If it was porn, it certainly wasn’t like what I had seen on the internet. It was black-and-white, with subtitles. In the beginning, a woman in an old-timey dress walked around her fancy bedroom trying to find something to sell. One by one, she touched her treasured possessions. The scene was shot from her point of view, so that in my stoned state, I could almost feel the cold slither of a diamond necklace over my palm, the tickle of fur under my fingers. A shudder of delight ran through me, pushing up on the roof of my mouth like a yawn, and suddenly I could see colors in the black-and-white. They were only the shy souls of colors, palest pink and pistachio green and robin’s-egg blue, like a faint residue of reality lingering in the image. I forgot the subtitles and relaxed into pure deliciousness. The woman pawned some diamond earrings, but somehow they made their way back to her husband, and then her husband’s lover, and then back to the woman again, around and around. She wrote a letter to her lover, ripped it to shreds, and threw it out of a train window, where it transformed into flurries of snow. Guns were drawn. The credits rolled. Tears streamed down my face.
I looked around. Trace and the Kevins were gone.
Quimby had been watching me for some time. “Oh, fools,” he said tenderly.
Many years later, when I heard someone say the name of the film’s director out loud—Ophüls—I felt like an idiot. But in the moment, I thought he meant the others, and blushed.
On my way out, he handed me a crumpled paper bag stuffed with videos.
“These are for you, Jennifer,” he said. “When you need more, just let me know.”
I dug up an old TV/VCR combo from the back of my father’s closet, where it had been banished when we bought a DVD player. I dragged it into my closet and watched movies late into the night. The colors never came back, but I knew they were there, and that they were as close as I’d ever get to perfection.
* * *
And then I met Gwen.
December 29, 2021, 8:30 p.m.
SkyLoft Hotel, Los Angeles
It’s Claire now,” I remind her.
Gwen winces. “I’m sorry. Old habits die hard.”
We look down at our very different shoes for a moment.
“So, Claire. Will you have a drink on me and catch up?”
“I shouldn’t.” Since the accident, I have been on certain medications that are strongly contraindicated for alcohol.
“Just one?” She smiles conspiratorially.
But I’ve already had one—a rather large glass of wine at the reception. “I have work to do tonight,” I say, thinking of Harvard up in my hotel room.
“You always did work too hard.” Her delicate allusion to our differences and how I so improbably overcame them seems to move her. She steps closer and touches my forearm. “Please?”
There’s no word for losing a friend like Gwen. Breakup, separation, split—all for romantic partnerships, and all suggesting a clear end, something you don’t get in a friendship unless you’re one of those drink-throwers or bitch!-screamers in the viral videos. Falling-out is too final to describe the particular uncertainty, the lengthening silence. The only phrase we have for the slow, specific entropy of a dying friendship is drifted apart. As if you fell asleep sunbathing on floats and woke up on opposite sides of the swimming pool.
As if it didn’t hurt.
Which is why, against my better judgment, against every instinct that tells me to go straight to bed and fuck my stranger and get a good night’s sleep for tomorrow’s interview, I nod and say, “Maybe just one.”
Gwen points out a table in the corner, and we head in that direction.
“Your admirer at the bar will be disappointed.” The man with the salt-and-pepper hair has been following us with his eyes. Now he pulls out his wallet and throws down a bill.
“Oh, he’s not an admirer. Just killing time waiting for his lady friend,” she says with a short laugh. “Besides, this always scares them off.” She holds up her left hand and wiggles an engagement ring, though I could have sworn it wasn’t there a moment ago, when her hands were folded on the bar.
“Congratulations.” In the time-honored tradition of best friends, I take her hand to get a closer look and see a giant solitaire on a double-rowed band of tiny diamonds like teeth. Her fingers are cold and dry. I feel something like an electric shock at the contact and hold her hand a little longer so as not to jerk mine away. As a result, we are still connected at the fingertips when she climbs into her chair, and I am left with the distinct impression of having helped her into her seat. I draw my hand back and sit down. “It’s stunning.”
Gwen smiles her thanks, and I open my mouth to ask the next obvious question. But just then, with an alacrity I am certain he reserves for people who look like Gwen, the waiter appears. I point to a scotch located three-quarters of the way down the drink menu, at that precise inflection point that suggests both expensive tastes and a certain restraint in indulging them. “Double, neat.”
It’s Gwen’s turn. “Make me something good?” She flashes the waiter a smile, and he scurries off to comply, leaving us alone.
“Who’s the lucky guy?” I say, thankful that the interruption has kept me from betraying my rabid curiosity. “I had no idea you were even seeing someone.”
She blushes. “I haven’t posted anything about it online.” And she names a recently exiled Brazilian director whose first film, made on a shoestring, was so universally adored that several big Hollywood names are rumored to be lined up for the second.
“Wow.” My eyebrows shoot upward, though I manage not to gasp. “I can see why you’re keeping that close to the vest. So, what’s he like?”
“Oh, you know. Wonderful. Amazing.” She laughs. “I never know how to describe people.”
“He must be brilliant.”
She shifts in her seat. “He’s very private.”
That seems like a clear enough signal to move on, but I can’t help myself. “Must be hard for him being famous, then.”
“He’s not,” she protests.
The waiter arrives with the drinks and we are spared the argument. He tosses a pair of thick white napkins on the table and sets down my tumbler of scotch and Gwen’s slender highball, something cloudy with a twist.
“Cheers.” She raises her glass. We click rims and take a sip.
While I’m still savoring the warm shudder of scotch going down, Gwen asks, “How are your mom and Lily?”
I grimace and exhale ninety-five-proof through my teeth. “They’re great, thanks for asking.”
“Did you see them at Christmas?”
“My mom knows not to expect me, with the conference,” I say a little stiffly.
“Having a big annual conference smack between Christmas and New Year’s must be awful.”
“It really is,” I lie.
“It’s like a naked bid for loyalty.” She wrinkles her nose.
I take another sip. I know all about naked bids for loyalty. My mom’s first relapse happened just after I drove away to college for the first time. I wound up living at home and commuting. Further relapses always coincided with some important opportunity; my application to the Program was very nearly derailed by one of them.