"Chocolate-brown."
"But finally decided what the hell."
"The previous tenant was gay, wasn't he?"
"They're his walls," she said.
"You ought to put some plants on the stepladder."
"I kill plants."
"That type, are you?"
"They die in my embrace."
She was wearing a floor-length rugby sleepshirt. On her feet were tennis sneakers, laces undone. The shirt accentuated her height in ways she thought interesting. She watched Selvy open the refrigerator and take out a bottle of Coke, which he drained in two quick gulps. He hadn't shaved and looked a little menacing. He stood with his back to the refrigerator, arms folded, watching her.
It occurred to Moll he didn't look much like the man she'd first seen at Cosmic Erotics, the junior exec with the crisp manner. The night of drinking had given him a strange pale aura, a quality of relentlessness. It was almost a form of competence, this ability to suggest a dark force in one's own makeup. She'd sensed it while they were drinking at Frankie's Tropical Bar but the aftereffect was even more telling, this spareness about him, a hard-edged overriding disposition, the kind of single-mindedness she didn't confront in the course of an average day.
Howard Glen Selvy. Second-level administrative aide. Assistant to the assistant.
The small bedroom looked out on a vacant lot that might have been a Zen garden of rubbish. As she knelt at the edge of the bed, Selvy, behind her, put his hands under the long garment she wore and moved them along her calves, lifting the shirt as he did so. Moll bent back to raise her knees and he slipped the garment up over them and his hands moved to her thighs and hips as the phone rang, and to her belly then, and breasts, his forearms tight against her ribs, lifting her a little. She crossed her arms to pull the shirt over her head, the phone ringing, and then sat in the middle of the bed to watch him undress, which he did with a curious efficiency, as though it were a drill that might one day save his life.
There was an element of resolve and fixed purpose to their lovemaking. He was lean and agile. She found herself scratching his shoulders, working against his body with uncharacteristic intensity. He began to sweat lightly, to take deeper breaths, and his stubble scraped her face and neck. She took her left hand away from his lower back and stretched the arm way back and began tapping on the brass post at the head of the bed, hitting it with her knuckles in time to the rhythm of Selvy's breathing, and then her own, as the sounds they made began to blend.
They were tied up in a ball. They were compact and working hard. Who is this son of a bitch, she thought.
She sat naked in the dining area, her legs extended along the length of an antique church bench, or at least a section of one. Selvy stood leaning against a bookcase, wearing long johns and drinking another Coke. She hadn't noticed the long johns when he was undressing; obviously he'd removed them in one motion with the trousers that concealed them. She thought he looked great like that, leaning as he was, head tilted to drink, in that archaic underwear, an English lancer on the eve, of Balaclava. She took another bite of yogurt, glancing at the telephone as it began ringing once more.
"Is that the office?"
"Yes," she said.
"What do you want to do?"
"Play tennis."
"Great."
"Except it's impossible without waiting for hours or joining a private club or suddenly coming into great wealth and building your own rooftop court."
"Ridiculous."
"You know where we can play?"
"Last night in the cab after I dropped you off we went by some courts in this remote little area in Central Park, a hundred feet off the road but in a place where you can't stop the car. We'll walk. It's easy from here. No problem."
"You're crazy."
"Do you have an extra racket?"
"Nobody plays tennis in Central Park just by walking out the door and making a left turn."
"Come on, get dressed."
She spooned a final bite of yogurt out of the carton she held between her thighs and then went into the bedroom to get some clothes on, hearing Selvy dial a number on the phone. When she was dressed she found him waiting by the bedroom door. He went inside to dress and she called her boss, Grace Delaney, at the office.
"I couldn't answer when you called."
"Obviously."
"Percival's willing, I think. I also think he'll talk to me at his place in Georgetown, where the collection's almost got to be."
"You don't really believe he'll let you anywhere near it."
"I believe he will, Grace."
"Put your dreams away," she sang, "for another day."
"Well, he _will_, I talked to him, we sort of struck up a tiny little rapport."
"Why are you whispering?"
"We went to the men's room together."
"Spare me the details."
"See you later maybe."
"Who's there that you're whispering?"
"I'm taking care of a sick friend."
"What's he got, the clap?"
"Always a joy to talk to you, Grace."
Rackets in hand they walked through the park in a northeasterly direction. Selvy pointed out a clearing in some trees beyond a children's play area. They could make out two courts, both empty.
"Ever get bombed on sake?"
"Sure," he said.
"Once, on one of those high-speed trains to Kyoto, I think it was, I nearly did myself in."
"Dutch gin's good for doing yourself in."
"Where?"
"I was in Zandvoort for the Grand Prix."
"Grand Prix of volleyball, I suppose."
"What do you mean?"
"Look," she said.
"Those aren't tennis courts, are they?"
"Those are volleyball courts," she said.
They decided to play anyway. Because the nets were so high, they hit underhand shots exclusively and did a lot of dipping and knee flexing, using strange body English. A small girl watched from the top of a sliding pond nearby. Eventually a certain lunatic rhythm began to assert itself. The players got the feel of things. They appeared to enjoy playing within these limitations and started keeping score more diligently.
Moll chased an errant serve down a small hill and when she came back up to courtside found that Selvy was about forty yards away, heading across the lawn, racket in hand, toward a black limousine that was parked on the grass. The back door opened and he got in. She watched the car bump down off the curb back onto the roadway and then swing left and pick up speed, passing behind a knoll and out of sight.
The small girl standing atop the sliding pond also watched, from a somewhat better perspective. Moll looked at her and shrugged. The girl pointed, her index finger tracing the direction of the car. Finally her arm dropped to her side and she came sliding down the shiny ramp and walked off toward a group of parents and other children.
Moll stood for a while, scanning the area, two tennis balls in one hand, the racket in the other. One of the children shrieked, in play, and when Moll turned in the direction of the sound she saw Selvy walking toward her along a paved lane between two rows of benches. He was still fifty yards away when she said, softly: "You forgot your racket."
She was back on the church bench, wearing Selvy's long johns this time. He came out of the bathroom, still a little wet, with a towel around his waist, grinning at the sight of her in his underwear.
"I just used that towel."
"Doesn't matter," he said.
"Get a clean towel."
"I'm fine. I'm happy. Leave me alone."
He sat at the table, facing her, his thumbnail nicking the label on the bottle of Wild Turkey she'd set out.
"We may be the start of a new kind of human potential group," she said. "Wear each other's clothing."
"It's probably been done."