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“Buffalo grass. I’d love it, thanks. And look at the view. Mind if I look?” Goes to the window. “Incredible. I once knew an editor — he had me come to his endless apartment overlooking the East River in the Seventies. About a translation — first I ever published — around ten years ago — it was a literary magazine. Now he’s got to be the most successful writer of other people’s autobiographies in the country. Every book he ghosts he gets a quarter of a million for and he does them in a year. He also appears in an American Express Cheques ad, saying ‘You don’t know me and never will know the titles of the books I write, but four million of you bought my books this year,’ or that’s what someone told me, since I never saw it. But forgot what I was going to say about his apartment. What’s that? Looks like a floating lit Christmas tree.”

“In the water?”

“Moving very slowly.”

“Probably a tug.” Comes over. “A tug.”

“Why’s it alone? And where’s it going upriver this late?”

“They’re often alone. Picking up ships there — Yonkers, Albany — barges with concrete or coal on them, sometimes pushing eight at a time. I know that editor-writer. I’ve gone to his parties and seen him on TV.”

“Really. When I sold him the translation I was told — it was also in a New Yorker Profile about him and his distinguished family — that every contributor for the year was invited to his annual New Year’s Day party, but I wasn’t. I was disappointed. They’re known to be — were then — now he’s married, has children—”

“His parties still are. Elaborate smorgasbord. Bar with bartenders making real bar drinks. Servants scudding around with the most exotic finger foods and champagne. Lots of well-known or interesting or very smart people there or all three. Quartet playing Schubert or pianist playing Broadway medleys. It’s not what I like to do or have time to any other daytime day, but it is a great illusionary way to start the new year.”

“He never took anything of mine after that, though it’s true other people now edit most of the magazine for him. No big deal. I wanted to go to eat and drink well and, to be honest, to meet women — society girls involved in literature and literaturists, I understand, and just women writers and artists of every kind, and I’d probably want to go for the same reasons now. Maybe I would’ve met you there one of these last years if I’d sold one of the many translations I sent his magazine in that time and he had invited me, if he still invites contributors.”

“I don’t think that’s how most of his guests get there anymore. I went with a friend and Sanderson talked to me for an hour about post-World War Two alcoholic writing and has sent me an invitation for the last three years, but hasn’t invited my friend since the first time. I don’t know how it works. I think my friend and he pumped iron at the same health club. I’m not yawning anymore but I am as sleepy. I’ll get you that vodka now, if you’re still interested, and say goodnight.”

“Yes, of course, excuse me. And may I use your bathroom?”

Points, he goes, shuts the door. Won’t stay closed unless he forces it into the frame and locks it, which he does. Smells flowery. Bloomingdale’s soap. Carnation. Knows without seeing it. Woman he knew used to buy them by the box and used a red one too. What scent? rose scent, both soaps too hard to lather his shavingbrush with. Polka-dot shower cap on the shower’s hot water valve, backbrush hanging handle-end up on the cold, series of enlarged framed photos along one wall of turned-over beached rowboats, photo of a cat strolling the coast of what seems to be the bouldery sea of the boats, Marin watercolor or oil of sea trees, rocks and island, thick deep blue bath and face towels and washcloth, three toothbrushes in the holder, bobby pins and antique ring in the cup stand. Washes his hands, face, hands again, then the soap under the faucet to get the grime off it. Water in his mouth, gargles, spits out, still tastes foul. Maybe she has a mouthwash he could swig from the bottle and spit out. Opens the medicine chest. Diaphragm case with jelly alongside but forget it. Mouthwash, but she’ll know if she smells his breath or follows him into the bathroom that he’s been inside the chest, and closes it. Water on his hair, wants to brush his hair with her brush on the sink. No, his gray hairs, but with all her blonde or orange or both, she’ll never know. Three strokes — sides and middle — checks, brush is clean but for one gray, long enough to be hers, which he pulls out and drops into the bag in the basket under the sink. Pee. Picks up the seat.

Knock knock.

“I’ll be right out.”

“Just thought, because of your chill, you might want the vodka now.”

“I do, thank you. I still feel chilled. But I’ll be right out. Then I’ll take it and go right to sleep.”

“You don’t want to shower? On the phone I thought—”

“I do but didn’t want to put you through—”

“Now that you’re here, shower if it’ll make you feel better. I’ll get you a washrag and a fresh towel.”