it.
Lily clapped, and not like she was happy to be pawning Robert’s old girlfriend (of whatever significance) off on some men from the Internet. Like she thought it was actually fun. “Done! We’ll sign you up tonight!” she cheered.
Robert smiled at Lily, clearly admiring her enthusiasm.
Rachel, on the other hand, looked annoyed, or, rather, like a person who had been annoyed at some point in the past, a point that had corresponded perfectly with a swift hit to the back that froze her face that way. She’d then been covered in a fine glaze and put in a kiln overnight to set. She was the perfect annoyance-themed mannequin. It had, after all, been a full minute since Robert, or anyone for that matter, directly attended to her.
“So Rachel,” I said halfheartedly, “Lily was telling me that you and her sister were roommates during college?” This turned out to be rather weak as far as annoyance interventions were concerned. Rachel barely registered that I’d said anything at all.
Lily hadn’t missed the glassy Miss Texas look either, and being the gracious hostess that she was, she decided to rescue us both. “My sister was saying you just came back from a big trip to, was it Argentina?”
Cue Rachel’s interest in showing off, obviously much greater than her interest in roommate stories of yesteryear.
“Oh, we went to the most amazing wineries,” she cooed. And then she proceeded to extol the virtues of Argentina’s terroir. The Andean watershed, the altitude, the Malbecs!
After dinner I could have escaped, but a sort of pious perversity bound me to the evening, like I was a saint, praying for more arrows to mortify my flesh. We all retired to the living room, where Robert steered us toward his all-time favorite topic: celebrity doppelgängers. He had long been convinced he was a dead ringer for Hugh Grant, and based on his belief, he brought up celebrity doppelgängers whenever possible, then just waited for the Hugh Grant comments to roll in. The slim percentage of the time they did gave him enough fire to carry on till the next go-round. There was a certain something about the lines around his eyes, his flouncy hair, his longish face, but dead ringer? If the ringing were so high only dogs could hear it, maybe.
Lily said I reminded her a little of Cate Blanchett, which I thought was very nice. Feeling a strange flare-up of reciprocal generosity, I gave her back a Kate Beckinsale even though it was only vaguely true. And then Rachel announced that she sometimes got Hilary Swank.
After Rachel wished us all good night, Robert said to me, “Stick around and help us do dishes.” His voice was warm, like the night had been familial and fun and he hated for it to end. Lily added, in the exact same entreating tone, “We still have most of that last bottle we opened to finish . . .”
Was I the only one who hadn’t been happy tonight? But I’d come in the first place. I’d stayed all evening, despite my misery. So why would I start listening to my feelings and leave now?
Robert sudsed up a large pan that, I knew from last winter when I’d adventurously roasted a pheasant for his birthday, fit only awkwardly in his dishwasher. Lily sat on the counter with a glass of wine in her hand. I leaned against the cupboard, closer to the door.
“More like Hilary Skank,” Lily said, guffawing, apropos of nothing.
My eyes widened into round plates. The gracious hostess turning on her guest?
“Oh, come on,” Robert said. “She wasn’t at all skanky. Why is that the first thing women say when they want to criticize each other?”
“Robert, I appreciate your righteous feminist attitude,” Lily replied earnestly. “You’re right, she’s not Hilary Skank.”
So maybe Rachel wasn’t skanky, but her laser focus on Robert and nothing but Robert hadn’t engendered my affection either. I appreciated that Lily had noticed and commented on it. “More like Hairily Rank?” I offered.
Lily cackled again.
Lily clapped, and not like she was happy to be pawning Robert’s old girlfriend (of whatever significance) off on some men from the Internet. Like she thought it was actually fun. “Done! We’ll sign you up tonight!” she cheered.
Robert smiled at Lily, clearly admiring her enthusiasm.
Rachel, on the other hand, looked annoyed, or, rather, like a person who had been annoyed at some point in the past, a point that had corresponded perfectly with a swift hit to the back that froze her face that way. She’d then been covered in a fine glaze and put in a kiln overnight to set. She was the perfect annoyance-themed mannequin. It had, after all, been a full minute since Robert, or anyone for that matter, directly attended to her.
“So Rachel,” I said halfheartedly, “Lily was telling me that you and her sister were roommates during college?” This turned out to be rather weak as far as annoyance interventions were concerned. Rachel barely registered that I’d said anything at all.
Lily hadn’t missed the glassy Miss Texas look either, and being the gracious hostess that she was, she decided to rescue us both. “My sister was saying you just came back from a big trip to, was it Argentina?”
Cue Rachel’s interest in showing off, obviously much greater than her interest in roommate stories of yesteryear.
“Oh, we went to the most amazing wineries,” she cooed. And then she proceeded to extol the virtues of Argentina’s terroir. The Andean watershed, the altitude, the Malbecs!
After dinner I could have escaped, but a sort of pious perversity bound me to the evening, like I was a saint, praying for more arrows to mortify my flesh. We all retired to the living room, where Robert steered us toward his all-time favorite topic: celebrity doppelgängers. He had long been convinced he was a dead ringer for Hugh Grant, and based on his belief, he brought up celebrity doppelgängers whenever possible, then just waited for the Hugh Grant comments to roll in. The slim percentage of the time they did gave him enough fire to carry on till the next go-round. There was a certain something about the lines around his eyes, his flouncy hair, his longish face, but dead ringer? If the ringing were so high only dogs could hear it, maybe.
Lily said I reminded her a little of Cate Blanchett, which I thought was very nice. Feeling a strange flare-up of reciprocal generosity, I gave her back a Kate Beckinsale even though it was only vaguely true. And then Rachel announced that she sometimes got Hilary Swank.
After Rachel wished us all good night, Robert said to me, “Stick around and help us do dishes.” His voice was warm, like the night had been familial and fun and he hated for it to end. Lily added, in the exact same entreating tone, “We still have most of that last bottle we opened to finish . . .”
Was I the only one who hadn’t been happy tonight? But I’d come in the first place. I’d stayed all evening, despite my misery. So why would I start listening to my feelings and leave now?
Robert sudsed up a large pan that, I knew from last winter when I’d adventurously roasted a pheasant for his birthday, fit only awkwardly in his dishwasher. Lily sat on the counter with a glass of wine in her hand. I leaned against the cupboard, closer to the door.
“More like Hilary Skank,” Lily said, guffawing, apropos of nothing.
My eyes widened into round plates. The gracious hostess turning on her guest?
“Oh, come on,” Robert said. “She wasn’t at all skanky. Why is that the first thing women say when they want to criticize each other?”
“Robert, I appreciate your righteous feminist attitude,” Lily replied earnestly. “You’re right, she’s not Hilary Skank.”
So maybe Rachel wasn’t skanky, but her laser focus on Robert and nothing but Robert hadn’t engendered my affection either. I appreciated that Lily had noticed and commented on it. “More like Hairily Rank?” I offered.
Lily cackled again.
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