Talking, Dan reached over and rubbed the back of Jean's neck. She leaned into his palm. It appeared to be a spontaneous act of affection, but was in fact their private sign for wanting to leave. They lingered a little longer and then, patting Dan on the knee, Jean announced they should be taking off because they still had some errands to run this afternoon.
In the foyer, everyone air-kissed and hugged. Robert stepped up behind Dan and patted him on the back, letting his hand loiter on his shoulder as they all agreed jovially that they had to do this again soon.
On their way down in the elevator, Jean and Dan chatted amiably with Naomi and Ron about their plans for the rest of the autumn. Pushing through the revolving doors onto the sidewalk, the damp stagnant heat took away Dan's breath. During lunch he had forgotten about what it was like outside, and now the day arrived as a blow.
Naomi and Ron took the first cab. The air conditioning in the second was so weak Dan had trouble telling if it was really air conditioning or just the fan set on high. Jean recited their address to the Pakistani driver wearing a light blue turban. The driver, who struck Dan as sullen and angry, replied in an accent so viscous that Jean had to ask him to say what he had said twice before it became clear he was just repeating the address she had given him to make sure he had gotten it right.
The taxi accelerated away from the curb and swerved into traffic, fishing among the other cars. Settling back, Dan took a deep breath and pressed shut his eyes. He felt wobbly in the close air and became aware of himself beginning to perspire.
Well, that wasn't so bad, Jean asked, was it?
Dan exhaled and opened his eyes. He reached down and stroked her hand absentmindedly. Up front, the driver honked at something and started talking to himself. The cab jerked abruptly left, then right.
It was tedious as hell, Dan said. Hey, is it hot in here? Then to the driver: Excuse me. Excuse me. Could you please turn up the AC a little?
Can't do, can't do, the driver said over his shoulder without looking back.
That Ron guy was insufferable, Dan said. And the Robert and Estelle Show is starting to get really, really old. Have you ever noticed that if the topic isn't about them, they don't find it interesting?
They never ask anyone else a single question, you mean.
They just bide their time until someone finishes speaking so they can continue being witty.
Jean focused her attention out the side window.
They used to be so funny, she said. Remember how they used to make us just… oh, I don't know. Feel good. Like we were all part of some goofy little club?
We genuinely used to look forward to seeing them.
Naomi was always the sweetest thing. She made everyone feel special. Remember how she had this way of recalling details you mentioned to her in passing three months earlier? How's Danjack's sprained ankle doing? Did Dawn finally decide on Dartmouth or Amherst? She was terrific with that sort of thing.
When did she start dating what's-his-name?
I heard they met through one of those online services. Apparently he wowed her with his emails. She's getting older. She doesn't want to be alone anymore.
Who can blame her? Except that guy adds exactly nothing to the equation. Every time you're around him, you feel you've just wasted a few minutes of your life.
Estelle said Naomi told her they have great sex.
Do I want to know this?
They make videos of it.
Dan looked past her to see what she was seeing. Three teenage girls in black padded racing shorts and tank tops with red highlights rollerbladed down the sidewalk. They were all talking on cell phones. They seemed unaware of each other's presence even though their shoulders were almost touching and they all wore the same bouncy, angled, layered dark-blonde shag Jennifer Aniston was currently wearing in that television show.
When the taxi jounced to a halt at a stoplight, Dan realized his shirt back was wet. He hoisted himself up and reached into his right pocket for his handkerchief and dabbed his gummy forehead and neck. He wasn't feeling quite right.
When did it start getting this hot in October? he asked.
Maybe we should put a little space between them and us, Jean proposed.
It's something to think about.
You know what gets me? What gets me is you imagine you'd learn, only you never really do. One week you're visiting friends, believing you have everything in common with them. The next it's as if you've never met them before. You don't even like them. Maybe you even find them sort of embarrassing. Why is that?
You wouldn't consider being friends with them if you weren't already friends with them.
On the corner sat a cross-legged black man in a red, green, and yellow Rastafarian tam. A pond of knock-off designer purses laid out neatly on white sheets surrounded him.
The stoplight changed. The taxi shot forward.
Estelle wants me to go with her to the new thing at MOMA, Jean said.
Tell her you're busy, said Dan.
He hoisted himself up again, tucked away his handkerchief, extracted his wallet.
She knows I'm not, Jean said. I already told her I was free.
Tell her you thought you were free, but it turns out you're not. Tell her you're sorry. You two will have to take a rain check. She'll understand.
Dan consulted the meter and began counting out bills.
Two weeks, and she'll just ask me to do something else.
You'll be busy then, too.
And after that?
You'll still be busy. You had no idea how much you had going on this fall. She's a smart girl. She'll eventually get the message.
My stomach hurts just thinking about it.
That's why most people choose to attend one tiresome dinner party after another with ex-friends who don't understand yet that they're ex-friends. They don't want to let anyone down. They want everyone to like them.
Okay, fine, Jean said. But say you break things off. Say you do that. You still run the risk of bumping into your ex-friends at future social functions. What are you supposed to do then?
You strike the same affable tone you would if you ran into a boyfriend from high school. You smile. You ask them how they're doing. You wish them well. You make excuses. You leave. In the end, nobody really cares, so nobody's really hurt.
The taxi pulled up to the curb in front of their brownstone. Jean cracked open her door, but waited for Dan to pay before sliding out. He told the driver to keep two dollars. The driver said something Dan couldn't understand and passed him a fistful of money over his shoulder while avoiding his eyes. Dan consulted his change without actually counting it and then slid out.
His right foot felt funny, like it had gone to sleep.
A scrunch-faced boy wearing a t-shirt that said YOU CAN'T SEE ME blasted by on his silver twelve-speed.
People don't change, Dan said when Jean joined him. As they get older, they just become more like themselves. You have your purse?
Got it, Jean said.
Dan slipped his arm around her waist and was startled by how chunky she had become.
Behind them, the taxi unpeeled from the curb.
Dan tried to take a step toward the stoop and fetched up.
The surprising sensation that something was pulling at his right ankle arrived between one inhalation and the next.
Just a second here, he said.
He leaned against Jean, lifted his foot, and massaged it above the bony knobs sticking out on both sides. He straightened again and felt blurry. He had felt fine. Now he felt blurry.