Losing Charlotte by Heather Clay Page B

Charlotte said.
    Bruce nodded, tucked his foot behind the opposite knee to warm it.
    He and Charlotte had bumped into Stephen in a restaurant on Sixth Avenue not too long after they’d met; Stephen had joined them for coffee. Bruce had known right away that Stephen and Charlotte had been together; right away he had despised Stephen’s gnomish upper body, the way he hunched over the marble table and accepted everything offered him, from their invitation to sit to the hard bread in the basket to the coins that Bruce pushed toward him once the bill was paid, protesting that someone deserved to pocket the extra change. When Charlotte made a trip to the bathroom Stephen had picked up her coffee cup and dipped his finger into the sediment that coated the bottom, said something to the effect that Bruce had his blessing, that Charlotte was special, a friend, good luck, he hoped they would all have a chance to “spend time together” in the “future.”
    “Sure,” Bruce had said, for lack of any better response. He made no attempt to correct Stephen’s impression that he and Charlotte had any kind of assured future—or past, for that matter; he himself wasn’t even completely convinced that she was seeing him exclusively. He felt surprised at any gallant show from a man who, only minutes before, had described a theater director he and Charlotte knew as a “hideous cunt,” sending Charlotte into fits of laughter. Stephen shrugged; he fixed the chipped surface of the table with a look that struck Bruce as defiant. Bruce watched him. His hair was gray and almost shaved at the temples; his face was thin, all angles.
    “I don’t know,” Stephen said. “I honestly wasn’t sure if you were her new boy when I first walked in. She’s never been with anyone like you before. But it makes sense. She deserves someone who will balance her, the way you seem to. Do you mind my saying that?”
    Bruce shook his head. Had Stephen been watching them from some hidden place before he’d walked by their table? Had he deduced all this in thirty minutes? He tried to remain wary. He reminded himself that Stephen’s observations were shallow, nothing to base hope on, and shook his head again, as if coming awake. He shifted in his chair.
    “My initial reaction—she’s admitted to herself that she isn’t a very good actor, for example. That takes courage. She’s one of those who’s too much herself to really disappear into a part, you know?”
    Bruce said nothing.
    “To gravitate toward what’s good for you, or to what you’re good at , takes real maturity. I admire it, is what I’m saying. God knows I’m not there yet,” Stephen said. “She’s paranoid about relationships. But clearly, she’s safe with you.”
    Bruce felt a sudden thrill: if this went much further he thought he had license to be rude. Under the table, he tapped at his knee. “You seem pretty comfortable speaking for her,” he said.
    Stephen smiled at him. There were narrow gaps between several of his front teeth; he had the bright gums and teeth of a child. “I mean, I think she grew up on a fucking horse farm! Do you know what I mean? She is not from New York! I don’t think she should end up with an actor. She’d come to her senses eventually, and then have to wreck her life.”
    Stephen placed his index finger in his mouth and sucked on it. He winced.
    “Where are you from?” Bruce asked. His voice was quiet, angry. He didn’t know why this was the question he chose; he had many. He supposed it was the only question whose answer didn’t threaten him, or Charlotte, in some way. He wished there was some water left in his glass.
    Stephen looked at him.
    “Kansas,” he said.
    Bruce choked. “You’re kidding.”
    “For some reason, I don’t dislike you,” Stephen said. “So I’mgoing to be honest with you. I am from Topeka. I am absolutely serious.”
    Bruce wrapped his hand around the back of his neck and looked at Stephen. He felt a laugh