"Too dirty?"
"Maybe Ill let you read one sometime."
"Whiskey and apples go together. Fix me a drink, darling. Then you read me astory yourself."
Very few authors, especially the unpublished, resist an invitation to readaloud. I made us both a drink and, settling in a chair opposite, began to read to her,my voice a little shaky with a bination of stage fright ahusiasm: it was aory, Id fi the day before, and that iable sense of shortinghad not had time to develop. It was about two women who share a house,schoolteachers, one of whom, wheher bees engaged, spreads withanonymous notes a sdal that prevents the marriage. As I read, each glimpse Istole of Holly made my heart tract. She fidgeted. She picked apart the butts in anashtray, she mooned over her fingernails, as though longing for a file; worse, when Idid seem to have her i, there was actually a telltale frost over her eyes, as ifshe were w whether to buy a pair of shoes shed seen in some window.
"Is that the end?" she asked, waking up. She floundered for something more tosay. "Of course I like dykes themselves. They dont scare me a bit. But stories aboutdykes bore the bejesus out of me. I just t put myself in their shoes. Well really,darling," she said, because I was clearly puzzled, "if its not about a couple of oldbull-dykes, what the hell is it about?"
But I was in no mood to pound the mistake of havihe story with thefurther embarrassment of explaining it. The same vanity that had led to suchexposure, now forced me to mark her down as an iive, mindless show-off.
"Ially," she said, "do you happen to know any nice lesbians? Im lookingfor a roommate. Well, dont laugh. Im so disanized, I simply t afford a maid;and really, dykes are wonderful home-makers, they love to do all the work, younever have to bother about brooms and defrosting and sending out the laundry. Ihad a roommate in Hollywood, she played ierns, they called her the Ler; but Ill say this for her, she was better than a man around the house. Ofcourse people couldnt help but think I must be a bit of a dyke myself. And of courseI am. Everyone is: a bit. So what? That never disced a ma, in fact itseems to goad them on. Look at the Ler, married twice. Usually dykes o married once, just for the seems to carry such cachet later on to becalled Mrs. Something Ahats not true!" She was staring at an alarm clo the table. "It t be four-thirty!"
The window was turning blue. A sunrise breeze bahe curtains.
"What is today?"
"Thursday."
"Thursday." She stood up. "My God," she said, and sat down again with a moan.
"Its too gruesome."
I was tired enough not to be curious. I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes.
Still it was irresistible: "Whats gruesome about Thursday?"
"Nothing. Except that I ever remember when its ing. You see, onThursdays I have to catch the eight forty-five. Theyre so particular about visitinghours, so if youre there by ten that gives you an hour before the poor melunch. Think of it, lunch at eleven. You go at two, and Id so much rather, but helikes me to e in the m, he says it sets him up for the rest of the day. Ivegot to stay awake," she said, ping her cheeks until the roses came, "there isnttime to sleep, Id look ptive, Id sag like a te, and that wouldnt befair: a girl t go to Sing Sing with a green face."
"I suppose not." The anger I felt at her over my story was ebbing; she absorbedme again.
"All the visitors do