminded himself that Stephen’s observations were shallow, nothing to base hope on, and shook his head again, as if coming awake. He shifted in his chair.
“My initial reaction—she’s admitted to herself that she isn’t a very good actor, for example. That takes courage. She’s one of those who’s too much herself to really disappear into a part, you know?”
Bruce said nothing.
“To gravitate toward what’s good for you, or to what you’re good at, takes real maturity. I admire it, is what I’m saying. God knows I’m not there yet,” Stephen said. “She’s paranoid about relationships. But clearly, she’s safe with you.”
Bruce felt a sudden thrill: if this went much further he thought he had license to be rude. Under the table, he tapped at his knee. “You seem pretty comfortable speaking for her,” he said.
Stephen smiled at him. There were narrow gaps between several of his front teeth; he had the bright gums and teeth of a child. “I mean, I think she grew up on a fucking horse farm! Do you know what I mean? She is not from New York! I don’t think she should end up with an actor. She’d come to her senses eventually, and then have to wreck her life.”
Stephen placed his index finger in his mouth and sucked on it. He winced.
“Where are you from?” Bruce asked. His voice was quiet, angry. He didn’t know why this was the question he chose; he had many. He supposed it was the only question whose answer didn’t threaten him, or Charlotte, in some way. He wished there was some water left in his glass.
Stephen looked at him.
“Kansas,” he said.
Bruce choked. “You’re kidding.”
“For some reason, I don’t dislike you,” Stephen said. “So I’m going to be honest with you. I am from Topeka. I am absolutely serious.”
Bruce wrapped his hand around the back of his neck and looked at Stephen. He felt a laugh rising, a delirious laugh that, given a choice, he would have preferred to repress. But I dislike you, he thought. He held the laugh in for as long as he could. Then it erupted from him in a hard wheeze. He was still settling by the time Charlotte returned to the table and had some difficulty catching his breath. Stephen was laughing, too. He had muttered, through his laughter, something about what an asshole he could be, something both proud and apologetic. Charlotte stood over Bruce and watched him as he tired himself and finally stilled. He could see that she was irritated.
“Talking about me?” she asked them both, smiling.
“No,” Stephen said. “Actually, talking about me.”
“We should go,” Bruce said, looking up at her. He felt sorry that Charlotte looked uncomfortable, sorry for his part in it. He thought she deserved a graceful exit.
“If you’re ready,” Charlotte said. She seemed to relax. “Stephen, it was—interesting to see you.”
Stephen laughed and rose to kiss her.
Outside, she had said, “He hates me,” but before Bruce could console her she had sighed and changed the subject.
Bruce had thought of Stephen since—thought of him at those moments when he felt unsure of his place, of whether Charlotte was moving through him, the way he’d watched her move in only a short time through other phases, through friends, proclivities, even colors (“that’s my favorite color”), the diaphanous shirt and skirt she wore together for days at a time before discarding them. He didn’t know. Perhaps everything that Stephen said—it was hard to remember,