An Evening With Intellectuals

I arrive at Herr Doktor's flat clutching two bottles of wine and a cheesecake, a tad late after spending too long choosing the wine. He looks anxious as if he was expecting me not to turn up, kisses me on the cheek and puts my white wine in the fridge. His friend, Mike, is sitting on the sofa. We acknowledge each other awkwardly. "Let's fire this baby up," Herr Doktor shouts over the music, waving a joint. I ask if I can have a glass of wine. Alcohol is my social crutch and I feel better once I have a glass in my hand. We talk about books. Mike mentions a number of books that I've never read, then he and Herr Doktor talk about Cormac McCarthy's Border Trilogy, which I have not read. Then they talk about Henry James, who I have tried and failed to read. I mention that I have been reading a lot of Philip Roth, but neither have read his books.

We smoke and drink and my head begins to spin. Our friend, The Bohemian, finally arrives. I apologise about not replying to his text messages and he says it's fine but then keeps mentioning his texts and I realise he doesn't think it's fine. I apologise again and vaguely refer to the difficult time I've been having recently. He wants details and I don't want to provide them. I drink more wine. The conversation turns to French cinema which I know precisely nothing about. Herr Doktor cooks, Mike and The Bohemian talk about the films of Jean-Luc Godard while I wonder how I have ended up spending my evening with three bearded men in their fifties.

I stand at the window, looking out over the city and blow my cigarette smoke into the night. The Bohemian, Herr Doktor and I used to work together and I have slightly uneasy relationships with them both. Herr Doktor recently confessed to having "feelings" for me, forcing me to have the kind of conversation with him that I had hoped to avoid. The Bohemian and I get on better but we have totally different cultural references and he doesn't like it when I interrupt his monologues. I focus my attention back on the conversation between Mike and The Bohemian. Mike is talking about The Passion of Joan of Arc, which sounds interesting, then he begins talking about the Marquis de Sade. I stare at his pointy shoes and avoid looking at the gap where his Versace shirt cannot contain his belly.

"I'm one of the few people to have actually read the complete works of the Marquis de Sade in their original French," he says. 

"Why?" asks The Bohemian.

I feel like sniggering. My mouth twitches and I drink more wine. I rack my brain for something to talk about but my mind is blank and I'm conscious that I must seem like an uncultured numpty. What do I like talking about? Makeup, clothes, books, documentaries, my weird family, politics, random interactions with strange people, cats, libraries and feelings. Usually, I can find something to talk to people about, especially when lubricated by alcohol. But I remain silent. This evening is like a window into another world: populated by French cinema, obscure bands and beards.

The Bohemian walks me home; actually, he walks and I stagger. I collapse into bed, grinning. It's been fascinating.