The Longest Week Page #3

I can play!

No, you cannot.

We should move.

They're like little veal.

So I met a woman

a couple of weeks ago.

I don't know. I can't

get her out of my head.

What happened to "the prospects

of bachelorhood"?

I know.

I just find it

completely, overwhelmingly

tedious and unnerving.

So tell me about the girl.

What are the details?

Well, she's like

an ingnue in a Chekhov play.

You know, one of those overly

romantic, virtuous types,

completely self-inhibited,

doesn't drink,

didn't have sex until she was 21

and read the bulk

of the Victorian classics.

Jesus! Sounds like a real keeper.

She is. She really is.

I'm in way over my head.

Is she attractive?

She's a model.

If I ever lost my fortune

and was completely disinherited,

could you ever see me

as a struggling bohemian artist type?

Hypothetically speaking, of course.

That reminds me

do you want to come with me

to the cocktail benefit

at the Woodruff Modern tonight?

Nope.

Come on!

You know I don't like those things.

It'll be fun. You can...

Probably not.

Then you can meet the ingnue.

Is it a date?

Not exactly.

We do this thing where

we don't really go out together.

We just call each other

to make sure the other's

gonna be at a certain place

at a preordained time and...

Adorable.

...we just happen to

bump into one another.

It's... less pressure.

So do you wanna come

to the cocktail party?

Well, I'll need a cocktail first.

Are you wearing perfume?

No, it's a new cologne

that I'm wearing for my date.

Why? What do you think?

Well, I think it smells like perfume.

No.

The woman at Bergdorfs

told me that it's unisex.

And you wanted to smell

sexually ambiguous?

Good evening, and welcome

to this evening's benefit.

I must say I am more than thrilled

to see so many familiar faces.

Enjoy the complimentary

hors d'oeuvres and champagne

and, remember, make a donation!

Cheers.

This is Beatrice Fairbanks.

Beatrice had attended

a rather strict etiquette school

on a biweekly basis.

In doing so, Beatrice

had been quietly instilled

with a certain Victorian idolatry,

a paragon of virtue.

Beatrice had been

forced at a young age

to learn the works of Bach, Chopin

and other masters

of classical music,

though secretly she had

always wanted to play jazz.

Oddly, Beatrice had opted

to become an editorial model...

C'est bon, c'est bon.

It's OK, it's OK.

...an occupation that only

heightened her insecurities.

Beatrice was a finn believer

in mystics, psychics and the occult,

which ran counter

to the debutante norm

which favoured

incessant psychoanalysis.

What does it mean?

So, what do you think of my cologne?

That's you!

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