Free At the Twilight's Last Gleaming by David Bischoff

Heyer — to at least try to engage in conversation when the right times arose. Somehow I sensed now that Emory Clarke had that kind of breeding as well. And he wasn’t taking on airs like Peter did. His soft-spoken speech flowed from someplace natural.
    So I guess I had no idea of what I had been doing when I invited him over to watch Star Trek that night. It had been impulsive and reckless and perhaps instinctive…
    And certainly, as it turned out, indeed very, very dangerous.
    Harold was happy to see me. Mrs. Lumpkin was happy to see me as well, her jolly red cheeks glowing with the cold she’d collected out grocery shopping. Why yes, of course Rebecca can stay for dinner. A couple of other guests for
Star Trek.
Wonderful. I’ll make popcorn for you and I’ve just gotten more soda pop. The idea of bookish Harry socializing always pleased the chubby, happy woman immensely. I didn’t mention that Emory was a Senator’s son, for fear that she’d burst with happiness — or at the very least, fawn over him.
    I wanted it to be just us.
    Harold, on the other hand, was more than bemused.
    “Emory Clarke? Here? That weird girlfriend of his? Here? What? Are you crazy?” he said later, down in the basement, with some Beatles playing on the stereo.
    “Oh Harold, you
know
I’m crazy!”
    “What?”
    I shook my head and laughed ruefully, banging my head back into the headrest of the couch.
    “Oh, it was just a really, really interesting rehearsal and I thought that we should get to know each other, that’s all. He seems like a really nice guy after all.”
    “Kinda strange!”
    “Look who’s calling the kettle black!” I said.
    “Right, Vampira!”
    “Okay, Buck Rogers!”
    We glared at each other, doing our evil eye worst. As usual, though, that sent us both into fits of giggles.
    “Okay, gothic lady,” said Harold, adjusting his glasses. “Maybe they are a bit like us. Merely that they aren’t blocks or collegiates.”
    “Outsiders.”
    “Hey, every body else are outsiders,” said Harry. He tapped his chest. “I’m an Insider here.”
    I flung my head back into the pillow with exasperation. “You know what I mean.”
    “Okay, okay, I know what you mean.”
    George Harrison’s ‘Within You and Without You’ was playing. It was my favorite song on Sergeant Pepper, and Harry knew it. We just sat in the dark and a bit dank basement, watching the black vinyl disc rotate on the turntable, the needle and arm riding the grooves.
    When George was finished singing and the sitars stopped, Harry turned to me. “So what? You’re not so ..uhm…keen on Peter. You suddenly like Emory better?”
    “What!” I said, standing up. “You think the crush has magically transferred or something? Well it hasn’t! No no no! How could I possibly get a crush on a guy in just one day. And Emory Clarke at that!” I stamped an adamant foot. “And blast it all, Harold! Who says I have a crush at all? That’s such..such an odious word! I have something…something that should be a French word! Yes, and maybe it is a French word.”
    “You’ll have to ask Madame DuBonnet now, won’t you?”
    “I’ll check the library thank you!”
    Harry held up his hands. “Okay, no need to get intense.”
    “Just what makes you think this …this business with Emory Clarke…is..is… “
    “Physical?”
    “Okay, that’ll do for now,” I said. “What makes you think that I have….physical feelings for Emory Clarke.”
    “I don’t know. You’re just so …well, flushed and excited.”
    “I am?” I felt my face. “Harry, I am not.”
    “Well, you kind of were when you came in.”
    “Harry, that was because of the cold. I’m mean, surely.”
    “Point taken. No problem.” He shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “Should be interesting. I mean, if those two are going to open up a bit… Always wondered what they were like.”
    “They were always like that? I mean, chummy and everything…but like you and me. Nothing