Can I get you a cup of coffee?"
"Charlie, I can't figure you out.
Most men like me or not, and I know it right away.
But you seem afraid of me. You're not a homosexual, are you?"
"Hell, no!"
"I mean you don't have to hide it from me if you are, because then we could be just good friends.
But I'd have to know."
"I'm not a homosexual.
Tonight, when you went into your place with that guy, I wished it was me." She leaned forward and the kimono open at the neck revealed her bosom.
She slipped her arms around me, waiting for me to do something.
I knew what was expected of me, and I told myself there was no reason not to.
I had the feeling there would be no panic now—not with her.
After all, I wasn't the one making the advances.
And she was different from any woman I'd ever met before. Perhaps she was right for me at this emotional level.
I slipped my arms around her.
"That's different," she cooed. "I was beginning to think you didn't care."
"I care," I whispered, kissing her throat.
But as I did it, I saw the two of us, as if I were a third person standing in the doorway.
I was watching a man and woman in each other's arms. But seeing myself that way, from a distance, left me unresponsive.
There was no panic, it was true, but there was also no excitement—no desire.
"Your place or mine?" she asked.
"Wait a minute."
"What's the matter?"
"Maybe we'd better not.
I don't feel well this evening." She looked at me Wonderingly.
"Is there anything else?… Anything you want me to do?… I don't mind…"
"No, that's not it," I said sharply.
"I just don't feel well tonight."
I was curious about the ways she had of getting a man excited, but this was no time to start experimenting. The solution to my problem lay elsewhere. I didn't know what else to say to her. I wished she'd go away, but I didn't want to tell her to go.
She was studying me, and then finally she said,
"Look, do you mind if I spend the night here?"
"Why?"
She shrugged.
"I like you.
I don't know.
Leroy might come back.
Lots of reasons.
If you don't want me to…"
She caught me off guard again. I might have found a dozen excuses to get rid of her, but I gave in.
"Got any gin?" she asked.
"No, I don't drink much."
"I've got some in my place.
I'll bring it over."
Before I could stop her she was out the window and a few minutes later she returned with a bottle about two-thirds full, and a lemon.
She took two glasses from my kitchen and poured some gin into each.
"Here," she said, "this'll make you feel better.
It'll take the starch out of those straight lines.
That's what's bugging you. Everything is too neat and straight and you're all boxed in. Like Algernon in bis sculpture there."
I wasn't going to at first, but I felt so lousy that I figured why not.
It couldn't make things any worse, and it might possibly dull the feeling that I was watching myself through eyes that didn't understand what I was doing.