By Nightfall by Michael Cunningham

respect?). Then:
    “Peter, darling, have you thought about getting rid of some of this gray?”
    Huh?
    “Just a thought. What’re you, forty-five?”
    “Forty-four.”
    “We’d do it gradually. Week by week. I mean, you wouldn’t show up one day with the gray all gone. People wouldn’t even notice.”
    Something like a trapdoor opens in Peter’s belly.
    “I guess I’d thought it was sort of . . . distinguished.”
    He doesn’t tell Bobby he’d thought it was sort of . . . sexy.
    “Distinguished is, like, sixty. You’d look ten years younger.”
    Peter is taken by a surprising tumble of feeling. Does he really look that old? Is it pathetic to want to look younger? He couldn’t, really, could he, even if he wanted to? People would notice, no matter how gradually it occurred; he would be a man who colored his hair and he would lose his seriousness forever, though maybe Bobby could just get rid of some of the gray, like half, and people really wouldn’t notice, they’d just think he looked more vital and, okay, a little less old.
    Fuck you, Bobby. Why did you bring it up?
    “I don’t think so,” he says.
    “Think about it, okay?”
    “Sure.”
    Bobby finishes, pockets his cash. Peter walks him to the front door, past Tyler and his crew, who are not, it seems, in any particular hurry to get the Vincents down. Shaved-headed Carl, one of Tyler’s assistants, gives Peter a look—is it possible he thinks Peter is fucking Bobby? Fine, let him think so.
    On the sidewalk Bobby kisses the vicinity of Peter’s face, hops onto his pale blue Vespa, and putt-putts off. Bobby is like the girls in forties comedies, pretty and avid and calculating, still young enough to be confident that the big surprises are yet to come, worried only about whether or not to go to Argentina with some lothario. There he goes, pert and unapologetically trivial, off to the next adventure.
    Peter walks back in. Back to business.
    Another dozen e-mails. Read them later. Right now, reply to Glen Howard.
    HEY, GLEN, HOW GREAT ABOUT THE BIENNIAL PEOPLE! HERE’S HOPING THEY HAVE THE GOOD SENSE TO TAKE YOU. SORRY TO SAY THE FRONT GALLERY IS COMPLETELY BOOKED FOR THE FALL, BUT I PROMISE WE’LL GIVE YOU A BEAUTIFUL SHOW AND WILL GET A ZILLION PEOPLE TO COME SEE IT. YR OWN, P.
    Rupert Groff calls back.
    “Hey there, Peter Harris. What’s up?” He sounds shockingly young.
    “You know Bette’s retiring, right?”
    “Yeah. Big drag.”
    “I’m a fan of your work.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Could I take you to dinner some night soon?”
    “Sure.”
    “What’s your schedule like?”
    “Kind of fucked this week. Maybe, like, week from Wednesday.”
    “That’d be fine. But listen. I have a very good client who might buy a piece right now, and she’s having a party for some other people who buy a lot of art. If you’re interested, I could handle it as an adviser. It wouldn’t mean I was your new dealer, there wouldn’t be any obligations, no hard feelings if you go with somebody else. But I’m pretty sure I could get this sale for you, and it might very well lead to others.”
    “That sounds good.”
    “So here’s what I think. Let’s plan on dinner a week from Wednesday, but why don’t I come out to your studio sooner than that, and we can talk about what might be right for my client.”
    “I don’t have a lot of work to show you right now.”
    “What have you got?”
    “I’ve got a couple of new bronzes. And some terra-cotta stuff I’m messing around with, but it’s not really ready yet.”
    “I’d be happy to see a couple of new bronzes.”
    “Okay. Want to come by tomorrow afternoon?”
    “Sure. What time is good?”
    “Like, maybe, four?”
    “Four is good.”
    “I’m in Bushwick.”
    He provides the address. Peter writes it down.
    “See you tomorrow at four, then.”
    “Right.”
    Three new e-mails. One from Glen.
    PETER, M’LOVE, NO SECRETS BETWEEN MEN OF HONOR, I’VE GOT AN OFFER FROM ANOTHER PLACE WHICH