And Sons. David Gilbert

      “A woman,” I countered.

      “And she like worked at J.Crew.”

      I imagined the New York Post publishing my daily humiliations.

      “Sounds totally excellent,” Andy said, swaying.

      I tried changing the subject. “How about you? How’s Exeter?”

      “Was she cute?”

      “The woman?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Sure, she was cute,” though cute was hardly the word unless used sardonically, like when Bea tied a necktie around my balls and asked if she should blow my nose. In that way, yes, she was cute. Very cute. But more than anything I was in terrible awe of her vampish, almost anachronistic youth, like a silent film star straddling me with her eyes. The truth is, sex can make you fall in love. It might not be the deepest love imaginable, but it’s the kind of love I can grasp with both hands, even as I’m sinking. “What house are you in?” I asked, trying to steer Andy back to Exeter.

      “She live nearby?”

      I can’t say I enjoyed the direction of this conversation.

      “I’m not really sure,” I said. She lived in Staten Island.

      “And which J.Crew?”

      “Um.”

      “Were you like her best client? Are there like a hundred pairs of chinos in your closet?”