Page 10 of Lucky Night

I still think we should go, she says.

She scoops up their clothes and walks back into the room. She drops everything on the bed and starts sorting throughit.

He leans against the door. Lowers his head.

And laughs to himself.

Because it’s all very comical, when you think aboutit.

This exorbitant room, a whole night, which required so much planning, created so much anticipation. Of course the universe would test them with something as small-bore and stupid as a fire alarm on the fritz. Test them, and try to thwart them.

But fail.

Because there’s no way, okay? There’sno waythey’re going to get dressed, trudge down the hall, into the elevator, through the lobby and out into the mercilessly cold dark and joyless winter night to stand around on an icy sidewalk scuffing their feet and waiting for some mythical all clear, carving precious time out of this, their first and only full night together.

Sorry, universe! Ain’t gonna happen.

He pushes off from the door with his shoulders and wanders toward the bed. She’s plucking up garments, examining them like a washerwoman. He should bend her over right there, kick her feet apart, and—

Down, boy.

He passes her, heading for the window.

We’ll just run downstairs, she says, turning her blouse right side out. Make sure everything’s all right, then come back. Okay?

He doesn’t respond. It really is a hell of a view. People will never give up on this city, no matter how impossible it becomes. Not as long as you can stand at a window over all of Manhattan like this, like a—like a what?

Don’t get fancy, golden boy.

Or we could get a drink, she says. So we don’t use the extortionate minibar.

He can hear the smile in her voice. He knows she’s watching him, trying to placate him.

We could even stop by Herve’s party, she says.

Herve’s party, he thinks. Herve’s party.

Said so offhandedly, as if he should know what it means.

He turns from the window. Herve?

My hairstylist. She’s buttoning her blouse.

Herve, your hairstylist, he says.

Yep. She buttons the last button, only to find an extra buttonhole at the bottom. Defeat. She starts unbuttoning. He’s having a going-away party. Didn’t I mentionit?

Herve, your hairstylist, having a going-away party? No, I don’t recall you mentioning that. Where’s he going?

To medical school, she says.

He is silent. She looks up from her buttons. What’s wrong?

What’s wrong? Where should he start? There’s her sudden and irrational need to flee the room. Her suggestion that they attend a party for a hairstylist-slash-medical student.

Whose name, Herve, she pronouncesHurv.

She’s making it allup.

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