I visited the periodontist recently. Irv’s a master at one-way conversation; he has to be, because my mouth is always filled with his fingers and his instruments. While he was scraping and analyzing my broken wisdom tooth, he talked to me about gift exchanges with his friend Kevin. Irv and Kevin go way back; although Christmas isn’t Irv’s holiday, Kevin keeps sending presents and Irv feels he has to reciprocate. This year he bought Kevin a beautiful hand-carved oak-framed clock. He got it in the classy antique store just up the street from his office. He knows the proprietor and that’s how he found out that Kevin returned the clock. It really got to him.

The holidays are over but I had a comment. As soon as I got my mouth back, I recommended a nice bottle of something. One of my employees gave me some Remy Martin VSOP Champagne Cognac. I really didn’t need it; I had my own favorite at home. But I wholeheartedly thanked the giver. And it was with satisfaction that I presented the bottle to the hosts of the New Year’s Eve party.

I think that was a wise suggestion for Irv. Even though it didn’t work so well for me. I went into that New Year’s Evening with happy expectations. None of them were met.

It was the first time in years I’d had anything resembling a date for the celebration. Most December 31s I’ve spent on the couch or alone in bed. It only resembled a date, though. It was Michael. And while it’s true that he’s male and single and self-described as straight, while it’s also true that he seemed specifically to ask me to be with him at Ted and Genevieve’s for New Year’s Eve, it was Michael. There’s never any physical contact between us. There’s no such thing as a personal comment with Michael. It’s only the complete absence of any flirting or glancing touches that makes it seem that maybe, somewhere deep in him, there is a spark of chemistry toward me. As if the gentleman didth protest too much…

The truth is, we’ve got nothing going, man-and-woman-wise. Michael is intelligent and inoffensive and uninteresting. I don’t believe he’s gay. I don’t believe he’s straight. I suspect he’s one of a category I’m now reading about: the asexuals.

When I know I’m going to be with him, I start collecting items of interest to talk about, and I feel eagerness building. But as soon as I see him I deflate. Immediately I lose most energy to introduce the topics. There’s something about his inhibited persona; he engages easily in superficial liberal art-appreciative conversation, but although the man has an impressive vocabulary, he usually introduces a new topic by describing it as “interesting.”

We left my place at 6 p.m. We returned around 3 a.m. In the intervening nine hours I had no good food, no decent drink, and no kisses.

I shouldn’t bitch. Life can be much worse. I think I’ll bitch.

I wore fun clothes: tunic and tights and boots and rhinestones. I felt festive. I carried the bottle of Remy Martin and presented it to Genevieve with the recommendation that we make French 75s (one part brandy to three parts bubbly). Maybe she didn’t hear me.

The house was as usual dark: redwood walls and window frames in a low-ceilinged one story cottage, set amid redwoods. Genevieve lit some candles but not enough to dispel all the shadows. Her creche, antique and also made of unpainted wood, blended into the side table on which it was displayed.

The food was not good. I ate cold artichoke leaves that had been sullied with a dab of bottled mayo and a dollop of cheap roe, tepid limp squash, eggplant and fennel, horrible bouillabaisse, and something called American pie. Or mock apple pie. It contained Ritz crackers and not a hint of apple flavor so I have no idea why it carries that name. As far as I can tell, its value is solely nostalgic, but since it hadn’t been a part of my history, I was immune. So was Michael; our discreet grimaces over dessert were the closest we came to bonding.

There was mediocre wine too (reds, and one Raymond chardonnay). When the champagne was finally opened, it was not brut and not good. And it was alone. My comments about cognac were disregarded.

The people were mostly not attractive or amusing. I wanted to like them but the more time I spent with them the more pathetic they seemed. It was like a grownup game of musical chairs, with everyone playing a role and no real festivity.

The best part of the evening was around the piano. Michael plays like he had lessons but no passion, but after he abandoned carols and switched to old show tunes, I joined in and enjoyed. Genevieve and her old friend Zell caterwauled like crazed cats but the rest of us managed some harmony.

The worst part of the evening was the conversation. It was all liberal, all PC, all unsurprising and unenlightening and not entertaining. The most interesting topic was the pronunciation of Nicasio (Genevieve insisted on saying the “s” as “sh” and Ted disagreed). Until Tony’s talk.

Tony and his wife Renee are around the same age as Genevieve and Ted. Tony and Ted have been friends long enough that each remembers the other’s first wife. Their current spouses are civil to one another but not close.

Like Ted, Tony’s a big guy. Both of them towered over my escort and seemed more attractive to me. Until Tony talked.

He described himself as a part-time therapist and a part-time contractor. He works as a psychologist a few days a week and otherwise supervises the remodel of his and Renee’s Fairfax house.

With a few early comments, Tony let me see that his story is all a reaction to his father. Who was narcissistic and controlling. Tony went into psychology to figure out his own life, but he insists that he’s excellent at his job.

He said doctors send the hopeless cases to him. He claims he can do what no one else can. Just recently, for instance, he said he’s been working with a 31-year old Jewish female. The woman is lovely and well educated but failing at everything she tries. Tony discovered that the patient was an unwanted child. Her mother married an older man and tried to seal the union with an infant. That was the patient’s older sister. But the mother only needed one union-sealing baby, and never wanted or loved the second child, the patient. Tony said he discussed this unlove with the mother, and she confessed he got it right. She is puzzled as to how he discovered her secret (so am I).

Here’s how Tony engineered the cure:

In their last session, the patient described having stomachaches as a kid. She remembered going to her mother. She recalled that her mom used to give her a hot water bottle, and she’d lie down on the floor with it, and be comforted.

Tony responded with a little (white) lie. He said he also had stomachaches as a child. He too used to go to his mother with his complaint and, like the patient, he was given a hot water bottle. But Tony’s mom would then bring him into her bed with her, and cuddle him till he felt better.

Well, as soon as the patient heard that, she saw how pale was the comfort she had received. She understood that her mother hadn’t loved her enough. She discovered the nature of the problem that was making her fail at life.

Then Tony leaned back against the couch, fingers laced at his nape and elbows out, beaming a satisfied grin. I sighed aloud or otherwise expressed sadness for the patient, sympathy. But Tony was upbeat. He said now that they’ve reached this place, they can start to fix the problem.

I’m still astounded. Fix the problem. That would be like giving Helen Keller sight. There isn’t any real fix for a baby who was unloved. And if there were, Tony would be the last one to administer it.

The evening was a little crazy for me. It was more than feeling like a reporter. There were too few points of agreement between me and the others, about food, drink, music, Tony. I felt like an anthropologist observing an alien tribe.

And I wish I hadn’t given them the cognac. It will probably gather dust in their above-fridge cabinet for the next decade. Ted may die from metastatic cancer, Genevieve may move back east, and Michael could lose his memory and speech, but that bottle will remain unopened. By the time it is discovered by Genevieve’s niece, it will have spoiled from the cabinet warmth. I probably should have kept it.