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clown nose and fright wig.”
    I can’t help chuckling. I glance at him. “You should see the people I work with.”
    â€œStiff?”
    â€œEmbalmed.”
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that.”
    â€œIt’s not all bad.” I apply myself once more to the carpet, which is almost clean. “In fact I love it most days. I’m an English professor. But academics aren’t the most easygoing crowd.”
    â€œSo I hear.” George sits back and settles his arms loosely around his knees as he watches me. His eyes are a bright brown and wonderfully still. It’s perhaps the most open gaze I’ve ever seen on an adult: taking in every detail, interrogating the world thoughtfully and without cynicism.
    Above and around us the reception buzzes. A waiter sidesteps George with a worried cluck. George doesn’t budge.
    Unsure how to respond to his silence, I gesture at the crowd. “At least these folks aren’t all flagrant egotists. Some of them ask a question with the intent to actually listen to the answer.”
    He considers this.
    I work a piece of tabouli out of the rug with my fingernails. Almost without meaning to, I continue: “I’ve always thought you can diagnose a workplace the minute people open their mouths.”
    â€œHow?” he says.
    Resting on his forearms, his hands are wide and strong-looking. Knobby in the right places. What hands ought to look like. Along the back of one is a faint scar.
    A red-business-suited woman utters an irritable “Oh!” as she nearly walks into George. He gives her a genial salute, then turns his focus back to me.
    â€œJust listen for the verbal tics.” I pick several flakes of pastry off the carpet, delay meeting his gaze. He waits, attentive. My eyes drop to my blouse, which is splashed with tabouli and dressing. Rising, I indicate the kitchenette at the rear of the reception hall. Without a word he stands and follows me.
    â€œVerbal tics,” he says.
    At the sink, I wet a paper towel and attend to the dark fabric of my blouse. He settles opposite me, one hip against the counter. I give my blouse more attention than it requires. When I speak it’swith a sense of unplanned acceleration: an uncontrolled surge like a car shifting into higher gear than expected. “Did you ever notice,” I say, “the people who start every sentence with
No
—even when they’re agreeing with you? You say, ‘Seems like the Yankees are having a bad streak,’ and they say, ‘No, it’s just that they can’t get together a game strategy.’” I wipe my fingers on the damp towel. “Which I’ve always thought tells you you’re dealing with a critical person. Somebody who’s going to be unhappy with himself and—by extension—with you.”
    He’s silent for a moment. “Interesting,” he says. “I’ve met a few of those.”
    I wet and wring a fresh set of paper towels, for the carpet. “We’ve got a heaping serving of them in my department. Which makes for a hard-driven lot.”
    â€œWho else have you got,” he says, “in that department of yours?” As he speaks he extends his hand.
    I stare at it, my own hand poised indecisively; did he read my mind earlier? Then, understanding, I quickly hand him what he’s asking for: a damp paper towel. I say, “The Look-Listeners.”
    He folds the paper towel.
    â€œYou know, the ones who start every statement with a directive. ‘Look, the Yankees aren’t always strong at the season’s start. Listen, they just need a better coach.’ These are the people who consider themselves weary bearers of unpopular truths.” I’m not sure what I’m doing. Daring him, perhaps, to lose interest? “Cassandras . . .” I glance. He’s listening. “. . . who speak their consciences though they expect to be ignored. They’re