“And how's Marcia?” he asks, still smiling, looking over the room, not really listening to me. “She's a great girl.” “Oh yes,” I say, shaken. “I'm… lucky.” Owen has mistaken me for Marcus Halberstam (even though Marcus is dating Cecelia Wagner) but for some reason it really doesn't matter and it seems a logical faux pas since Marcus works at P & P also, in fact does the same exact thing I do, and he also has a penchant for Valentino suits and clear prescription gla**es and we share the same barber at the same place, the Pierre Hotel, so it seems understandable; it doesn't irk me. But Paul Denton keeps staring at me, or trying not to, as if he knows something, as if he's not quite sure if he recognizes me or not, and it makes me wonder if maybe he was on that cruise a long time ago, one night last March. If that's the case, I'm thinking, I should get his telephone number or, better yet, his address. “Well, we should have drinks,” I tell Owen. “Great,” he says. “Let's. Here's my card.” “Thanks,” I say, looking at it closely, relieved by its crudeness, before slipping it into my jacket. “Maybe I'll bring…” I pause, then carefully say, “Marcia?” “That would be great,” he says. “Hey, have you been to that Salvadorian bistro on Eighty-third?” he asks. “We're eating there tonight.”