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or with delicacy, for personal idiocies. We made important decisions in one another’s company: lying on our backs, staring at the ceiling, making dust angels on the floor.
    â€œWhat was fascinating,” Victor continues, “was how much the dig’s yield varied from day to day.”
    Nancy and I listen with such strained attention it’s obvious we’re both bored. Victor, I realize, is bored too, reciting a story he’s told before out of some well-bred impulse to keep conversation flowing. I try to focus, and fail. When a child is named Victor, does some other set of parents somewhere have to name their child Loser? Turning away to mask a smile, I notice an angular blondish man a few feet away in a dark sweater sipping from a cup of seltzer. He’s looking at the crowd a bit stiffly, like someone who’s opened a box of pastries only to find them stale. His features are regular, his hair straight. Other than the expression of distaste, nothing stands out except his height, which invites me to imagine his view of Manhattan: a city of combed crowns and dandruff, cramped restaurant seating, hazardous doorways. He turns his head and, without meaning to, I catch his eye.
    He steps toward us.
Not my type,
I think reflexively. Though in truth, he’s not bad-looking; he’s got a pleasantly lean face and, now that he’s engaged, a comfortable, lived-in smile. He looks as if he’s just woken up, and glad of it.
    â€œHey there, Nance,” he says. Nancy kisses him hello, and Victor thumps him on the back, positively grateful to be interrupted.
    He turns to me. “Hi,” he says. Then, before I have a chance to respond, he gives me a look that catches me off-guard. It’s a look of quiet mischief, as though reminding me of a subversive joke weshare. It’s also unmistakably, gently sexy . . . right here in the heart of a professional reception.
    â€œThis is Tracy,” says Nancy.
    â€œHi, Tracy.” He inclines his head. “I’m George.”
    Without warning the plate in my hands, already soggy from Hannah’s food and mine, buckles. Grabbing absurdly at the flying mushroom caps, I fail to keep the food from sailing or a short bark of hilarity from escaping me. The hors d’oeuvres splash my blouse and make a dramatic mess on the carpet, which has been, until this moment, beige. Conversation between Nancy and Victor stops.
    George looks solemnly into my eyes, which, to my surprise, have gone watery with embarrassment. Then he lofts his own paper plate like a coat-and-tails waiter, tosses it into the air, and lets it spin to the ground, scattering tabouli.
    â€œHappens to the best of us,” he says.
    I look at the mess. I look at him. For an impish, stunning instant I imagine grabbing his hand and whispering
Let’s go.
Then Nancy hands me a wad of napkins. And we are down on our hands and knees, cleaning.
    â€œThanks,” I say.
    He doesn’t answer, only laughs and accepts the napkins I proffer.
    â€œNice move,” I say.
    We work the mess out of the carpet.
    â€œDidn’t cover the area I’d hoped for.” He has a nice voice—low and friendly. “I’ll have to practice my throw.” He stops cleaning for a second. “I don’t often get that response when I introduce myself to women. It’s very flattering.”
    â€œWell.” Surveying the remaining crumbs, I consider explaining that the plate was soaked, but decide that’s protesting too much. Is he going to leave me out on a limb, playing this as though he wasn’t flirting? “Nice move,” I repeat, but with less warmth. His angular frame looks suddenly less sexy. Attraction de-soufflé. Blinking, I turn my attention to the carpet.
    â€œYou work here?” he says.
    â€œNo, just visiting.”
    â€œSame.” He surveys the room. “I didn’t think a nonprofit could be so stiff. I would have worn my