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“If you don’t mind, one of these will do, and no washrag. Excuse me, Helene, but I have to urinate badly. So I’m going to break off this conversation for the moment.”

“No, use it. And sorry.”

Looks at the commode as he pees. Clean, outside and in. Hopes she isn’t still there listening. Finished, flushes, seat down — should he? — cover too. She keeps the cover up when she’s alone, just as he does, or is that assuming too much? Rinses his hands, then washes them — clean as the commode was he might’ve touched feces on the seat’s underside — feels his fly, it’s up, last glance in the mirror, unlocks the door. She’s standing in the living room, stemmed shotglass on the table beside her. Wants him to go, doesn’t care if he stays, what’s her face say? No smile, quite blank, all in, that could be all. “Didn’t mean to take so long or cut you off like that.”

“What are you talking about?” Hands him the glass.

“Smells good.”

“Polish, supposed to be much better than the Russian. Also supposed to be ice-cold, but I thought with a chill you’d—”

“Any way is fine and probably room temperature’s better.” Holds up the glass. “Everybody’s got imported vodka today. Diana had Russian, I think; friend of mine has Finnish—”

“This was from my father.”

“Oh, very generous. My father never even offered me a drink. Didn’t like me to. Was afraid I’d become a rummy.”

“Rummy?”

“Expression of his for me. Guzzler and juicehead and lush were others, all exaggerated and inaccurate, and a little unfair since he drank his share way past my present age till he was ordered not to. And I didn’t mean that imported vodka has become a fad. If I had my choice, believe me…Is there an appropriate toast I should make before I drink this?”

“None I know in Polish. Prosit perhaps or down the hatch.”

“I almost feel I should make a blessing, not a toast. I’m thankful for being here. To you for being so hospitable and kind. I don’t know what I would’ve done, at the end of my end and so on, and as I said—” Tears come.

“You would have found something. Drink.”

Drinks. “Delicious.”

“If the Poles, my father says, advertised their vodkas as much as the Russians, they’d take the market away. Or maybe they think that taking business from them would only be one more reason for the tanks to roll in. Anyway, that’s countries.” Looks at the couch. “Towel, washrag, extra blanket…bathrobe.”

“Don’t need one.”

“It’s important. I don’t want you running around in a towel or your undershorts.”

“Ah, if you only knew.”

“What?”

“Nothing sinister — really, thank you. You have a robe that’ll fit and won’t itch?”

“And ambisexual. I’ll get it.” Starts for the bathroom, stops. “What were you saying ‘if I only knew’?”

“Nothing. Just something about underpants. That the robe was a good suggestion. But don’t worry, because nothing’s wrong with my underpants or their environs or any idea connected to them in any way.”

“It still doesn’t sound right.”

“I don’t have any on. There you go. I used them to wipe my behind earlier tonight because the john I was in — it was in a bar but I only went there for coffee, to sober up, to dry off — was all out of paper.”

“Are those pants in your pocket now?”

“I flushed them down — their toilet, not yours.”

“Okay.” Goes past the bathroom into another room. What’d she think when she saw the tears and he mentioned his environs and then his behind? That he never should’ve brought any of it up? That for the sake of good manners and taste, etcet. He didn’t see how she looked when he cried because at that moment he looked away, quickly got rid of the tears. He was being honestly emotional she could think — a virtue? fault? folly? — or dishonest, trying to suck her in with his tears, or trying to affect or impress with his directness and frankness about his environs and behind, or just still a little drunk, which might scare her. If he were she he’d think at least What is it with this guy? He shoots the rest of the drink down. But her concern, papa who compares Slavic vodkas, soap, clean commode, woman with a river view, bobby pins and simple ring, obvious smarts from the start, affectionate to revered way people spoke about her, spryness, hair, just this pretty glass, puts it on the table — why didn’t he ask how her evening went after Diana’s? He can be clever but never learned to hold back enough or know when soon is soon enough or — jumps. Something at his feet. Cat, same one it seems from the photograph, a light bluish white, yanking one of its front nails with its teeth, saying Who are you? in Siamese, settling down inches away, pulling all its paws in and staring at him.

“So, Sammy found you. He must have been under the couch. Are you allergic to cats?”

“Why, am I acting like it? I like them, but takes me a while to be over-friendly.” Bends down to pet it. Cat hisses, hand retracts.

“First put your finger out and let him smell it. They like to get to know you slowly, and one big hand coming down on them too fast can be hair-raising.”