Swimmer

Someone brings out a good bottle of scotch and leaves it out with glasses and a bucket of ice. Fire crackling in its place. K.'s late. I forgot to give him directions. And since I’m not answering my phone, he has been left to find the place on his own. Standing in the corner, scotch in hand, he tells me how he drove around in the dark until he found a party, parked, then went in. It's the wrong party, of course, but someone recognizes him, mixing him a gin and tonic. (“It was good gin, my friend.”) He asks if anyone knows where E. lives, which everyone does. And so K. finishes his drink, thanks his hosts (“If I can’t find the place, I’ll be back.”) and sets out again. I laugh. He’s like Cheever’s suburban swimmer, attempting to cross his county, one swimming pool after the other. K. smiles his sly smile and says something about living in this town long enough to know how to navigate any waters.