Bring Me a Plate of Grapes

The hotel suite had one of those large sitting spaces with two couches and a few armchairs. Truman was sitting comfortably, Regis was standing by the fireplace, smoking a cigarette.

“What do you think, love?” said Regis, “Is Veronica going to come?”

“Ah, I should say ‘that’s what she said,’ because indeed she said it, and because you used the word ‘come’.”

“Crude,” said Regis, “Very crude indeed. You always were prone to the vulgar and the common. Must be your liberal guilt.”

“Ah yes, the penny psychology,” said Truman, taking a chocolate truffle from the tray, “Please, tell me how my mother made me into a homosexual because she encouraged me to write short stories when I was a child.”

Regis took a macho stroll towards the window and looked out into New York City at its finest. Then he gave Truman a sideways glance. “Bitch,” he said.

“When is she going to get here? I’m tired of the heavy atmosphere and heavier wit. I want to talk to a creature of the light.”

“Did you ever think we would end up here?” said Regis suddenly. “Did you ever suppose we would become one of those old couples? Nothing more to say and not enough courage to seek other parties?”

“My mother always warned me,” said Truman and they both laughed.

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