"I'm a painter," you say, and I can see the self-mockery in the smile that flirts with the corners of your lips. "Excuse me, this is Boston, so I must...say- I am an artist." We both laugh, and you suddenly become a different person as you realize I don't care. I'm a librarian, no one special, no one pretending to be a cultural snob, and you're a painter. We're both just rambling through our lives, looking for a place to belong. You tell me about your wife, divorced for two years now, and how. The first cognac was followed by another and then another after that until I was wasted. As soon as he had me in the proper state of suggestibility, he would implement the second phase of whatever his plan was for the evening. Sometimes he wanted us to go see a porno movie together. Then he would sit next to me in the theater and critique the sex scenes, commenting on the size of the actors' cocks, or their technique. He always spoke dispassionately and rather loudly, just as if he was. More

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