A Commonplace Book

A wisp of something like melancholy, not at all unpleasant, wafted into the room and settled in the vicinity of the coffee table. The chrysanthemums shuddered. "Real life," Isobel said, "is a pain in the ass."

He thought: This life must be some kind of advertisement for something, but I've forgotten the name of the product, the reason for buying it. "It's basically a matter of estrangement," he said, recollecting a seminar he'd attended at college: Applied Social Psychology in Contemporary Industrial Relations. He'd always liked that word, "estrangement," appreciated the sound, the resonances of it; he'd only been waiting for an opportunity to use it.

The waiter smelled remotely of musk oil, and his uniform could have dressed a palace guard in the Principality of Hopelessness. "And what will be your pleasure?" he said nastily. "Shipshape yachts and buggery," answered Jamie. "A good screw and an early death." Isobel blushed.