“Good way to avoid Sida,” Bill said, proud of himself for remembering his Boston friends’ French slang word for AIDS. In recent years David’s renunciation of sex appeared not only prescient, but somewhat less strictly “asexual” and more something of a model for David’s personal relations of all sorts. Pushing his plate of half-eaten, limp French fries to Lou, Bill guessed that this was what was being referred to.
“But it’s not like he’s a misanthrope, Lou. You and he seem closer than ever.”
Lou closed his eyes and sighed. His huge, floppy eyelids, Bill noticed, were more wrinkled than in the past. For a moment or two, the only thing Bill heard was Tom Jones singing “What’s New Pussycat?” over the diner’s muzak.
“I don’t count. Philip doesn’t count. And of course, youdon’t count. We’re not human. We’re beneath his contempt.”
Bill let a waitress, this one much younger and smiling, take away his plate piled with gnawed chicken bones. Bill thought for a moment about what Lou said.