Lane was speaking now as someone does who has been monopolizing conversation for a good quarter of an hour or so and who believes he has just hit a stride where his voice can do absolutely no wrong. “I mean, to put it crudely,” he was saying, “the thing you could say he lacks is testicularity. Know what I mean?” He was slouched rhetorically forward, toward Franny, his receptive audience, a supporting forearm on either side of his Martini.
“Lacks what?” Franny said. She had had to clear her throat before speaking, it had been so long since she had said anything at all.
Lane hesitated. “Masculinity,” he said.
“I heard you the first time.”
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