The Sweetheart by Angelina Mirabella

wholesome ring of literature. You forgo these, instead leaning in to examine a row of paperbacks, Bantam and Gold Medal titles, their prices (25 cents each) prominently featured in one corner. You stop at one and gently coax it from where it is wedged: Halo in Brass.
    â€œIs that the sort of book you like?” Monster asks.
    You stare at the cover, on which a lone blonde holds a smoldering cigarette beneath this phrase: She expected her lover, but death walked in . “It looks like my kind of book,” you say.
    â€œThat’s interesting,” he says. “I wouldn’t have guessed that about you.”
    You are much too naive to know what it is that he has assumed or why it might amuse him. If you knew what I know now, you would shudder. From this, I can fairly guess the picture he has created in his mind: you, on the floor, hair fanned around you, a darker, more domineering woman straddling your chest.
    â€œI like my name,” you say, purposely moving the conversation toward surer ground. “What made you think of it?”
    Monster doesn’t answer right away. It can’t be because he is having difficulty remembering. This only happened moments before. His silence can mean only one thing: there is something unpleasant about the answer.
    â€œYou reminded me of Sweet Gwendoline. But you probably don’t know who that is.”
    â€œCan’t say I do.” And why would you? When would you ever have occasion to come across John Willie’s cartoon serial or its busty blond protagonist, a girl always bound, in peril, desperate for rescue? You might have gone your whole life without knowing if he hadn’t given you reason to seek it out.
    â€œWhat about Davies?”
    â€œWell, now,” he says, eyes twinkling. “That’s my name, isn’t it? A bit of vanity on my part, I suppose. I hope you don’t mind too terribly.”
    David. His name is David. You’d forgotten already.
    â€œNo, of course not,” you lie. The truth is it is rather uncomfortable to be so intimately connected to someone you have just met, especially this particular someone. Over time, you will come to read something else into this gesture. You will see it as a need to pass on some part of himself that he otherwise couldn’t, impotence being, as you will later discover, another cruel side effect of his condition, and you will be glad to have been honored with this task. Remembering this about him— his name was David —will help to fill out your memory, help him remain the man he was instead of the caricature he could so easily become.
    Henderson looks down the hall—no sign of Joe—and leans in. “Just so you know, I sometimes take . . . other kinds of pictures. Just for my personal collection. No one sees them except for me. I pay well, and I’m very discreet.” This time, you understand him perfectly. It is hard to hold such a bold proposition in your head. Before this moment, no one has so much as asked to hold your hand. He searches your face, like he’s expecting—maybe even hoping for?—a reaction. But while you are feeling many things (shock, anger, and fear, to name a few), you keep your eyes locked on the book cover, your lips sealed shut. This is the only strategy you have for dealing with this kind of attention: withdrawal.
    When Henderson speaks again, his voice is an octave higher. Perhaps he hopes to sound friendly and jocular, but that’s hardly the effect—his bass is a weight too heavy to lift. “Sometimes the girls find the extra money useful.”
    Ignoring him is clearly not going to work.
    You turn to him with wide eyes and say, “That’s something to consider, Mr. Henderson.”
    â€œPlease,” he says, attempting to smooth things over. “Call me David.” He takes the book from your hands and returns it to the bookshelf, pulls down another one. “This is a much better