I was going to use you—in a way—but I can't explain.
I don't understand it myself.
Let's just say I'm not ready yet.
And I can't fake it or cheat or pretend it's all right when it's not. It's just another blind alley." I got up to go.
"Charlie, don't run away again."
"I'm through running.
I've got work to do.
Tell them I'll be back to the lab in a few days—as soon as I get control of myself."
I left the apartment in a frenzy.
Downstairs, in front of the building, I stood, not knowing which way to go. No matter which path I took I got a shock that meant another mistake. Every path was blocked. But, God… everything I did, everywhere I turned, doors were closed to me.
There was no place to enter. No street, no room, no woman.
Finally, I stumbled down into the subway and took it down to Forty-ninth Street.
Not many people, but there was a blonde with long hair who reminded me of Fay.
Heading toward the crosstown bus, I passed a liquor store, and without thinking about it, I went in and bought a fifth of gin.
While I waited for the bus, I opened the bottle in the bag as I had seen bums do, and I took a long, deep drink.
It burned all the way down, but it felt good.
I took another—just a sip—and by the time the bus came, I was bathed in a powerful tingling sensation.
I didn't take any more.
I didn't want to get drunk now.
When I got to the apartment, I knocked at Fay's door.
There was no answer.
I opened the door and looked in.
She hadn't come in yet, but all the lights were on in the place.
She didn't give a damn about anything.
Why couldn't I be that way?
I went to my own place to wait. I undressed, took a shower and put on a robe. I prayed that this wouldn't be one of the nights that someone came home with her.
About two thirty in the morning I heard her coming up the steps.
I took my bottle, climbed out onto the fire escape and slipped over to her window just as her front door opened.
I hadn't intended to crouch there and watch. I was going to tap on the window. But as I raised my hand to make my presence known, I saw her kick her shoes off and twirl around happily. She went to the mirror, and slowly, piece by piece, began to pull off her clothes in a private strip tease.
I took another drink.
But I couldn't let her know I had been watching her.
I went through my own apartment without turning on the lights.
At first I thought of inviting her over to my place, but everything was too neat and orderly—too many straight lines to erase—and I knew it wouldn't work here.
So I went out into the hallway. I knocked at her door, softly at first and then louder.
"Door's open!" she shouted.
She was in her underwear, lying on the floor, arms outstretched and legs up against the couch.
She tilted her head back and looked at me upside down.
"Charlie, darling!
Why are you standing on your head?"
"Never mind," I said, pulling the bottle out of the paper bag.
"The lines and boxes are too straight, and I thought you'd join me in erasing some of them."
"Best stuff in the world for that," she said.
"If you concentrate on the warm spot that starts in the pit of your stomach, all the lines begin to melt."
"That's what's happening."
"Wonderful!"
She jumped to her feet.
"Me too. I danced with too many squares tonight.
Let's melt em all down."
She picked up a glass and I filled it for her.
As she drank, I slipped my arm around her and toyed with the skin of her bare back.