"Yes," he answered, in the same low, cautious voice. "I’m in the bedroom."
"Are you sitting on the bed?"
"Yes."
"I'm lying on the bed." She waited for him to ask the usual question. This time he didn't, so she told him, anyway. "I have nothing on," she whispered.
A sudden warmth rose up in her. "Oh, David, I miss you so.
I wish you were here beside me."
She heard the faint sound of a striking match.
"I'll be out there by the end of the week."
"I can't wait, David. Can you?"
"No," he said, still cautiously.
"Stretch out on the bed for a moment, David," she whispered. "I want you to feel me as I feel you."
"Rosa- "
"Oh, David," she whispered, interrupting. "I can see you now. Hard and strong. I can feel you pouring life into me."
She closed her eyes against the flush of heat spreading upward from her loins. She could hear his breathing in the telephone. "David," she whispered. "I cannot wait."
"Rosa!" His voice was harsh. "I- "
Her voice was warm and languid. "Freud would have a wonderful time with me," she whispered. "Are you angry with me, David, for being so greedy?"
"No," he said.
She took a deep breath.
"I’m glad," she said. "I have wonderful news to tell you, darling."
"Can it wait until tomorrow, Rosa?" he said quickly. "I’m in the middle of an important meeting." She hesitated in stunned silence. He took it for acquiescence. "That's a good girl, darling," he said. "Bye now."
There was a click and he was off the line before she could answer.
She stared at the telephone in bewilderment for a moment, then put it down slowly.
She reached for the cigarette still smoldering in the ash tray.
The acrid smoke burned in her throat.
Angrily she ground it out. She turned her face into the pillow and lay there silently.
I shouldn't have called him, she thought. He said he was busy.
She got up from the bed and went into the bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror. You ought to be able to understand, she told herself. There have been times you've been too busy to come to the telephone when he called. You, of all people.
Almost surprised, she saw the tears well up into her eyes and begin to run down her cheeks.
Then they overwhelmed her and she sank to her knees, her face against the cold porcelain bathtub. She covered her face with her hands.
Was this what it meant to be a woman?
14.
Maurice Bonner sat up in the bed and watched the girl walk over to a chair and sit down. He studied her appreciatively.
The girl was naked. And beautiful.
The strong, full breasts resting on the finely boned rib cage. The flat, hard stomach swelling abruptly into the surprising rise of her pubis, then tapering gently into the thighs of her long, slim legs.
He watched the muscles of her back suddenly come into play as she turned to pick up a pack of cigarettes from the table.
He nodded to himself. She was beautiful, all right.
Perhaps not in the ordinary sense of the word but beautiful as a whore had any right to be. And never was.
"Christ, you're ugly," the girl said, looking at him.
He grinned, exposing the crooked, uneven teeth in his long horse face.
What she said was nothing new.
He was not unaware of it himself; he could see it in his mirror.
He threw back the sheet and got out of bed.
"Here, cover yourself," the girl said, flinging a towel at him. "You look like an ape with your cock hanging down like that."
He caught the towel deftly and wrapped it around his waist.
"Was it any good?" he asked curiously, taking a cigarette from the package. She didn't answer. "Was it worth it?"
"I guess it was," she said unemotionally.
He went back to the bed and sat down on the edge.
"Is that all it is to you?" he asked. "Just another John?"
She stared at him.
"You're supposed to be a pretty hep guy.