“It’s sort of unreal, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” Conner asked.

“The moonlight, the music. You in a tux. It’s like we’ve taken a break from reality, like we’re in a Cary Grant movie.” There was something faraway in her eyes.

Conner agreed. It didn’t seem real.

Nobody took notice of Tyranny leading Conner around the other side of the pool and into the little pool house. It was dark inside. Conner reached for the light switch. Tyranny stopped him.

“We only have about ten minutes. They’ll start the buffet soon after Dan’s speech, and he’ll be looking for me.” She kissed him long and softly, reluctant to part her lips from his.

She pushed Conner into a sitting position on the rattan sofa, fumbled for his belt. He couldn’t believe it, so sudden, what he’d been wanting, needing. She was there with him now in the dark pool house, quiet except for their quick breathing. She pulled up her dress. Black stockings, garters. No panties. She sank on top of him, rocked, riding up and down.

He slipped a strap off her shoulder, lowered her dress, took an erect nipple into his mouth, bit lightly. She moaned, her head back. Tyranny slammed down on him hard now, sucking harsh breaths with each thrust until she was grunting like an animal, gritting teeth, digging into Conner’s shoulders with her nails. Conner’s sore ribs flared momentarily. He ignored it.

Conner thrust back, wondering how long the Cary Grant fantasy would last before reality came crashing down, not wanting to think about when they would be finished and she’d scurry back into the house to tend to Professor Dan’s party. But he couldn’t help it. He thought about it. Maybe this was finally it, what Conner had been waiting for. Maybe Tyranny was showing him right now her true feelings, demonstrating that she’d chosen him.

Tyranny’s orgasm demanded his attention. He focused totally on the now. She locked herself around him, shuddering as she came. Conner came too. She collapsed against him. Breathing easier, their hearts thumping against one another.

Her hair smelled so nice.

Tyranny stood, smoothed her dress down, ran a hand through her hair. She wouldn’t look at Conner.

“Do you love Dan?” Conner asked.

Tyranny sighed. “I’m not prepared to talk about this.”

Something had changed. She was different. He could hear it in her voice, see it in her posture.

Conner said, “Leave him and be with me.”

“Look, it’s all very-”

“Complicated. You told me that already.”

“I have to go,” she said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d wait two minutes before following me back to the house.” She looked at her watch. “Shit. Dan wanted to introduce me to Jasper. There’s an internship available at MoMA this season, and Jasper might be able to put in a good word.”

She saw the look on Conner’s face, touched his cheek, and smiled wistfully. “Try to enjoy yourself. Get something to eat. We’ll talk about this later.” And she was gone.

Conner knew they would not talk about it later. They’d never talk about it. He realized what he’d always secretly known on some level. Things would stay the same. She would not leave her luxurious, beautiful life with Professor Dan.

Conner had been fucked, and that was all.

He pulled up his pants, left the pool house. The smokers had gone inside. Out of spite, Conner picked up a heavy potted plant and heaved it into the deep end of the pool, his ribs protesting only a little. The pot splashed big, plunged to the bottom, and landed with a ceramic tunk. He felt a vague, juvenile satisfaction, which faded by the time he was back in the house.

Tyranny reinserted herself into the swirling party, returned pleasantries without thought, avoided being drawn into lengthy small talk. Her head buzzed, couldn’t form cold, logical thoughts. She felt sick at her stomach.

So stupid stupid stupid. It had seemed so right, a perfect little romantic moment. Moments, however, never stay moments. They never stay preserved, like a picture-perfect scene in a snow globe. The fantasy leaks out, seeps into reality, spoils everything.

She found her husband.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Professor Dan said. “We’re starting the buffet, and I need you to-what is it? Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

Her mind raced. She knew Conner so well; poor Conner, he would never forgive this. He surely thought this was the beginning of something beautiful. His expectations were so pure and final. Tyranny was complex, a churning cauldron of thoughts and emotions and conflicting desires, and Conner would simply never understand that Tyranny could not be tied down to Conner’s idea of love. It was impossible, all simply broken and ruined and impossible.

“You’re crying.” Dan took her arm, pulled her aside, and looked over his shoulder to see if any of the partygoers had noticed.

“I’m not crying. Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“I need you down here,” Dan said.

“Just a few minutes.”

She avoided meeting anyone’s eye, went upstairs to her room, closed the door, locked it. She picked up the phone and hit Dr. Goldblatt’s home number on speed-dial. The doctor answered.

She told him what happened.

“Do you love this man?”

“I’m not even sure what love is anymore.”

“Some say love is merely a set of electrical impulses formed by our brain after receiving specific external stimuli. All of that romantic nonsense was invented by poets.”

“I hate you, Dr. Goldblatt.”

“My wife often expresses a similar sentiment.”

The reception had shifted to the long dining hall, where food was being served buffet style. It was too crowded. Conner backed out, intercepted a waiter on his way in with a trayful of champagne, and snagged two more glasses. He gulped them down. Burped. It was still too crowded to get at the buffet. He thought he spotted some roast beef, little red potatoes, good stuff, but there were fifty tuxedos in the way.

A side table offered a spread of tortilla chips with salsa and pigs in a blanket. He plucked a white cloth napkin from the table, filled it with pigs in a blanket and wrapped it up. He put the napkin wad into the side pocket of his tuxedo. It made a nice warm weight against his hip.

The room was too crowded and loud. He didn’t see Tyranny anywhere and didn’t look too hard.

He retreated to the quiet part of the house. Stray partygoers huddled in twos and threes, private conversations. Conner wanted to be alone. He pushed on deeper into the house, found a room that looked like a small library or maybe a big study. A giant globe on a highly polished wooden stand. Oaken desk. Shelves lined with books. French doors with a view of the bay. This must be Professor Dan’s office.

On the corner of the desk a silver tray supported a glass decanter half-full of amber liquid. Four clean highball glasses around the decanter. Conner took the lid off the decanter, set it to the side, filled one of the highball glasses to the top.

“I wouldn’t do that.” A voice behind him.

Conner started, turned.

A pear-shaped man, short. Thinning blond hair. He wore thick, round glasses that made him look like an owl, a tuxedo with a vest instead of a cummerbund. He stepped into the study, closed the door behind him.

“That’s the cheap stuff,” he said. He went to the big globe and opened it up. It was hinged at the equator. Inside were more bottles and glasses. “Johnnie Walker Black.” He poured himself a tall one, then offered the bottle to Conner.

Conner took a fresh highball glass, held it out, and the guy filled it for him. He quickly drank half, smacked his lips.

The guy asked, “You’re not a goddamn art lover, are you?”