you hate cheap fucking pens?
The man smiled and continued walking. He was tired and wanted to go to bed.
Yo! Yo! the businessman called after him. Come back here, mon frère. I asked you a question.
The man stopped walking and turned around. What?
You heard me! I asked you if you hated cheap pens.
Yes, said the man. Of course. Everyone hates cheap pens.
You look awfully familiar to me. Do I know you?
The man said, No. I don’t think so.
I’m sure we’ve met. Do you work with the Turks?
The Turks? No.
Where do you live? The businessman took a cigarette case out of his jacket pocket, opened it, and offered the splayed case to the man.
The man shook his head. I live in New York, he said.
Ah, yes—that’s it, said the man. I knew it! I’m never wrong. He took a cigarette out of the case and then clicked it shut. He tapped the cigarette on the case and then put it in his mouth. He felt in both his pockets and pulled a gold cigarette lighter out of one. I met you in New York, he said. I spent a lot of time over there a couple of years ago.
He lit his cigarette and returned the lighter to his pocket. He exhaled luxuriantly and nodded at the chair across from him. Now that the mystery’s solved, why don’t you sit down?
I’ve got to get back to my room, the man said.
Oh, just sit for a moment. Are you sure you won’t have a smoke?
Yes. Very sure.
You wouldn’t happen to have a pen on you, would you? And I don’t mean some cheap plastic piece of shit.
I don’t, said the man. Although he did. He always carried with him a Waterman fountain pen that had belonged to his grandfather. Every couple of years he took it to the fountain pen hospital in New York and had it cleaned and the bladder replaced. It was one of his most prized possessions.
It’s all coming back to me, said the businessman. I think we met at that bar that’s way up on top of that building with all the flags. What’s it called?
I don’t know, said the man. I don’t believe we met. Something made him raise his hand and touch his chest, feeling for the pen inside his coat pocket. It was there.
The businessman laughed. How terribly humbling, he said. Apparently I didn’t make much of an impression on you. Well, in any case, please sit down.
I’ve got to get back up to my room, the man said. My wife is ill.
I’m sure she’s sleeping. Sit, please, for a just a moment. There’s something I’d like to ask you.
I’m sorry. It’s late. I really should get back to my wife.
Oh, let sleeping wives lie. Like dogs, you know. Or would you rather we went up to my room? Would you feel less jumpy there?
Listen, said the man. You’ve really mistaken me for someone else. This is ridiculous. Good night.
Excuse me, but I’m not ridiculous.
I didn’t mean you. I meant this, this situation. This misunderstanding between us.
You think it’s ridiculous?
Yes. I’m sorry, but it seems that way to me. I’m tired.
It’s a shame you think that way. I was only trying to help. You looked as if you needed a friend.
I don’t need a friend. I need to get back upstairs to my wife.
Oh, I get it, said the businessman. You’re on the DL.
The what?
The down low. Don’t worry. My middle name is discretion.
I don’t know what you’re talking about, said the man. Please excuse me.
Ha! said the businessman. I remember now. You were good. Very, very fine. We enjoyed each other, didn’t we?
I’m sorry, but you’ve mistaken me for someone else.
Yes, said the businessman. I’ve mistaken you for your real self. A nice hot fuck. But I get it, baby. Go play house with wifey. We’ll catch up later.
The man entered the dark room quietly and carefully so as not to wake his wife. He intuited his way through the darkness into the bathroom, where he undressed, without turning on the light. He walked to the far side of the bed and slunk silently beneath the covers. He lay still for a moment, trying to forget everything that crowded and clung to him, wanting only to fall into the gorgeous annihilating embrace of sleep, but at the periphery of himself he felt a void, not a chill but a lack of warmth, and he reached out his hand across the sheet to touch his wife but