When he got on the highway to Westchester, he used his push-button device to roll down the windows and drove too fast. When he arrived home he walked through the entire first floor of his house, turning on all the lights. His wife really was out of town, and he didn’t like to be alone in a dimly lit house. The refrigerator was clean and neatly stacked with food his wife had prepared for him. He got into his pajamas and slippers and made himself a sandwich of cold cuts and mayonnaise. He stood at the kitchen counter and ate the sandwich from a paper plate with a smiling cat face on it. He thought of Lisette lying across the bed like an arrangement of fruit, her shoulder snuggled against her cheek, watching him clean himself in the bathroom with a cheap pink loofah. She had a curious, sober look on her round face. She’s an intelligent girl, he thought. You can see it in her eyes. Why hadn’t he told her that he was a veterinarian? He had never lied to a prostitute before. He made himself a piña colada, with lots of crushed ice and a tiny straw — his wife had left a Dixie cup of red-and-white straws next to the blender — and went to bed.
The next night, he drove into Manhattan to see her again.
“Boy, I’m glad to see you tonight,” she said as she clacked into the room with the sheet.
“Are you? Why?” He stood to let her crack the sheet above the bed.
“Oh, it’s been sort of a bad night. I couldn’t stand to deal with another idiot.”
“I’m sure you get some pretty undesirable people in here.”
“You said it.”
“Nobody violent or anything, I hope?”
“No, just stupid.” She floated the sheet down and turned to curl against him.
Later, they lay folded together, listening to the sad gurgle of the fish tank. “Look at those poor, dumb things swimming around in there,” she said. “They haven’t got any idea of the filth going on in here.”
“What did you mean about the men who come here? When you said they’re … just stupid.” He’d said “stupid” too loud.
“I don’t really mean they’re stupid. A lot of them are businessmen. They must have some kind of brain to do that. But they’re dumb about women and they’re dumb about sex.” She rocked him over on his back and lay on him, her fingers perched on his shoulders, her face right against his. “They actually think they can buy you for a hundred and fifty dollars. Like you’re going to become sexually excited because they give you money. I mean they can pay you to do certain things. But they can’t buy anyone for a hundred and fifty dollars.” She rolled off him and flopped on her back. “It’s so retarded. They don’t have any idea of what good sex is, so they wouldn’t know you can’t buy it.” She turned her head to him. “I hope I’m not insulting you. I’m not talking about you.”
He stuck his body up on one elbow so he could look at her. “No. No, I think it’s very interesting. I’m flattered that you choose to tell me these things.” Her stomach was sticking out like a little bread loaf. He tickled it lightly.
She scratched her stomach. “Why did you come back so soon?”
“Don’t you remember last night? I find our, uh, sex highly erotic. Not because I pay for it, but because it just is.” He paused to let her react. She stared at him and blinked. “Besides, I like you. I think there’s something between us. I think that if I were a few years younger and we met under slightly different circumstances, we might even have what’s now called a relationship.”
She smiled and looked at the happy lions snoozing on the designer sheets. He put his hand on hers. “The first night I came here, you were uncertain, kind of shy. You came out and admitted it, you asked me questions. You trusted me. Tonight when you were mad, you didn’t put on a phony smile. You let off steam, told me how you felt. You didn’t treat me like a customer. That’s nice. There’s hardly anybody that’ll be real with you like that anymore. Sometimes even my wife isn’t honest with me.”
She looked up from the smiling lions. “You shouldn’t come to prostitutes looking for honesty.”
“You’re not a prostitute. Don’t say that about yourself.”
“What do you think I am?”
“You just happen to be a pretty, sexy girl who, uh—”
“I have sex for money.”
“Well, all right.” He slapped her thigh nervously. “You’re right. You’re a prostitute.” It sounded so horrible. “But you’re still a wonderful girl.” He grabbed her and snuggled her.
“You don’t know me.”
“You’re wonderful.” He squeezed her like he wanted to break her ribs. She shoved her pelvis against him, threw her arms and one leg around him and squeezed with all her slippery might. She smiled with half-closed eyes, and bit her grinning lip. He squeezed harder. She jammed her elbows into his sides and he made a meek “whoof” noise.
He dropped his arms, panting. “God, you’re strong. How did such a small person get so strong?”
She grinned like a wolf. “I dunno.” She let go and rolled off, and padded into the bathroom.
He followed her. “Are you a gymnast? A dancer?”
“No. I used to work out with weights in school.” She dabbed between her legs with a nubbly white washcloth.
“University?”
“Yeah.” She grabbed a fat economy-size jar of mentholated mouthwash, threw her head back and dumped a big splash into her mouth. Her cheeks worked vigorously as she sloshed it to and fro.
“Do you show your strength in the way you deal with people? I mean, outside of this place?”
She spat a green burst of mouthwash into the sink and looked at him. “Yeah. I do.”
“How do you make them aware of it?”
She leaned against the sink, facing him with her arms behind her, her face thoughtful and soft. “I just … don’t let people sway my thinking. I don’t mold myself to fit what other people think I am.” She came forward and put her arms around him. “It’s interesting that you find strength in women attractive.”
“Why?”
“Don’t most older men like passive, dependent women?”
“Oh, that’s an awful stereotype. Don’t believe it.”
“Is your wife a strong woman?”
“Yes, she is.”
“Is she a lawyer too?”
“No. She’s an antiquarian. She’s got a small rare-book business.”
“Did you meet her in college?”
“Yes. She studied art history and Latin. I was very impressed by that.”
“Was she the first person you had sex with?”
“Almost.”
“I bet that’s why you see prostitutes.” She let go of him and hurried to get dressed. The outermost flesh of her backside jiggled as she balanced on one spike heel and stuck the other through a leg of her underpants.
“What do you mean?”
“You had so little chance to screw around when you were young. You’re trying to get it now.” Her fingers were flying over the tiny buttons of her checked dress.
“You know, I think you’re writing a book. That’s what you’re doing here. You’re one of those journalists doing undercover work on prostitution.”
She smiled miserably. “No.”
“What do you do, besides work here? I think you do something. Am I right?”
“Of course I do something.” She said “do” very sarcastically. She trotted to the mirror and got out her shiny silver lipstick case.
“What? What do you do?” He came toward her.
“I don’t like to talk about it here.” She opened her black leather bag to replace the lipstick. He glimpsed a roll of money and a packet of condoms in sky-blue tinfoil.
“Why don’t you like to talk about it?”
“It makes me unhappy.”
The telephone by the bed rasped, indicating the end of their hour.