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His hands did not seem part of him; they were pale, soft writer’s hands, hints of ink forever in the creases of the middle finger of the right hand. — I’ve followed your career, he said.

—What there’s been of it.

—You’ve done well.

—Only recently.

The others moved way from them like boosters falling from a rocket. There was conferred status in his knowing her, not unlike the Australian writer with the good review. A drink appeared for Thomas, who took it and said thank you, disappointing the bearer, who hoped for conversation.

—I haven’t done this sort of thing in years, he began and stopped.

—When are you reading?

—Tonight.

—And me as well.

—Are we in competition?

—I certainly hope not.

It was rumored that after many barren years, Thomas was writing again and that the work was extraordinarily good. He had in the past, inexplicably, been passed over for the prizes, though it was understood, by common agreement, that he was, at his best, the best of them.

—You got here today? she asked.

—Just.

—You’ve come from . . . ?

—Hull.

She nodded.

—And you? he asked.

—I’m finishing a tour.

He tilted his head and half-smiled, as if to say, Condolences.

A man hovered near Thomas’s elbow, waiting for admission. — Tell me something, Thomas said, ignoring the man beside him and leaning forward so that only she could hear. — Did you become a poet because of me?

She remembered that Thomas’s questions were often startling and insulting, though one forgave him always. — It’s how we met, she said, reminding him.

He took a longish sip of his drink. — So it was.

—It was out of character for me. That class.

—In character, I think. The rest was fraud.

—The rest?

—The pretending to be fast.

Fast. She hadn’t heard the word used that way in decades.

—You’re more in character now, he said.

—How could you possibly know? she asked, challenging him.

He heard the bite in her voice. — Your body and your gestures give you the appearance of having grown into your character, what I perceive to be your character.

—It’s only middle age, she said, at once devaluing both of them.

—Lovely on you.

She turned away from the compliment. The man beside Thomas would not go away. Behind him there were others who wanted introductions to the reclusive poet. She excused herself and moved through all the admirers and the sycophants, who were, of course, not interested in her. This was nothing, she told herself again as she reached the door. Years had passed, and all of life was different now.