The Artist.

He was speaking. very. slowly. by the end of the night, and talking about “performativity” in his clothing. “Why do I wear black all the time?” he said.

“Do you wear black all the time?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Umm. So why do you wear black all the time?”

Silence.

Silence.

“Because,” he said. “I am prepared for the end.”

“Please,” I should have said, “if you go down those stairs, the door will lead you outside.” Instead, I said: “Mm.”

No, actually I said: “Mm. But, what, you think the end will be big mess, and you don’t want the stains to show?” and I saw in his bleary, unfocused eyes that he thought I was foolish.

“I used to be an alcoholic,” he said, and he swirled the wine in his plastic cup.