He held out a bottle of wine to me. I took it and went into the kitchen.
“Make yourself at home,” I said. I opened a drawer and pulled out a corkscrew. I hesitated. If I smelled the wine, I was afraid I might gulp the entire bottle down. I bit my lip.
Wine would make these next moments easier, wouldn’t it?
I got a wine glass from the cupboard and carried the bottle and the corkscrew into the living room. Irving was sitting in my chair, the one where I usually sat to figure out what came next in whatever narrative I was spinning at the time. I didn’t want him there.
“Come sit on the couch,” I said. “There’s not room for me in that chair.”
He looked surprised, but he smiled and got up and went to the couch. I put the glass on the end table and handed him the bottle and corkscrew.
“Coul
