On the last day of October, I handed in one of my essays and Bobbi and I went out afterwards to meet friends for coffee. I was happy with my life then, happier than I could ever remember. Lewis was pleased with my revisions and ready to go ahead with printing the story in the January issue of the magazine. With Nick’s loan, and the money I would have left over from the magazine even after I repaid him, I felt invincibly wealthy. It was like I’d finally escaped my childhood and my dependence on other people. There was no way for my father to harm me any more, and from this vantage point I felt a new and sincere compassion toward him, the compassion of a good-natured observer.
We met Marianne that afternoon, as well as her boyfriend Andrew, who nobody really liked. Philip was there too, with Camille, a girl he had started seeing. Philip seemed awkward in my company, careful to catch my eye when he could and smile at my jokes but in a way that seemed to communicate sympathy, or even pity, rather than real friendship. I found his behaviour too silly to be offensive, though I remember hoping that Bobbi would notice it too so we could talk about it later.
We were sitting upstairs in a small cafe near College Green, and at some point the conversation turned to monogamy, a subject I didn’t have anything to say about. At first Marianne was discussing whether non-monogamy was an orientation, like being gay, and some people were ‘naturally’ non-monogamous, which led Bobbi to point out that no sexual orientation was ‘natural’ as such. I sipped on the coffee Bobbi had bought me and said nothing, just wanting to hear her talk. She said that monogamy was based on a commitment model, which served the needs of men in patrilineal societies by allowing them to pass property to their genetic offspring, traditionally facilitated by sexual entitlement to a wife. Non-monogamy could be based on an alternative model completely, Bobbi said. Something more like spontaneous consent.
Listening to Bobbi theorise in this way was exciting. She spoke in clear, brilliant sentences, like she was making shapes in the air out of glass or water. She never hesitated or repeated herself. Every so often she would catch my eye and I would nod: yes, exactly. This agreement seemed to encourage her, like she was searching my eyes for approval, and she would look away again and continue: by which I mean …
She didn’t seem to be paying attention to the other people at the table while she spoke, but I noticed that Philip and Camille were exchanging glances. At one point Philip looked at Andrew, the only other man seated with us, and Andrew raised both his eyebrows as if Bobbi had started talking gibberish or promoting anti-Semitism. I thought it was cowardly of Philip to look at Andrew, whom I knew he didn’t even like, and it made me uncomfortable. Gradually I realised that no one else had spoken in some time and that Marianne had started staring at her lap awkwardly. Even though I loved to listen to Bobbi when she was like this, I started to wish she would stop.
I just don’t think it’s possible to love more than one person, Camille said. I mean, with all your heart, really love them.
Did your parents have a favourite child? said Bobbi. That must have been hard for you.
Camille laughed nervously, unable to tell whether Bobbi was joking and not knowing Bobbi well enough to know that this was normal.
It’s not really the same with children, Camille said. Is it?
Well, it depends whether you believe in some kind of transhistorical concept of romantic love consistent across diverse cultures, said Bobbi. But I guess we all believe silly things, don’t we?
Marianne glanced at me, just briefly, but I could tell that she felt the same way I did: that Bobbi was being more than usually aggressive now, that she was going to hurt Camille’s feelings, and that Philip would be annoyed. I looked at Philip and saw it was too late. His nostrils were flared slightly, he was angry, and he was going to argue with Bobbi and lose.
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.