Quinn drove me to the airport in the morning. We walked to the security gate, arms wrapped around each other, so it was hard to tell where his leather jacket ended and mine began. When we reached the gate, he pulled away, holding me at arm’s length. “We keep doing this,” he said.
“Doing what?”
“Airports. Leaving.”
“At least we’re doing it together. And coming back.”
We kissed one last time, my face buried in his neck. As I drew away, I whispered in his ear.
“I know,” he murmured, stroking my cheek. “Me too.”
I headed toward the security gate, glanced back to see him standing where I’d left him, arms crossed. As I turned the corner, he raised his hand. Then he was gone.
A week later, days before the lockdown was declared, I met Gryffin for lunch at the Gramercy Tavern. He’d arranged a sale with another private buyer, including a codicil stating that, after sixteen months, The Book of Lamps and Banners would be made available to researchers through a deal with the Getty Library. I didn’t ask how much money he’d gotten. The fact that the Getty was involved suggested he wouldn’t have much to complain about.
He sank into the banquette across from me, his messenger bag beside him. It was raining outside, that heartless rain you get in New York in early March. At the bar, people sat watching the latest dispatches from the West Coast. Based on the numbers scrolling across the bottom of the screen, the news wasn’t good.
Gryffin took off his wet raincoat, folded it, and set it on the banquette. “Where is it?”
I patted my bag. “Relax. It’s right here.”
A waiter appeared and gestured at the raincoat. “Do you want to check that?”
Gryffin shook his head. “I won’t be staying long,” he said, and gave me the stink eye.
I ordered a bottle of Dom Pérignon. When the waiter left, I opened my bag, removed a new clamshell slipcase, and handed it to Gryffin. He looked at the title embossed on the front:
Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk
“Very funny,” he said.
He set the clamshell on the table, opened it, and tenderly picked up the volume inside. He stroked the cover as though it were a woman’s face, opened the book, and gazed at a page, entranced. Only when the waiter reappeared with our champagne did he replace the volume in its slipcase. With great care, he placed it in his messenger bag, zipping the compartment.
“Well, that’s that,” he said.
We watched as the waiter opened the bottle and filled our glasses. Gryffin picked up his flute. I did the same. We clinked glasses. He drank from his. I set mine down, and Gryffin looked at me as though I’d started to brush my teeth at the table.
“You’re not drinking?”
“I quit.”
“You what?”
“I quit.” I pushed my glass toward him. “The champagne’s for you. Congratulations.”
“You quit?” He took another sip, eyeing me warily. “What about that guy Quinn? What’s he think?”
“His idea.”
For a few minutes, neither of us spoke. I watched the light slide across Gryffin’s eyeglasses, the way that strange green pigmentation in one iris glowed like an emerald flame. He stared at me thoughtfully, refilled his flute. Finally he said, “Well. Good for you. For getting sober.”
I made a face but said nothing. Gryffin sipped his champagne.
“What’re you going to do with the money? If you’re not drinking. And, you know, shooting up or whatever you do. Did.”
I leaned back against the banquette and glanced out the window at people dodging the rain. A large black bird flew down to perch atop a parked Tesla. It cocked its head, staring at me with one beady eye, then flapped off. “I’m looking to buy a place. Not here—New York, it’s the fucking suburbs now. Nothing but rich assholes.”
“Yeah, but now we’re rich assholes.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m taking a month or two to get clean. Then I’m going to Greece with Quinn. Find a house and build a darkroom. Maybe I’ll rent a place out west. Or, I dunno, Maine.”
I rested my hand on top of my bag, feeling the camera’s familiar weight inside. “Now that I can afford to work with film again. We’ll see what happens.”
I stared at the table, feeling that black line of static crackling between me and the bottle just a few inches away. I turned, grabbed my leather jacket, picked up my bag, and slid out of the booth. “Look, I gotta go. Enjoy that champagne.”
Gryffin watched me as I stood, his expression almost wistful. He raised his glass to me and nodded. “Stay out of trouble.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” I said, and headed for the door.