stereo, put on some music—a collection of slower numbers by Count Basie that took the edge off reentry. The sweet blue sound filled the room and made him feel both better and worse. Better because the catch in the beat never failed to give him a boost; worse because, again, he sensed he'd screwed up with Cree, and even with the tension it had been nice to eat dinner with someone. With a good-looking woman. She was a good kid, asking the right questions, doing her best to keep an old fart company. She deserved better.
Tomorrow he'd try to put his thoughts in order, show her some paper. Tell her the rest of it.
He thought about checking his e-mail and then decided against it; he had a good idea what he'd find and didn't need it tonight. Instead, he went to the kitchen to get the fourth drink he felt he was owed. He poured it into a tall glass so he could mix it with water, but then decided he'd just pour it long. He brought the glass into the living room and stood in the middle, taking the whiskey like medicine.
The house was a single floor, anchored on the slope on one side and twenty feet off the ground, on a lattice of girders, on the downhill side. This far up, its windows gave to views of the near rooftops and farther away to the glow of light from Market and Castro, so that after dark Bert had the dubious pleasure of imagining ten thousand queers going about their nightlife. A long living room with a dining alcove separated from the kitchen by a counter, then a hallway leading to the bathroom, a couple of closets, one big bedroom, and a smaller bedroom that Bert used as his office. That was it. No basements, no attics, no secrets, keep it simple. A narrow deck projected out over the slope, where in good weather he could sit and have his morning coffee. It wasn't the house in Pacific Heights by a few million bucks, but you could do worse.
The whiskey and the music came together in a good feeling in his stomach. He switched on the lamp by the couch, turned off the overhead, and then stood just feeling the music. This was a good collection. Nowadays he was into the slower, spacious numbers, the ones an older guy could move to without making a fool of himself. The Count. You couldn't count on much, but you could count on the Count. The Count said life was okay and kind of graceful, and you could almost believe him. You had less gravity when you moved to the music. Bert took a few steps, found the catch, the slide, the short step. He put his right hand around an invisible partner's waist, his glass in his outstretched left hand, and spun lazily through the room. Muted brass over a solid foundation of saxophones, rhythm section subdued, brushes on the snare, it never failed.
He closed his eyes and floated and spun for a while, then bumped his thigh on the Barcalounger and realized he was a little dizzy. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was his own reflection in the sliding doors to the deck, with the darkness and lights of the valley shining through.
A big old guy in a wrinkled suit dancing with an empty whiskey glass and an armful of air.
Bert poured another splash, took his glass out to the porch, leaned against the railing. A car nosed along the street below, pulled into the curb, went dark. A couple got out and went into their house. The fog made it blurry and soft like a cameo, and the general hubbub of activity all around was going quiet. Inside, the CD had played itself out. He sat on the tube-aluminum lawn chaise, then lay against its angled back and closed his eyes. A little later he heard the clank of his glass hitting the boards, but he didn't let it rouse him. He was concentrating on the sounds of the city, a lullaby hum that floated him gently away.
6
T HE CHILL AIR and the exertion of climbing eight blocks steeply uphill, fog beading on her face, refreshed Cree and brought her mostly out of the funk she'd been slipping into. On each side the tall, narrow houses angled themselves
Tomorrow he'd try to put his thoughts in order, show her some paper. Tell her the rest of it.
He thought about checking his e-mail and then decided against it; he had a good idea what he'd find and didn't need it tonight. Instead, he went to the kitchen to get the fourth drink he felt he was owed. He poured it into a tall glass so he could mix it with water, but then decided he'd just pour it long. He brought the glass into the living room and stood in the middle, taking the whiskey like medicine.
The house was a single floor, anchored on the slope on one side and twenty feet off the ground, on a lattice of girders, on the downhill side. This far up, its windows gave to views of the near rooftops and farther away to the glow of light from Market and Castro, so that after dark Bert had the dubious pleasure of imagining ten thousand queers going about their nightlife. A long living room with a dining alcove separated from the kitchen by a counter, then a hallway leading to the bathroom, a couple of closets, one big bedroom, and a smaller bedroom that Bert used as his office. That was it. No basements, no attics, no secrets, keep it simple. A narrow deck projected out over the slope, where in good weather he could sit and have his morning coffee. It wasn't the house in Pacific Heights by a few million bucks, but you could do worse.
The whiskey and the music came together in a good feeling in his stomach. He switched on the lamp by the couch, turned off the overhead, and then stood just feeling the music. This was a good collection. Nowadays he was into the slower, spacious numbers, the ones an older guy could move to without making a fool of himself. The Count. You couldn't count on much, but you could count on the Count. The Count said life was okay and kind of graceful, and you could almost believe him. You had less gravity when you moved to the music. Bert took a few steps, found the catch, the slide, the short step. He put his right hand around an invisible partner's waist, his glass in his outstretched left hand, and spun lazily through the room. Muted brass over a solid foundation of saxophones, rhythm section subdued, brushes on the snare, it never failed.
He closed his eyes and floated and spun for a while, then bumped his thigh on the Barcalounger and realized he was a little dizzy. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was his own reflection in the sliding doors to the deck, with the darkness and lights of the valley shining through.
A big old guy in a wrinkled suit dancing with an empty whiskey glass and an armful of air.
Bert poured another splash, took his glass out to the porch, leaned against the railing. A car nosed along the street below, pulled into the curb, went dark. A couple got out and went into their house. The fog made it blurry and soft like a cameo, and the general hubbub of activity all around was going quiet. Inside, the CD had played itself out. He sat on the tube-aluminum lawn chaise, then lay against its angled back and closed his eyes. A little later he heard the clank of his glass hitting the boards, but he didn't let it rouse him. He was concentrating on the sounds of the city, a lullaby hum that floated him gently away.
6
T HE CHILL AIR and the exertion of climbing eight blocks steeply uphill, fog beading on her face, refreshed Cree and brought her mostly out of the funk she'd been slipping into. On each side the tall, narrow houses angled themselves
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