Page 15 of Kitten

“James, you chose the cursed table,” said Isabelle.

“It’s our favorite.” James slipped into a voice I hadn’t heard before, exaggerated and slightly juvenile, like Mickey Mouse.

“Nothing bad has ever happened toyouat this table.” Isabelle looked at me. “This table has borne witness to some of the worst moments of my life. I was dumped by the milkshake man at this table. My little brother peed on me at this table. I was rejected from summer camp at this table.”

I was baffled that Isabelle just told me all this, as if I had any knowledge of the characters of her life. Who was the milkshake man? Was I supposed to ask? Either way, oversharing seemed to be a good tactic, because I was immediately fascinated by her. I saved this in my head as something I could try.

“You were not rejected from camp, you were rejected from summer school at Georgetown.” James turned to me. “And Felix peed his pants just because they got his order wrong. I’m pretty sure the staff still remembers him.”

“He peed onme.Cursed table.”

Mrs. Hartley tapped her nails on the wood, commanding my attention. “You’re enjoying it here?”

“It’s beautiful.”

“You say that now. Come two months earlier and this place would’ve been completely unrecognizable. All the tourists, their litter and their music. I hardly ever go outside in July.”

“Good thing you don’t actually live here in the summer,” Isabelle said.

“Who in their right mind would?”

“I don’t know, anyone who can’t afford to just jet off to Europe.”

“You’ve solved the issue of wealth inequality, darling.”

The waiter came by. Mr. Hartley ordered a beer. Isabelle ordered a lemonade. Mrs. Hartley asked for a dirty martini. “Extra dirty,” she said. “And I mean extra.”On the secondextra,she winked at the waiter. I couldn’t believe she pulled this off. Nobody had mentioned my eye, which was initially a relief, but grew distressing. Their polite avoidance only made it more obvious. You had to point out perversions, no matter how rude it was, otherwise they lingered, dominating the conversation from the background. The talk here was about the weather. I said nothing and finished my wine.

“It’s been so ugly recently,” Isabelle said.

Isabelle’s face was not only beautiful but also unmarred.It bore no spots, pores, or scars, not even makeup, no sign that it really existed in the world or had ever left some cold, private room. Mrs. Hartley’s skin was the same. Though it dimpled when she smiled, it was otherwise glassy smooth. I thought of the creams my mother bought in bulk on Black Friday. Then I pinched my wrist for something else to focus on.

“Katie.” James nudged me. “What do you do?”

“What?” Someone had been talking to me. Mrs. Hartley just asked me what I did. “I don’t do anything,” I said. Everybody laughed. So, I thought, this was funny.

“That’s not true,” James said. “What about your art? You paint, and you have those curations.”

It had been a long time since I’d collected or collaged anything impressive, a habit I picked up when I stopped painting. After James demanded to see more of my paintings on the night we met, I’d drunkenly showed him my pages of napkins, tickets, and things that looked like stars but weren’t meant to be stars. He’d said it showed taste.

“I like to make piles of things that resemble something else,” I said. “For example, leaves—”

“For work, darling,” said Mrs. Hartley.

I looked at James. He gave me a small smile. “I just graduated. Well, in May. But that still feels recent. James has been helping me—we met in March—”

“Dating a student?” She said to James. “Naughty.”

Mr. Hartley chuckled and patted James’s shoulder. James blushed. I was mortified. “Barely,” I said. The entire table was staring at me now. I looked at James, who looked back. An understanding passed between us. Whatever he saidwould be taken either as defensiveness or acceptance, and both would validate Mrs. Hartley’s implication of there being something wrong between us. I would be responsible for releasing the pressure of the conversation.

“I don’t think the two months between us meeting and my graduation made a big difference in my mental development,” I said. My voice came out serious and cold. I knew straightaway that I’d overdone it.

“That’s okay, darling,” Mrs. Hartley said. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

I reached for my glass. It was empty.

“And what have you been doing since graduation?”

“Working,” I said. “At my university’s law library. It’s not a real job, just my old work study.” I cleared my throat, embarrassed at having said aloud the wordswork study.And then I was surprised by my embarrassment, which was new.