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: : : SO HOW ARE THINGS WITH your boyfriend? Fletcher says.
Clark shoots him an acid look.
—He's not my boyfriend, she says.
—But you know who I'm talking about, he says, —don't you? He says this mainly to bug her. She's got a wonderful scowl.
—Yes, she sighs, as though this line of conversation were unimaginably tedious, —I know who you're talking about—
—So, Fletcher says, —if you had never thought of him as your boyfriend, if that thought had really just never crossed your mind, then when I'd say how's your boyfriend you'd be like who the fuck are you talking about?
—Fletcher, she says.
—Yes, darling.
—Shut the fuck up and drink your beer.
He shrugs, and obeys. Clark lights her cigarette and surveys the crowd. Everyone seems young.
—But seriously, Fletcher says, a minute later. —How are things? With Oliver.
—Things are the same, Clark says. She drags sharply, squints, thinking it over. —We go out, we drink, we bitch about the world—
—So no more overtures?
—Overtures, Clark says. —I'm not sure that there were any overtures to begin with.
—But what about all that stuff about I want to get married and all that?
She knew he was going to bring that up. —That's just him fucking around, she says, annoyed. —I told you that already.
Fletcher muses on this, shakes his head. —I don't buy it, he says. —People don't just say shit like that.
—Well, this guy does, she says. —Maybe he's a freak. I don't know. Now can we drop it?
Fletcher still feels like she's wrong, but he can see that he's on some nerve, and he starts to think that dropping it is maybe a good idea. But he can't quite stop himself. —I just think— he begins.
—Listen, she says. —I don't care to discuss it. If he wanted to hook up with me he's had like plenty of chances, all right? We're out at the bar like every Friday; we're up till like two getting drunk. All he has to say is do you want to come home with me? We've been doing this all winter and he hasn't asked. So he must not want to. And, you know, I don't particularly care to think about why he doesn't want to. Where's that going to get me? I mean, I know the answer.
—What's the answer? Fletcher asks.
He thinks I'm ugly, Clark thinks. But she just shakes her head.
—So if he did ask, Fletcher says. —Would you say yes?
Yes, Clark thinks. But she just shrugs, and says —I don't know. It's not worth thinking about.
Fletcher thinks about things he has wanted to say to Clark in the past, confessions he has wanted to make, confessions that he still wants to make even now, even now that he's with Cassandra and happy. He thinks of things that he has wished for Clark to say to him.
—Maybe he's waiting for you to ask, he says.
—No, Clark says. —I don't think so.
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