The Longest Week Page #2

in the amount of $217.33

the entirety

of his wallet's remains.

Conrad's ego was in no position

to admit the reality

of his impoverishment.

Consequently, he had decided

not to tell Dylan...

Ding-dong!

...or anyone, for that matter,

of his financial woes.

Bonjour, comrade.

Bonjour.

This is Dylan Tate.

Dylan was an antisocial socialist,

a closet conversationalist,

a clinical neurotic.

Possessing an inimitable

talent for the arts,

Dylan had been afforded

the opportunity

to travel the world and live

a comfortable lifestyle

at his own expense

something Conrad knew nothing about.

Dylan Tate was the only personage

of all Conrad's acquaintances

whom he admired

and, to a bigger extent than he liked

to admit to himself, envied.

How was Greece?

You mean Bhutan.

Semantics.

I got back a couple of days ago.

You mind if I stay

with you for a while?

Sure. Come on in.

So what happened?

We are remodelling

at the Valmont again.

Where's Jocelyn?

I don't know.

It's been a couple of weeks.

What I first perceived

as cute and endearing

was actually quite exhausting

her episodic hysteria,

her chronic dissatisfaction,

her endless pragmatism.

You know you two always do this

one of you screams,

the other comes running back.

I... I bought her a Volvo.

You bought her a Vo...

Why do you always buy them a Volvo?

I don't know. It's like

a free ticket to leave.

How can I feel guilty, you know?

I bought her a Volvo!

You know, what really

pisses me off about this whole thing

is that I'm the one who funded

her entire vegan fashion line

and now that every socialite

in St Barts thinks it's fashionable

I get the swift kick.

Swift kick? I thought

you broke it off with her.

I did, but still...

So Henri over at the gallery

set me up on a date last week.

That bad?

You can always tell

what somebody thinks of you

by who they set you up with.

Is it wrong to be aroused

by a bunch of 17-year-old girls

running around with knee-high socks

and polyester shorts?

Well, I guess that's a decision every

man has to make for himself.

But yes. Obviously, yes.

Conrad needs a girlfriend.

No, no, no, we don't

need girlfriends.

This is not the time

for girlfriends.

This is the time for us

to read and to write

and to have deviant

fetishistic sex with prostitutes.

Please! This from

a serial monogamist.

You've never even

been with a prostitute.

I understand that.

If you'll indulge me,

I'm going through a rough break-up.

I need to have certain reassurances

about the prospect of bachelorhood.

Look alive, look alive.

You need a new goalie?

Don't make eye contact.

Hey, mister,

give us back our ball!

Interaction is inappropriate.

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