blushed so brightly his skin looked like it was made of red plastic. "Oh!"
She slowly walked toward him, backing him up toward the sofa. "My name is Lydia. Am I okay?"
"Okay?"
"If you'd prefer a guy, that's cool. Didn't know for sure." She had a charming ditziness about her.
His voice got squeaky from laryngeal constriction. "I don't like guys! I mean, I like girls!"
"Well, good! 'Cause I'm a girl," she purred with practiced artifice. "Why don't you sit yourself down and open that bottle of champagne, Peter, while we figure out the kind of games you'd like to play."
He reached the sofa as his knees were buckling and went down hard on his rump. His brain was swimming in a sea of juices--fear, lust, embarrassment--he'd never done anything like this before. It seemed so silly, yet...
Then, "Hey, I've seen you before!" Now Lydia was genuinely excited. "Yeah, I've seen you tons of times! It just hit me!"
"Where? At the casino?"
"No silly! You probably don't recognize me because I'm not in that stupid uniform. My day job is at the reception desk at McCarran Airport, you know--the E.G. and G terminal."
The rouge drained from his face.
This day was too much for him. Too much.
"Your name's not Peter! It's Mark something. Mark Shackleton. I'm good with names."
"Well, you know how names are," he said shakily.
"I get it! Hey, none of my beeswax! What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, honey. If you want to know the truth, my name's not Lydia."
He was speechless as he watched her strip off her black dress, showing all her black lacy gear underneath, talking a mile a minute as she went. "That is so cool! I've always wanted to speak to one of you guys! I mean how crazy must it be to commute to Area 51 every day. I mean it's like so top secret it basically makes me hot!"
His mouth fell open a little.
"I mean I know you're not allowed to talk about it but please, just nod if we've really got UFOs we're studying out there cause that's what everybody says!"
He tried to keep his head still.
"Was that a nod?" she asked. "Were you nodding?"
He composed himself enough to say, "I can't say anything about what goes on there. Please!"
She looked bummed then brightened up and started to work again. "Okay! That's cool. Tell you what, Peter ," she said, swinging her hips, slowly approaching the sofa, "I'll be your personal UFO tonight--unidentified fucking object. How would that be?"
J UNE 23, 2009
N EW Y ORK C ITY
W ill had a devastating hangover, the kind that felt like a weasel had woken up warm and cozy inside his skull then panicked at its confinement and tried to scratch and bite its way out through his eyes.
The evening had begun benignly enough. On his way home he stopped at his local dive, a yeasty smelling cave called Dunigan's, and downed a couple of pops on an empty stomach. Next up, the Pantheon Diner, where he grunted at the heavily stubbled waiter who grunted back at him and without exchanging any fully formed phrases brought him the same dish he ate two to three days a week--lamb kebabs and rice, washed down, of course, with a couple of beers. Then before decamping to his place for the night he paid his wobbly respects to his friendly package store and picked up a fresh half gallon of Black Label, pretty much the only luxury item to adorn his life.
The apartment was small and spartan, and stripped of Jennifer's feminizing touches, a truly bleak uninteresting piece of real estate--two sparse white-walled rooms with shiny parquet floors, meager views of the building across the street, and a few thousand dollars' worth of generic furniture and rugs. Truth be told, the apartment was almost too small for him. The living room was fourteen by seventeen, the bedroom ten by twelve, the kitchen and bathroom each the size of a good closet. Some of the criminals he had put away for life wouldn't see the place as a major upgrade. How had he put up with sharing the flat with Jennifer for four months? Whose bright idea was
She slowly walked toward him, backing him up toward the sofa. "My name is Lydia. Am I okay?"
"Okay?"
"If you'd prefer a guy, that's cool. Didn't know for sure." She had a charming ditziness about her.
His voice got squeaky from laryngeal constriction. "I don't like guys! I mean, I like girls!"
"Well, good! 'Cause I'm a girl," she purred with practiced artifice. "Why don't you sit yourself down and open that bottle of champagne, Peter, while we figure out the kind of games you'd like to play."
He reached the sofa as his knees were buckling and went down hard on his rump. His brain was swimming in a sea of juices--fear, lust, embarrassment--he'd never done anything like this before. It seemed so silly, yet...
Then, "Hey, I've seen you before!" Now Lydia was genuinely excited. "Yeah, I've seen you tons of times! It just hit me!"
"Where? At the casino?"
"No silly! You probably don't recognize me because I'm not in that stupid uniform. My day job is at the reception desk at McCarran Airport, you know--the E.G. and G terminal."
The rouge drained from his face.
This day was too much for him. Too much.
"Your name's not Peter! It's Mark something. Mark Shackleton. I'm good with names."
"Well, you know how names are," he said shakily.
"I get it! Hey, none of my beeswax! What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, honey. If you want to know the truth, my name's not Lydia."
He was speechless as he watched her strip off her black dress, showing all her black lacy gear underneath, talking a mile a minute as she went. "That is so cool! I've always wanted to speak to one of you guys! I mean how crazy must it be to commute to Area 51 every day. I mean it's like so top secret it basically makes me hot!"
His mouth fell open a little.
"I mean I know you're not allowed to talk about it but please, just nod if we've really got UFOs we're studying out there cause that's what everybody says!"
He tried to keep his head still.
"Was that a nod?" she asked. "Were you nodding?"
He composed himself enough to say, "I can't say anything about what goes on there. Please!"
She looked bummed then brightened up and started to work again. "Okay! That's cool. Tell you what, Peter ," she said, swinging her hips, slowly approaching the sofa, "I'll be your personal UFO tonight--unidentified fucking object. How would that be?"
J UNE 23, 2009
N EW Y ORK C ITY
W ill had a devastating hangover, the kind that felt like a weasel had woken up warm and cozy inside his skull then panicked at its confinement and tried to scratch and bite its way out through his eyes.
The evening had begun benignly enough. On his way home he stopped at his local dive, a yeasty smelling cave called Dunigan's, and downed a couple of pops on an empty stomach. Next up, the Pantheon Diner, where he grunted at the heavily stubbled waiter who grunted back at him and without exchanging any fully formed phrases brought him the same dish he ate two to three days a week--lamb kebabs and rice, washed down, of course, with a couple of beers. Then before decamping to his place for the night he paid his wobbly respects to his friendly package store and picked up a fresh half gallon of Black Label, pretty much the only luxury item to adorn his life.
The apartment was small and spartan, and stripped of Jennifer's feminizing touches, a truly bleak uninteresting piece of real estate--two sparse white-walled rooms with shiny parquet floors, meager views of the building across the street, and a few thousand dollars' worth of generic furniture and rugs. Truth be told, the apartment was almost too small for him. The living room was fourteen by seventeen, the bedroom ten by twelve, the kitchen and bathroom each the size of a good closet. Some of the criminals he had put away for life wouldn't see the place as a major upgrade. How had he put up with sharing the flat with Jennifer for four months? Whose bright idea was
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