non-turkey cheeseburger. But he had the briefing with Harris at two. While he could probably have met any intellectual challenge Joe Harris could throw at him if he were comatose, he couldn’t stagger into a senator’s office smelling like a frat boy on a Sunday morning. So he went to Le Dôme, a costly bistro that used to be jammed with lobbyists and their prey. The lobbyist’s menu showed prices; the member’s did not.
Today the place was practically empty. The rules had changed during one of Congress’s occasional ethical seizures: members and staffers couldn’t accept a lunch that cost more than a McDonald’s happy meal. Possibly the committee that set a five-dollar limit hadn’t meant to suggest that a member’s soul could be had for five and a quarter. Anyway, Le Dome was on its last legs. Few staffers, and no members, would reach into their own wallets for a thirty-five-dollar lunch. Joel was shown to the best two-top, the one that used to be Rostenkowski’s, by the window with its view of the eponymous dome.
He sipped a single, prudent glass of merlot, looked out at the Capitol, and let himself think everything from which solitaire had distracted him.
Two months, closer to three: almost three months since Sam had announced his new evening duty. Just told Joel about it, matter-of-fact. Yes, now that Joel looked back, Sam hadn’t been especially aggrieved, had made no show of dismay that two nights a week would be ruined.
So he had been seeing his new friend for three months. Andhadn’t just stolen moments with him: had built him into his schedule. As on the calendar on Joel’s computer you could make an appointment recurring. Every Tuesday and Thursday, 6–9:30: go and fuck with whoever. Once you’d done that, if you scrolled down you could see the same appointment months ahead, years. Unless you set an end date, it would go on as far into the future as the computer could see.
Sam had also, of course, built into his schedule the recurring lie. Not a complicated one. He came home with perfect regularity, and the most Joel would ask him when he got home was, “How was work?” The most he’d answer was, “Okay.” He would look tired. Sometimes his hair would be damp. Joel would imagine he must have run water through it before leaving the office, because Sam was the kind of guy who had to look perfect before he’d step outside and hail a cab.
Not a demanding arrangement at all: Sam could have kept it up indefinitely. He and … whoever, they would have had to be careful where they went, but not very. Joel’s Washington was a very small town, there were whole quadrants he never penetrated. And of course they had to part at nine-thirty; Sam had faithfully observed this rule. Maybe it was the other guy’s rule. But Joel fancied it was Sam’s—Sam had set the boundaries on his own adventure, and had for almost three months gotten up from the bed, showered, come home to Joel.
Until last night. Last night he had, for whatever reason, lingered an extra half hour, then an hour. Then he had picked up the phone, maybe even as he picked it up still meaning to say, “Hey, we had a couple extra patients, I’m leaving now.” Then hearing Joel’s voice, looking across at his … lover and hearing Joel say, “Dinner’s practically on the table.” Those harmless words somehow the last straw. Perhaps he had even visualized the turkey burgers and the canned beans. And then saw himself and his lover going out for a bite somewhere, someplace lively, talking and laughing together and then onthe street, Sam not hailing a taxi to go home but the two of them going back to the lover’s apartment; if it was dark enough, maybe even holding hands as they walked.
It was almost Joel’s fault. If he hadn’t said those terrible words.
The waiter brought Joel’s foie gras en brioche, sauce framboise, and plopped it down before him as unceremoniously as if it were a liverwurst sandwich. Joel took a taste. It was,
Today the place was practically empty. The rules had changed during one of Congress’s occasional ethical seizures: members and staffers couldn’t accept a lunch that cost more than a McDonald’s happy meal. Possibly the committee that set a five-dollar limit hadn’t meant to suggest that a member’s soul could be had for five and a quarter. Anyway, Le Dome was on its last legs. Few staffers, and no members, would reach into their own wallets for a thirty-five-dollar lunch. Joel was shown to the best two-top, the one that used to be Rostenkowski’s, by the window with its view of the eponymous dome.
He sipped a single, prudent glass of merlot, looked out at the Capitol, and let himself think everything from which solitaire had distracted him.
Two months, closer to three: almost three months since Sam had announced his new evening duty. Just told Joel about it, matter-of-fact. Yes, now that Joel looked back, Sam hadn’t been especially aggrieved, had made no show of dismay that two nights a week would be ruined.
So he had been seeing his new friend for three months. Andhadn’t just stolen moments with him: had built him into his schedule. As on the calendar on Joel’s computer you could make an appointment recurring. Every Tuesday and Thursday, 6–9:30: go and fuck with whoever. Once you’d done that, if you scrolled down you could see the same appointment months ahead, years. Unless you set an end date, it would go on as far into the future as the computer could see.
Sam had also, of course, built into his schedule the recurring lie. Not a complicated one. He came home with perfect regularity, and the most Joel would ask him when he got home was, “How was work?” The most he’d answer was, “Okay.” He would look tired. Sometimes his hair would be damp. Joel would imagine he must have run water through it before leaving the office, because Sam was the kind of guy who had to look perfect before he’d step outside and hail a cab.
Not a demanding arrangement at all: Sam could have kept it up indefinitely. He and … whoever, they would have had to be careful where they went, but not very. Joel’s Washington was a very small town, there were whole quadrants he never penetrated. And of course they had to part at nine-thirty; Sam had faithfully observed this rule. Maybe it was the other guy’s rule. But Joel fancied it was Sam’s—Sam had set the boundaries on his own adventure, and had for almost three months gotten up from the bed, showered, come home to Joel.
Until last night. Last night he had, for whatever reason, lingered an extra half hour, then an hour. Then he had picked up the phone, maybe even as he picked it up still meaning to say, “Hey, we had a couple extra patients, I’m leaving now.” Then hearing Joel’s voice, looking across at his … lover and hearing Joel say, “Dinner’s practically on the table.” Those harmless words somehow the last straw. Perhaps he had even visualized the turkey burgers and the canned beans. And then saw himself and his lover going out for a bite somewhere, someplace lively, talking and laughing together and then onthe street, Sam not hailing a taxi to go home but the two of them going back to the lover’s apartment; if it was dark enough, maybe even holding hands as they walked.
It was almost Joel’s fault. If he hadn’t said those terrible words.
The waiter brought Joel’s foie gras en brioche, sauce framboise, and plopped it down before him as unceremoniously as if it were a liverwurst sandwich. Joel took a taste. It was,
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