Primary Colors by Joe Klein Page B

out the magazines, which included every known wrestling, muscle-building, heavy metal and biker title, a garish and oily rack. Daisy was back in a flash. "We're in luck-look what I got."
    "The Abyss? You're kidding, right?"
    "James Cameron," she explained. "Awesome director. I live for his next movie. You see Aliens? You got any food at your place?"
    We bought sandwiches at Subway. My apartment wasn't far, down by the river. "This is unreal," she said, as we went up the stairs, past the tricycle, big wheel and baby carriage on the lower landing. "Very exotic, living in Mammoth Falls, in a building with families. And just look at this place," she shrieked as I opened the door. She was laughing. "This is fabulous, fan-tastic, Henry!"
    "Just your basic efficiency-"
    "Efficiency doesn't begin to cover it-maid service, Henry? Or do you do this?"
    "Excuse me, but I've got to see the fridge. The fridge is very important." She leaped across the room, opened the door, whooped and doubled over. "Henry, too much, too much." I looked and saw wha t s he saw: Yogurt, neatly, top row. Perrier, neatly, second row. Paul New-man's marinara sauce, a half gallon of orange juice, various condiments in the door. "Henry," she said, "no half-eaten pizza? No Diet Coke? No beer?"
    "Sorry. I usually just eat breakfast here."
    "Yogurt? No Cocoa Krispies or anything interesting?" She closed the fridge and wandered over to the windows, inspected the books on the ledge. "Novels?" she asked.
    "Escape."
    "You escape with Doris Lessing and Thomas Mann?"
    "Different strokes," I said, lamely.
    We ate the sandwiches. She wanted to smoke a cigarette afterward; I got a saucer from the cupboard, tried not to seem too fussy. Then a logistical problem: the television was at the foot of the bed. The couch and easy chairs were diagonally across the room, over by the light--and a nice view of the river. I toyed with the idea of turning the television around, to face the couch across the room, but it seemed--fussy. Daisy, who continued, uncannily, reading my mind, said, "The bed, Henry? You've set the scene for a seduction." She whipped off her sweatshirt. She had a Princeton T-shirt on underneath and no bra--but not much need for one. She seemed smaller, younger and tiny, without the sweatshirt. "Okay, okay. I'm practically a guy . . . up top," she said. She did have a nice--pert, sexy in a businesslike way--bottom.
    "Okay," I said. "The Abyss."
    It took place underwater, and was sort of spiritual. I fell asleep. It was dark when I opened my eyes. The movie was over, and I sensed that she'd been sleeping too. Her head was under my chin; her hand was on my stomach, warm and soft, unbuttoning and moving slightly now, stroking. It was odd: her hair smelled of cigarettes, but her mouth didn't when she tilted her head up toward me. It was a thoughtful kiss, not pushy; nice. Everything proceeded apace. The clothes were shed effortlessly, without tugging or elbows. She was wiry, spidery, twined all over me--but there was no embarrassment here, no awkwardness; she was neither too active nor passive, she continued to read me. It was, in fact, very--pleasant. It was thoughtful, intelligent. Until it stopped, rather too abruptly. My fault. "Sorry," I said. "Campaign sex."
    "But great companionship," she said, kissed me and snuggled under my arm. "Jesus, Henry--Leon's numbers do look fabulous, don't they?"
    It seems hard to believe now, but we were geniuses for two weeks. We were rolling. The crowds were good in New Hampshire; the money was good; the press was good. The opposition was lovely. Charlie Martin, the hippie Vietnam vet, still couldn't believe he was running for president and had difficulty remembering what his message was from day to day; his biggest news cycle came when he started a snowball fight and caught Barbara Walters in the back of the head as she was heading out of the Wayfarer. She was very cool. She turned, put her hands on her hips and shook her head, about