ne P.M. in a fashionable restaurant. Crystal goblets<br > tinkling with ice water， gentle thuds of heavy cutlery<br >being set on thick damask， murmurs 6f laughter， and my host<br >drones on and on.<br > I am supposed to wear clothes with satin labels and collect<br >matchbooks as trophies from these celebrated restaurants， yet<br >to me they offer only a steady diet of crhme fralche---cloying<br >and nonnutritious. When I think of the assaults on my sen-<br >sibilities， of the fact that I am doing nothing of value with my<br >life， I m amazed by the way I cope.<br > If I break and nibble the end of my crusty roll Arthur may<br >catch the hint and suggest we look at the menu. Damn. He<br >wants a second drink--won t I have something too? No. One<br >waiter takes his order while another tips the remains of a small<br >bottle of Perrier into my glass. Perhaps I ll gobble the other end<br >of my bread as well or chew on the carnation in the bud vase.<br >Oh， Lord help me. Give me strength to do what s expected and<br >seem to enjoy this.<br > Arthur s grown heavier in the two years I ve known him. He<br >must eat out of frustration. It could be sexual; he may worry<br >that the young men starting to outperform him in business<br >9LQ<br >11<br ><br >
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