“Okay, sure,” he said, “I understand. I mean I can try to help with his applications and all. But whether we will be friends, neither of us can say. Men don’t come easily to friendship later in life. And I can’t promise that I could help him write his story, even if I still had an interest in that kind of work. There are many stories from Poland and elsewhere, and I can’t be certain how long I’ll be here in any case.”
She streamed breath from both nostrils in a slow, dismissive snort, then laughed paradoxically, snatching up the soiled plates from before him. There was an embarrassing halo of dusty cheese and breadcrumbs where his plate had been. He wiped them into his paper napkin and crumpled it in a ball.
“A pretty speech,” she said. “So you think you will be on the lam again soon?”
The colloquialism stopped him, momentarily holding off an adrenal rush of fear. At first he thought she was speaking of the animal, which he associated with molded butter lambs of Polish Easters. Saw himself a comic Christ riding into Jerusalem on a steed carved from milkfat.