"We should be, Kennie. Why not? I'm lush. I'm gay. I'm wicked. I'm everything that flames." He smiled that vapid, silly smile. Then, becoming serious: "Oh, tush, I'm a plain idiot, if I only knew it … but I don't. Though you could like me a little—"
Through the mulled over, warmed over embers of his consciousness, Ken spoke. "I can't, Frankie," he said.
"Him?"
Ken did not reply.
Frankie was gone. Howard's progress through the room was that of a triumphant monarch. Everyone knew him; everyone was eager to touch his hand, to ask for news of his plans, to discuss theatre.
Ken's glorious happiness of the afternoon fled. In its place came horrible fear.
He could not trust himself. His passion, slow to rise, now threatened to overpower him. The vague forebodings of the preceding night had given way to dead certainty. Frankie's easy acceptance of the idea that Howard was Ken's all-important alter ego, proved that all the world knew his secret thoughts. Why conceal the truth? To find happiness again must he not proclaim the truth?
And yet …
Rather than face truth, Ken chose to flee from it. He went downstairs to the men's room.
He whispered something to the black boy, who disappeared for a moment and then returned with a pint of bootleg rye. Ken opened the bottle and drank. As he reentered the room of shifting gold and black, he became dizzy. Painted faces whirled. Women in evening dress clung tightly to their men. The orchestra sobbed an
