minutes. I wanted to see you, that’s all. Why didn’t you call back?
She was tall with a long, elegant nose like a thoroughbred’s. What people look like isn’t the same as what you remember. She had been coming out of a restaurant one time, down some steps long after lunch in a silk dress that clung around the hips and the wind pulled against her legs. The afternoons, he thought for a moment.
She sat down in the leather chair opposite and gave a slight, uncertain smile.
— You have a nice place.
It had the makings of one, two rooms on the garden floor with a little grass and the backs of discrete houses behind, though there was just one window and the floorboards were worn. He sold fine books and manuscripts, letters for the most part, and had too big an inventory for a dealer his size. After ten years in retail clothing he had found his true life. The rooms had high ceilings, the bookcases were filled and against them, on the floor, a few framed photographs leaned.
— Chris, she said, tell me something. Whatever happened to that picture of us taken at that lunch Diana Wald gave at her mother’s house that day? Up there on that fake hill made from all the old cars? Do you still have that?
— It must have gotten lost.
— I’d really like to have it. It was a wonderful picture. Those were the days, she said. Do you remember the boat house we had?
— Of course.
— I wonder if you remember it the way I remember it.
— That would be hard to say. He had a low, persuasive voice. There was confidence in it, perhaps a little too much.
— The pool table, do you remember that? And the bed by the windows.
He didn’t answer. She picked up one of the books from the table and was looking through it; e.e. cummings, The Enormous Room, dust jacket with some small chips at bottom, minor soil on title page, otherwise very good. First edition. The price was marked in pencil on the corner of the flyleaf at the top. She turned the pages idly.
— This has that part in it you like so much. What is it, again?
— Jean Le Nègre.
— That’s it.
— Still unrivaled, he said.
— Makes me think of Alan Baron for some reason. Are you still in touch with him? Did he ever publish anything? Always telling me about Tantric yoga and how I should try it. He wanted to show it to me.
— So, did he?
— You’re kidding.
She was leafing through the pages with her long thumbs.
— They’re always talking about Tantric yoga, she said, or telling you about their big dicks. Not you, though. So, how is Pam, incidentally? I couldn’t really tell. Is she happy?
— She’s very happy.
— That’s nice. And you have a little girl now, how old is she again?
— Her name is Chloe. She’s six.
— Oh, she’s big. They know a lot at that age, don’t they? They know and they don’t know, she said. She closed the book and put it down. Their bodies are so pure. Does Chloe have a nice body?
— You’d kill for it, he said casually.
— A perfect little body. I can picture it. Do you give her baths? I bet you do. You’re a model father, the father every little girl ought to have. How will you be when she’s bigger, I wonder? When the boys start coming around.
— There’re not going to be a lot of boys coming around.
— Oh, for God’s sake. Of course, there will. They’ll be coming around just quivering. You know that. She’ll have breasts and that first, soft pubic hair.
— You know, Carol, you’re disgusting.
— You don’t like to think of it, that’s all. But she’s going to be a woman, you know, a young woman. You remember how you felt about young women at that age. Well, it didn’t all stop with you. It continues, and she’ll be part of it, perfect body and all. How is Pam’s, by the way?
— How’s yours?
— Can’t you tell?
— I wasn’t paying attention.
— Do you still have sex? she asked unconcernedly.
— There are times.
— I don’t. Rarely.
— That’s a little hard to
She was tall with a long, elegant nose like a thoroughbred’s. What people look like isn’t the same as what you remember. She had been coming out of a restaurant one time, down some steps long after lunch in a silk dress that clung around the hips and the wind pulled against her legs. The afternoons, he thought for a moment.
She sat down in the leather chair opposite and gave a slight, uncertain smile.
— You have a nice place.
It had the makings of one, two rooms on the garden floor with a little grass and the backs of discrete houses behind, though there was just one window and the floorboards were worn. He sold fine books and manuscripts, letters for the most part, and had too big an inventory for a dealer his size. After ten years in retail clothing he had found his true life. The rooms had high ceilings, the bookcases were filled and against them, on the floor, a few framed photographs leaned.
— Chris, she said, tell me something. Whatever happened to that picture of us taken at that lunch Diana Wald gave at her mother’s house that day? Up there on that fake hill made from all the old cars? Do you still have that?
— It must have gotten lost.
— I’d really like to have it. It was a wonderful picture. Those were the days, she said. Do you remember the boat house we had?
— Of course.
— I wonder if you remember it the way I remember it.
— That would be hard to say. He had a low, persuasive voice. There was confidence in it, perhaps a little too much.
— The pool table, do you remember that? And the bed by the windows.
He didn’t answer. She picked up one of the books from the table and was looking through it; e.e. cummings, The Enormous Room, dust jacket with some small chips at bottom, minor soil on title page, otherwise very good. First edition. The price was marked in pencil on the corner of the flyleaf at the top. She turned the pages idly.
— This has that part in it you like so much. What is it, again?
— Jean Le Nègre.
— That’s it.
— Still unrivaled, he said.
— Makes me think of Alan Baron for some reason. Are you still in touch with him? Did he ever publish anything? Always telling me about Tantric yoga and how I should try it. He wanted to show it to me.
— So, did he?
— You’re kidding.
She was leafing through the pages with her long thumbs.
— They’re always talking about Tantric yoga, she said, or telling you about their big dicks. Not you, though. So, how is Pam, incidentally? I couldn’t really tell. Is she happy?
— She’s very happy.
— That’s nice. And you have a little girl now, how old is she again?
— Her name is Chloe. She’s six.
— Oh, she’s big. They know a lot at that age, don’t they? They know and they don’t know, she said. She closed the book and put it down. Their bodies are so pure. Does Chloe have a nice body?
— You’d kill for it, he said casually.
— A perfect little body. I can picture it. Do you give her baths? I bet you do. You’re a model father, the father every little girl ought to have. How will you be when she’s bigger, I wonder? When the boys start coming around.
— There’re not going to be a lot of boys coming around.
— Oh, for God’s sake. Of course, there will. They’ll be coming around just quivering. You know that. She’ll have breasts and that first, soft pubic hair.
— You know, Carol, you’re disgusting.
— You don’t like to think of it, that’s all. But she’s going to be a woman, you know, a young woman. You remember how you felt about young women at that age. Well, it didn’t all stop with you. It continues, and she’ll be part of it, perfect body and all. How is Pam’s, by the way?
— How’s yours?
— Can’t you tell?
— I wasn’t paying attention.
— Do you still have sex? she asked unconcernedly.
— There are times.
— I don’t. Rarely.
— That’s a little hard to
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