Best Friends by Thomas Berger

discordant gasps.
    Francine molded herself against Roy’s right side. “Is he dying?”
    â€œHe’ll be perfectly all right in a minute or so.” Roy spoke really for his victim’s benefit. “It’s not lethal. I’ve been hit in the solar plexus. There’s no permanent damage.” He had nothing against the man. In fact he pitied him and not because of the punch. Anyone to whom Francine meant so much was in trouble.
    She thrust away from Roy, crying, “I have to get out of here. Right now!” She even stamped her foot, which caused him incongruously to remember she had exceptionally small feet and could not always find her size in the shoe she set her heart on. That was the kind of stuff he knew about her, but next to nothing about her children and very little about poor Holbrook except that he was dull, which might not even be true in a universal sense. He might be the kind of guy with whom Roy would hit it off, discussing the business situation or playing golf. Roy was not a very good golfer; Holbrook might enjoy beating him.
    Roy extended a hand to the fallen, which Holbrook however could not yet see, head toward the ground. “Come on, Martin. It’ll help if you try to walk it off.”
    Holbrook groaned. He raised his head far enough to squint up and say hoarsely, “I’m suing you,” then hung it low again.
    â€œOkay,” Roy said amiably, “but you ought to come up where you can get more air. It’ll make all the difference. You’ll see.”
    His attempt to be decent to her ex was seen as treachery by Francine, who shrieked in fury, “Stop talking like a fag. He could have killed me! Call the police. I’m going to charge him with attempted murder.”
    Roy stepped behind Holbrook, bent, and, grasping him under the armpits, lifted the man as if pressing a barbell of equivalent weight, one fifty-five, sixty pounds.
    Holbrook did not resist. He was so passive that Roy feared he might collapse again and therefore warned him, “I’m going to let you go now. Try to walk some. It won’t take long till you’re back to normal.”
    He did as promised and Holbrook sagged but did not fall, though neither did he try to walk.
    â€œHe’s all right,” Francine said. She was quieter now, not so angry as bitter. “He’ll survive. He always does. I’m the one the shit sticks to.”
    â€œLet me see your face. Come over here under the light.” Roy drew her to the nearest lamppost, the wrought-iron standard of which was wrapped with wrought-iron ivy. “Some reddening on your cheek, it looks like.” Francine’s skin was naturally on the wan side. She was much concerned about makeup and would now want to effect repairs. “Better go inside to the powder room, under good lighting.”
    She raised her eyes to his and produced a soulful expression that he could not remember as being in her repertoire. “This hasn’t worked out,” she said, a statement that seemed to reflect a state of mind that was also unique. “I’m sorry.” He assumed the regret was for herself as always.
    Behind them a car’s engine came to roaring life, and in the next instant a vehicle gunned past them and shot out of the exit onto the dark road. Its taillights did not come on until it had traveled at least a hundred yards at a speed that was probably not all that high but seemed desperate.
    â€œI guess he’ll live,” Roy said when the red lenses had dwindled to the vanishing point.
    â€œYou don’t really care, do you?”
    â€œSure I do. I didn’t want to hurt him.”
    â€œI don’t think you care about anything that breathes.” Francine’s latest mood sounded stoical, but there may have been irony in her faint smile.
    Roy had had enough of her for this night, or, in truth, for the far side of never. “Better go into the ladies’ room and