“Statistics are not evidence,” I insisted. “Only block-quotes from Hannah Arendt are evidence.”
* * * *
As we descended further into the catacombs, I picked off her other suitors one by one. Her boyfriend went first; I poured him coconut liqueur from a crystal decanter. He drank too many and got a bellyache. The big one I distracted with a newspaper; I told him there was some good news today. The next one I lost at the elevator; I pretended I couldn’t find the button to hold the door for him. For a moment afterward, I lost her myself. I found myself racing alone down a staircase in the middle of a cavernous hangar. But on the beach, I found her dorm room, and she began to kiss me all over.