Through no effort of my own, I had made it back in time for my date with Delia Ferrier. I was glad to have somewhere to go, but I couldn’t psych up for it, for the whole interesting, positive interaction between Mature Persons Numbers One and Two. I felt more like watching static on TV or going home and not talking to Toff. Everyone must feel like that once in a while, it’s like getting take-out for dinner or putting a song on repeat—it’s self-indulgent in exactly the same way. You just want to hoard your past in the luxury of your own room, to replay the stories over and over in darkness and not be bothered. “Just leave me on the corner,” I said. “No, no, we’ll drop you off. No trouble, George.” At my building Kate gave a good imitation of someone rousing herself sleepily. I deposited her on the seat and got out. “Oh, George. You’re going, then. It was so good you could come along.” Her smile seemed to come from far away, the way one smiles over a memory that is pleasant and will always be pleasant but is no longer compelling.
