he asks her. “After high school.”
“I went to New York. I was runner-up in a beauty contest and thought I could become a fashion model. But I just wasn’t the type. Too big all over.”
“Not for me. Did you ever do any nude modeling? For men’s magazines?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“You have the body for it; I thought you might have.”
“As a matter of fact I did. But it’s a sleazy business and doesn’t pay all that much. Then I sort of drifted—here, there, and everywhere. And ended up in Florida.”
“Lucky me,” Harry Dancer says. “Well, here we are. Tired?”
“A little. Can we sit on the patio?”
“Of course. Another beer?”
“That would be nice.”
He brings out cold beers. Closes the sliding glass door to the living room to preserve the air conditioning. Sally can’t believe the Department’s mikes will pick up voices on the patio.
“Do we need that light?” she asks.
“It’s supposed to keep bugs away,” he says, “but I’ll turn it off if you like.”
“Please,” she says. “The darkness is nicer. More intimate.”
“Intimate,” he repeats. Tinny laugh. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.”
“I don’t understand. I thought you and I were as intimate as a man and woman can get.”
“We are. Physically. Sexually. I don’t think I’ve ever been more intimate with a woman. In that way.”
“But…?”
“But the other day I was wondering if I’m capable of anything more than that. Since my wife died, I seem to have a fear of intimacy. Of really getting close to someone. It scares me.”
Sally Abaddon sets her beer aside. Rises. Comes over to perch on the edge of Dancer’s lounge. Puts a cool palm to his flushed face.
“Harry,” she says, “are you talking about love? Is that what you mean?”
“I guess so. I guess that’s what I mean. Fun in bed is one thing. I like that—as you well know. But I don’t know if I can handle anything more.”
“You’re trying to tell me something, aren’t you? Warn me off?”
“Oh no, darling,” he says. Lifting her hand from his cheek to kiss the palm. “I just want you to know that right now you’re dealing with an emotional cripple. Don’t expect too much. Lately I’ve been getting the feeling that the games we play aren’t enough for you. That you’re looking for something else. A more—a more permanent relationship. More meaningful. Am I right?”
“Yes,” she says. Low voice. “You’re right. I feel it. I didn’t know it showed.”
“It does to me. Sally, I just don’t want you to get hurt. I’m being as honest as I can. I’m disturbed that you might become too—too intense.”
“That’s not your problem,” she says. “It’s my problem. I haven’t asked for anything from you, have I? Other than the five bills a week for fun and games. But have I asked for any emotional commitment from you?”
“No,” he admits, “you haven’t. What I’m trying to tell you is that right now I’m not capable or willing to make any commitment.”
“Don’t worry it, Harry. I’m a big girl, and I’ve been around the block twice. If I make mistakes, they’ll be my mistakes. I won’t blame you. Except for being such an adorable shithead.”
They both laugh, and it’s all right.
He pulls her close. “What happened to that tender, loving care you promised?”
“Whatever you want, Harry. You call it.”
“Should we go upstairs?”
“Let’s stay out here,” she whispers. “It’s dark. No one will see.”
“We’re liable to get rained on.”
“I’d love it. Wouldn’t you?”
Giggling, they undress. He bundles up their clothing, shoes, takes them into the living room. Then stealthily returns, sliding the glass door slowly so it won’t squeak. He finds her lying on the patio tiles. Shining up at him. He lies down alongside.
“We’ll get dusty,” he warns. “Plus bruises.”
“Do you care?”
“Not really.”
She moves closer. Insinuates a knee
“I went to New York. I was runner-up in a beauty contest and thought I could become a fashion model. But I just wasn’t the type. Too big all over.”
“Not for me. Did you ever do any nude modeling? For men’s magazines?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“You have the body for it; I thought you might have.”
“As a matter of fact I did. But it’s a sleazy business and doesn’t pay all that much. Then I sort of drifted—here, there, and everywhere. And ended up in Florida.”
“Lucky me,” Harry Dancer says. “Well, here we are. Tired?”
“A little. Can we sit on the patio?”
“Of course. Another beer?”
“That would be nice.”
He brings out cold beers. Closes the sliding glass door to the living room to preserve the air conditioning. Sally can’t believe the Department’s mikes will pick up voices on the patio.
“Do we need that light?” she asks.
“It’s supposed to keep bugs away,” he says, “but I’ll turn it off if you like.”
“Please,” she says. “The darkness is nicer. More intimate.”
“Intimate,” he repeats. Tinny laugh. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.”
“I don’t understand. I thought you and I were as intimate as a man and woman can get.”
“We are. Physically. Sexually. I don’t think I’ve ever been more intimate with a woman. In that way.”
“But…?”
“But the other day I was wondering if I’m capable of anything more than that. Since my wife died, I seem to have a fear of intimacy. Of really getting close to someone. It scares me.”
Sally Abaddon sets her beer aside. Rises. Comes over to perch on the edge of Dancer’s lounge. Puts a cool palm to his flushed face.
“Harry,” she says, “are you talking about love? Is that what you mean?”
“I guess so. I guess that’s what I mean. Fun in bed is one thing. I like that—as you well know. But I don’t know if I can handle anything more.”
“You’re trying to tell me something, aren’t you? Warn me off?”
“Oh no, darling,” he says. Lifting her hand from his cheek to kiss the palm. “I just want you to know that right now you’re dealing with an emotional cripple. Don’t expect too much. Lately I’ve been getting the feeling that the games we play aren’t enough for you. That you’re looking for something else. A more—a more permanent relationship. More meaningful. Am I right?”
“Yes,” she says. Low voice. “You’re right. I feel it. I didn’t know it showed.”
“It does to me. Sally, I just don’t want you to get hurt. I’m being as honest as I can. I’m disturbed that you might become too—too intense.”
“That’s not your problem,” she says. “It’s my problem. I haven’t asked for anything from you, have I? Other than the five bills a week for fun and games. But have I asked for any emotional commitment from you?”
“No,” he admits, “you haven’t. What I’m trying to tell you is that right now I’m not capable or willing to make any commitment.”
“Don’t worry it, Harry. I’m a big girl, and I’ve been around the block twice. If I make mistakes, they’ll be my mistakes. I won’t blame you. Except for being such an adorable shithead.”
They both laugh, and it’s all right.
He pulls her close. “What happened to that tender, loving care you promised?”
“Whatever you want, Harry. You call it.”
“Should we go upstairs?”
“Let’s stay out here,” she whispers. “It’s dark. No one will see.”
“We’re liable to get rained on.”
“I’d love it. Wouldn’t you?”
Giggling, they undress. He bundles up their clothing, shoes, takes them into the living room. Then stealthily returns, sliding the glass door slowly so it won’t squeak. He finds her lying on the patio tiles. Shining up at him. He lies down alongside.
“We’ll get dusty,” he warns. “Plus bruises.”
“Do you care?”
“Not really.”
She moves closer. Insinuates a knee
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