In The Punch Line

2∆2

When Eugene Lehnsherr's phone began to vibrate he was knee-deep in the swimming pool of a private estate wearing a formal grey suit, in a compromising position with a seal.

He had no idea what advertising genius had thought this was the best idea for a print campaign for Calvin Klein. He thought the seal looked under the weather. Nor did it seem particularly photogenic. It had spent the better part of the afternoon emitting stricken woofles and swimming away out of the shot. But then again he was not a seal expert. Perhaps this was how seals always acted during photoshoots. Two beleaguered assistants in wetsuits were now attempting to wrangle the seal, and he climbed out of the pool into a fluffy white towel that someone was holding out and found his phone.

When he saw Raven's string of texts he began smiling in spite of himself.

"You're losing the fierce," the photographer yelled from across the pool.

"I'm taking five," Eugene yelled back. "I'll get it back once you get Willy" -- that was the seal's name --"in working order." He grinned stupidly into the phone. Perhaps this day was not going to be so bad after all.

Charles Seymour needed a date? He remembered Charles instantly. Charles was not the sort of man you forgot -- at any rate, not the sort of man you forgot if you were Eugene. It was not that Eugene had a type exactly -- he'd dated around, but if you were five-and-a-half feet of exuberance and slow smiles and piercing blue eyes and enough intellect to populate a small city, you had a distinct advantage where he was concerned. He'd always had a thing for boys with brains. And it did not hurt that this brain happened to come in what Eugene considered an adorable package.

He remembered the afternoon when Charles had accompanied Raven to one of their photoshoots for the Ralph Lauren fall line, the one where the photographer had been on Utrecht time -- that had been his excuse, at any rate, even though Eugene was fairly certain he was from Brooklyn -- and had shown up approximately three hours late. Even then Eugene had suspected he might be under the influence of some substance. He had spent the whole photoshoot scratching himself and murmuring about bats on the lens.

While they'd waited Raven had gone out to buy them sandwiches and he and Charles had wound up playing chess. Eugene forgot who had won. He had been laughing too much. Charles had at first seemed almost startled when he'd made a literary reference and Eugene had picked up on it, but then the conversation had instantly taken off. When Raven came back they were laughing about the life cycles of banana slugs. Then the photographer had arrived up rather suddenly and he had failed to ask for Charles' number.

He still had those pictures.

Charles had left before the shoot ended, muttering something about lab results. He had never thought anyone in tweed could look so entrancing walking away.

The next time he'd heard about Charles was the New York Times article announcing his MacArthur Fellowship. And then he'd been too intimidated to try to get in touch, although "intimidated" was seldom a word that described Eugene Lehnsherr, who had several underwear spreads to his credit and had once had a crossword puzzle published in the New York Times, admittedly on Tuesday. Still he'd cursed inwardly when photos of the dark-haired young man peered out of the Science Times or once -- horror! -- the society pages, on the arm of a blonde chorus boy from Wicked whom he thought looked entirely vapid and several steps to the left on the evolutionary scale from Charles.

And now Charles needed a fake boyfriend. Eugene grinned. He glanced companionably over at the seal and splashed it. The seal barked. The wranglers glowered at him. He was grinning again.

God bless Raven. He owed her one.