Lots of anthropologists agree that humans are a naturally monogamous species, said Philip.
Is that really where you’re at theoretically? Bobbi said.
Not everything goes back to cultural theory, said Philip.
Bobbi laughed, an aesthetically gorgeous laugh, a performance of total self-assurance which made Marianne wince.
Oh my God, and they’re going to let you graduate? Bobbi said.
What about Jesus? I said. He loved everybody.
He was also celibate, said Philip.
A matter of historical dispute, Bobbi said.
Why don’t you tell us about your Bartleby essay, Philip? I said. You handed that in today, didn’t you?
Bobbi grinned at my awkward intervention and sat back in her chair. Philip wasn’t looking at me, but at Camille, smiling like they were sharing a private joke. I bristled, since I had stepped in to save him from humiliation, and it was graceless of him not to acknowledge my effort. He turned away then and talked about his essay, as if he was humouring me, and I pretended not to listen. Bobbi began to search her bag for a packet of cigarettes, lifting her head once to say: you should have read Gilles Deleuze. Philip glanced at Camille again.
I did read him, said Philip.
You missed his point then, Bobbi said. Frances? Do you fancy coming out for a cigarette?
I followed her. It was still early evening, and the air was crisp and navy blue. She started to laugh and I laughed too, from the joy of being alone with her. She lit both our cigarettes and then exhaled, a white cloud, and coughed with laughter.
Human nature, I ask you, she said. You’re such a pushover.
I think I only appear smart by staying quiet as often as possible.
That amused her. She fixed a strand of my hair behind my ear fondly.
Is that a hint? she said.
Oh no. If I could talk like you I would talk all the time.
We smiled at one another. It was cold. The tip of Bobbi’s cigarette glowed a spectral orange colour and released tiny sparks into the air. She lifted her face toward the street like she was showing off the perfect line of her profile.
I feel like shit lately, she said. All this stuff at home, I don’t know. You think you’re the kind of person who can deal with something and then it happens and you realise you can’t.
She balanced her cigarette on her lower lip, near the corner of her mouth, and started to gather her hair back in a knot with her hands. It was Halloween, the streets were busy, and little knots of people went by dressed in capes or fake spectacles or tiger costumes.
What do you mean? I said. What happened?
You know Jerry’s kind of temperamental, right? It doesn’t really matter. Family drama, what do you care?
I care about everything that happens to you.
She put her cigarette back between her fingers and wiped her nose with her sleeve. In her eyes the orange light reflected like fire.
He’s not really on board with the divorce, Bobbi said.
I didn’t realise that.
Yeah, he’s being a real jerk about it. He has all these conspiracy theories about Eleanor, like she’s out to get his money or whatever. And the worst thing is that he actually expects me to be on his side.
I thought of her saying to Camille: did your parents have a favourite child? I knew Bobbi had always been Jerry’s favourite, that he thought her sister was spoilt, that he considered his wife hysterical. I knew he told Bobbi these things in order to win her confidence. I had always thought that being Jerry’s favourite was a privilege for Bobbi, but now I saw it was also something cumbersome and dangerous.
I didn’t know you were going through all that, I said.
Everyone’s always going through something, aren’t they? That’s life, basically. It’s just more and more things to go through. You have all this shit going on with your dad that you never talk about. It’s not like things are so perfect for you.
I said nothing. She exhaled a thin stream of smoke from her lips and then shook her head.
Sorry, she said. I didn’t mean that.
No, you’re right.
For a moment we stood there like that, huddled together behind the smoking barrier. I became aware that our arms were touching, and then Bobbi kissed me. I accepted the kiss, I even felt my hand reaching for hers. I could sense the soft pressure of her mouth, her lips parting, the sweet chemical scent of her moisturiser. I thought she was about to put her arm around my waist, but instead she drew away. Her face was flushed and extraordinarily pretty-looking. She stubbed her cigarette out.
Should we go back upstairs? she said.
The inside of my body hummed like a piece of machinery. I searched Bobbi’s face for some acknowledgement of what had just happened but there was none. Was she just confirming that she felt nothing for me any more, that kissing me was like kissing a wall? Was it some kind of experiment? Upstairs we got our coats and then walked home together talking about college, about Melissa’s new book, about things that didn’t really concern us.