Crane tugged at his collar, and Zechariah’s smugness intensified. He took a victorious sip of his vodka, which was like his other sips but with an even more self-satisfied smile.

He didn’t want to make Not-Richard, of all people, self-conscious, and so he pretended to be very transfixed by a bread roll when he noticed his eyes watering from the vodka. Was he more of a whiskey man? Zechariah hated whiskey, but he would pick some up. He could hardly imagine Crane’s problem being tastes too expensive – the champagne was right there, after all! Even Simon made Crane look like a teetotaler.

They had similar eyes.

Zechariah took another sip instead of a bite. Oh! This story sounded familiar! He folded his hands under his chin and listened keenly.

“Well, Mr. Crane,” he started rather formally. “As I recall, on the night that I wrote that – it was a Friday night,” he clarified, for what lonelier night to whack one out than when married couples across the globe were mitzvot-ing each others’ brains out instead? “I found my favorite bathrobe belt, silk, soft on the skin, and tied it to one bedpost. I tied the other end loosely – enough to bind a hand, but your hand was nowhere to be found.”

He cast a rather genuine-seeming judgmental look Crane’s way, then took another sip.

“So there I was, on my hand and knees, staring at where you should have been,” he said rather matter-of-factly, “and so I …”

For the first time that night, a look of embarrassment flushed across his face. He finished off this glass, too.

“Tried out ‘Not-,’” he cleared his throat. “‘Not-Rich’ … but … I … ended up picturing my old professor. That ruined that,” he admitted, then filled his glass once more.

That vodka bottle was nearly empty.

“Surely you have a better example.”