Amateurs by Dylan Hicks Page B

Sara’s shoulder. “Nice cashmere.”
    â€œIt’s a blend.”
    He sat down, reached over to feel the sleeve, knitted his brow. “Can’t be a blend.”
    â€œJohn.”
    â€œI’d trust Beau Brummell on this one,” George said.
    â€œHow’s the editing and whatnot going?” John asked.
    â€œI’m still making a living. Lucky in this market.”
    â€œYeah, Archer says it’s a squeeze.”
    â€œEarly in the season for watermelon,” George said.
    â€œI can’t wait for Archer’s new one,” John said. “He posted a rave review from Circus the other day.”
    â€œ Kirkus. ” A slip—Sara’s: she was trying to grow out of these pointless corrections. Also, it wasn’t a rave.
    â€œThat’s the one,” John said.
    â€œWas he ‘humbled’?”
    â€œDon’t recall him saying anything along those lines. You’ll be at the wedding, right?”
    She sensed that he already knew for certain she would be there. If only he were less pathetic, she could feel better about finding him insufferable. “Yes,” she said.
    â€œThis is the wedding I told you about, George.” John’s tone was artificially upbeat.
    â€œThat Greek’s wedding?”
    â€œGreek? No, he’s Ukrainian. Half Ukrainian.”
    â€œEarly in the season for watermelon. Not too bad, though.”
    â€œKristen Hanson will be staying here while I’m away.”
    â€œFine.”
    â€œAfter dinner,” John said to Sara, “maybe you’d want to take a peek up in the attic at some of your grandma’s old clothes. Some great pieces up there.”
    â€œShe had a wonderful eye,” George said.
    â€œThere’s a tweed skirt suit with a Givenchy sort of look.”
    â€œI went through that stuff years ago, John. Most of it doesn’t fit me.”
    â€œIf there’s something you like, it’d be no trouble for me to let it out ’fore you leave.”
    â€œNo thank you.”
    â€œThere’s a mess of cool stuff up there, not just clothes.”
    He made two more attempts to lure Sara up to the attic, as if he were desperate to reveal—the thought amused her—his new line of laboriously handcrafted bondage apparatuses, though when they’d been together he had never pushed to transgress beyond reverse cowgirl.
    The next morning, he organized a “World Series of Parcheesi,” for which Sara tried, reluctantly, to match some of his enthusiasm. George found none of it contagious and seemed to be making deliberately self-destructive moves. “You sure about that one, George?” John said at one point.
    George looked at his Bulova. “Very.”
    By midafternoon Sara had switched to an earlier flight home. She didn’t know what to report to her father but was beginning to suspect that George was safer in John’s vicinity than John was in hers.
    February 2005

    A few weeks after Archer stopped into the store but did not order a made-to-measure suit, John called to pin down those jogging plans and was instead invited to Archer’s SoHo condo for Saturday brunch. When John arrived, Archer was sifting through the filing cabinets in his main room’s office partition, filling plastic tubs with old bills, bank statements, and investment reports that someone else would later shred. Brunch was just a bag of bagels. “There a cutting board?” John asked from the kitchen.
    â€œBy the microwave.”
    John brought Archer a bagel, carrying a kitchen stool with his other hand. The stool’s seat was made out of an old disco LP. “So how’d that essay turn out?”
    â€œIt’s the best thing I’ve done,” Archer answered. “I’m setting it aside so I can see it fresh in a few weeks.”
    â€œSmart.” The seat was about as comfortable as an old disco LP. “Let me know if you want Sara’s contact