Right of Thirst Read Online Free Page A

she said, shaking her head. “She invited the whole class. First they made me wear my flapper outfit and now they’re giving me a hard time.”
    â€œSo you are her art teacher.”
    â€œShe doesn’t take it seriously. She’s just there to have fun with her friends.”
    â€œAnd are you really a classically trained artist?”
    She rolled her eyes.
    â€œI went to art school. That’s all she meant. Are you really a cardiologist?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I’m just an intern.”
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    It might have been awkward. But over the next few minutes of our conversation I felt as if my rented tuxedo was speaking for me—my tuxedo, and a few glasses of wine. I had nothing to guide me, and did not yet understand how radiant real money can be, how it can infuse everything around it with a sense of promise and significance.
    Place settings were assigned for dinner. She sat with her students, and I was with a group of residents, most of whom had partners. I hardly knew them, and throughout the pleasantries, the introductions and the various courses, the flurry of speeches before dessert, I was aware of her sitting a few tables away. I watched her profile out of the corner of my eye, and once she looked over and gave me a quick ironic smile before turning her head.
    But later, after dinner, I lost her in the crowd, and thought she might have gone home. I’d only spoken to her for a fewminutes, but I felt an acute sense of loss nonetheless, as I wandered out onto the veranda with a glass of whiskey. I leaned on the heavy stone railing overlooking the water, feeling the cool air against my face, sipping my drink and watching the lights. I didn’t want to go back to my studio apartment in the city, with its street full of sirens, and I felt very far from home. I thought of my father and mother, standing together on the driveway as I drove off in the car they had given me.
    â€œThere you are,” she said, appearing out of the dark. “I was looking for you.”
    â€œI thought you’d gone,” I replied, unable to hide my delight.
    â€œNo,” she said. “I usually hate parties like this. But I’m having a good time tonight. My students are fun. They sent me out here to find you.”
    She lit a cigarette, and I sipped my drink. For the first time there was a strained silence, and then I asked her about her family, her parents and all the rest, and where she was from.
    â€œI grew up here,” she said. “My father teaches art history at the university. They’re in Europe right now on sabbatical.”
    â€œAre you going to go visit them?”
    â€œI’ve been before,” she replied. “But I have a few commissions right now and they take a lot of time.”
    â€œCommissions for what?”
    â€œFor portraits,” she said. “That’s what I really do. I just teach the watercolor class on the side.”
    She paused.
    â€œWhat about you?” she asked. “Is your father a cardiologist?”
    For a moment I was tempted to lie to her, and invent grander circumstances for myself. But I didn’t. Instead I told the truth.
    â€œNo,” I said. “He’s a pharmacist, but he’s been out of work for a while. My mother’s a schoolteacher. To be honest this sortof thing”—I gestured to the house behind us—“makes me a little uncomfortable.”
    â€œI wouldn’t have guessed,” she said. “You fit in fine.”
    â€œI do?”
    â€œYes,” she said. “You do.”
    â€œWell,” I replied, thrilled by her words. “So do you.”
    â€œI know,” she said calmly. “That’s why Mrs. Spruance introduced us. But I only came tonight because of my class and because I’m hoping she’ll ask me to paint her husband’s portrait someday. Plus it was an excuse to dress up and I was bored.”
    â€œIsn’t her husband