s and he says he never liked that playwright’s work, though he hasn’t seen this play. Too traditional, homespun, unadventurous, with half the scenes around the kitchen or dining room table and half of those when the characters are in bathrobes getting ready for or having just got out of bed. There was a bathrobe scene in her play, she says, and her best scene too, but midway upstairs. “Oh boy you just blew it,” Willie says, slaps his back, laughs, goes. Was there a signal between them? Looks to see and she seems annoyed, no doubt by his comments, apologizes, she says it’s OK and he’s probably a writer or wants to be one, and he says he’s been doing little fictions and short plays but how’d she know? Because they’re usually trying to negate a skillful older writer’s work or just shoveling it into the grave. Asks and her father writes plays and television scripts and he even gets hate mail from young playwrights starting out or about to, damning the little success he’s had, belittling what he’s still very hard doing, praising only the not-written new. Apologizes and she says let’s forget it but still looks angry. He did blow it. What could he do to make up for it? Mind, face, body, glamorous life, artistic father, probably her own apartment, says what she thinks, would love being close with her when that anger’s for someone else. Says half his literary judgments are dumb and uninformed and he’ll never shoot from the hip like that again. She says why’s he making such promises to her? She’s still angry. Afraid she’ll say it’s been nice talking to you but she’s got to go. Asks and the mug only held tea because she has a cold and sore throat and what she really needed was honey in it which the host has but couldn’t find. Wait and comes back with no tea because he couldn’t find the honey when he thought he could but does have two aspirins and water if she needs. So kind and he says misguided overconfidence and he liked the way she was protective of her pa, not many people are. Suggests and they go out for sandwiches and tea with honey for her, she puts her arm around his on the way back, she’s cold, didn’t dress warmly enough tonight, but it still means something. Asks, if she doesn’t mind, is surprised to find she’s nine months younger than he, thought she was twenty-five. Looks that old? and says it’s because of her maturity and range of experiences so he thought she was a very young looking twenty-five. Tries kissing her at the door, not that she wouldn’t like to but someone might come out of the elevator or party, leads her around to where he thinks the service entrance is where they kiss, sit on the service steps and hold hands, stare into each other’s eyes dreamily, hug, help each other off with their coats, stare, kiss, hug, kisses her hands, starts crying, says he loves her, isn’t that crazy-stupid? and something never to be said so soon, she touches his tears, guesses she feels the same about him too, bizarre the way it started out or right after that went down and then so quickly changed. When? and she says when he told her to wait for she didn’t know what and brought back aspirins and water. Wants to go home with her, she says someone brought her, anyway it wouldn’t be a good idea, just a good friend who knows the host and lives a block from her and who’ll be disappointed if he has to subway home alone. She giving him a line? Not something to ask. Could say it’s because he loves her he’s asking if she sleeps with this guy, she still might get offended and give up on him as fast as she got close. Here, take my sweater, when she’s going, but she says she’ll survive. Then his scarf, it’s warmer than hers and that way he’ll know she’ll have to see him again to give it back, says she can always mail it but of course she’ll see him, not tomorrow because she has scene run-throughs for class all day and things like that but the next night. Dinner at her apartment. Opens the door wearing an apron and lobster oven mitt she pretends to bite his nose with, framed impish photo of Churchill on her kitchen wall, Picasso boy with horse repro he doesn’t tell her he dislikes above the couch, lots of poetry books, cookbooks, Nancy Drews and how to raise dogs, carnation soap smell from the bathroom though has to ask what it is, family photos all around, parents and siblings very handsome and animated then and now, louvered doors to the kitchen — louver, new word he learns — brought wine and napoleans — napoleans, she’s always heard but never saw or had them — slips her hands into his back pockets when they kiss, holds his palm up when they’re standing and rests her thigh on it, his look what’re you doing? and says that’s what Harpo always does, hasn’t he seen their films? lets him sleep with her if he promises not to try to have sex, sleeps in what were then called baby dolls, he in pajamas too large her brother left when he slept over, later finds the same line in a recent play he reads from her bookshelf where the pajamas were the character’s ex-lover’s, sees her breasts through the baby dolls, says if he continues to peek she’ll sleep with a bra underneath, her behind and a little trickle of pubic hair when she turns her back to him next day to dress, lets him hold but not rub her breasts in bed the third night, week to the day they first went to bed she says she’s putting in her diaphragm, is it OK? he says he knows what that means, she doesn’t want to have his baby, she says what in the world does he mean? holds her through the night, she says almost every man she’s known has turned his back on her right after and slept by himself on his side of the bed and usually even after the first time they made love, remembers to fall asleep holding her every night even when he wants to curl up alone, she says they’ve had sex at least once a day for two weeks so tonight could he give her poor poopie a rest? After they say goodbye outside they keep looking back to wave and blow kisses, sometimes from more than a block apart, two abortions with a young playwright she wanted to marry or not marry but have kids with but he dropped her, that’s why she left the play and was taken aback by his remark that first time, came pretty close to killing herself with poison over a much older actor two years ago, which was when she first thought of giving up the stage for something less frenetic and more cerebral, slit her wrists very slightly over a play director three years back, such a dumb profession where they’re all only amateur therapists for the characters they play, wants to sculpt, pot, perhaps write poetry, learn Russian, German and French so she can read all their nineteenth-century literature, holds her tight when she spills all this, says he’ll never drop or hurt her for what could ever stop him from wanting to be with her and making her happy forever, says same with her but they’re probably a couple of naifs and they cry, kiss, hug and make so much love that night that next day they both ache. Two months after they meet he can’t reach her. Said good-bye to her at her door, tried calling her that night, phone doesn’t answer for days. Calls her folks and they haven’t heard from her in a week but say don’t worry as they’re sure she’s OK. Her friends have no idea. Tries letting himself into her place with the key she gave him but the cylinder’s been changed. Something’s up but doesn’t know what. A guy probably but who could it be and when that she could have hidden it from him, so it’s not possible. Waits in front of her acting class day she has it and she doesn’t show. Calls the school next week saying he’s from a flower store with a delivery for her and what day will she be in since she wasn’t there last week to receive it and the receptionist says last week she was away but she notified them she’ll be there today. Sees her leaving the building laughing and then putting her arm around the waist of the actor she said she used to date between the two men she nearly killed herself over but found him too rigid and Christian-religious so it could never have gotten serious and broke it off. Everything in him goes cold and drops. Wants to run away without them seeing him, get drunk in a bar and write her the bitterest letter he can and send it care of the acting school’s address. But talk to her. Maybe it’s just friendship with this guy, like actors are always behaving, so affectionate and full of bullshit, and the lock and not being in touch with him and all that is something she can completely explain. Lincoln sees him crossing Broadway to them and pushes her behind him and grabs her hand. “So I was right,” Howard says. “To myself I mean. I mean between you two, I can’t believe it. I hate saying the obvious, Janine, but I should have known — at least that you were screwing me good by keeping me on the hook and making me miserable while fucking some other guy.” “Listen, Howard,” Lincoln says, “you want to get it out, you probably have every right to, but it’s not what you think at all. I don’t know if she told you, but Janine and I used to see one another—” “You saying you now don’t?” “No, we’re together again, that’s obvious as you said, but much closer than before, I’m afraid, and we wanted to tell you—” “What about her telling me? — How come you didn’t? Come on, get out from behind him and speak to me, don’t I deserve it?” “Of course you do,” coming out from behind Lincoln and letting go of his hand. He tries grabbing it back but she cups her hands. “I’m sorry, very sorry, there’s no excuse for the way I handled it with you.” “She was wrong, Lincoln says. “She knows it, she admits it, I asked her to talk to you and she didn’t know quite how to and I didn’t want to do it for her, but I swear she was getting around to it and has felt rotten over it from the start.” “Who cares what you have to say? I want her to speak — Tell me, was the whole fucking thing with me an act? Were you acting for two months or only the last month or two weeks or what?” “That’s not really a question, and I wasn’t,” she says. “Acting at the party I met you at with your stupid headache or whatever it was? Acting when you told me what a madwoman you once were but how with me everything changed?” “No, really no. I was serious. You were wonderful. But something just happened.” “With what? Him you mean? When? How could it have? I was seeing you almost every day, fucking you just about every night.” She shuts her eyes, seems to grit her teeth. “Don’t get coarse,” Lincoln says. “We understand how you feel, and your anger, but if you want to talk reasonably we can all go to a coffee shop and do it there.” “I don’t want to go to one,” she says. “OK, we won’t, but I don’t know how good an idea it is to have it out here. It isn’t a good idea, Howard.” “So it wasn’t an act with me, you’re saying?” “No, never, but let’s stop this on the street as Lincoln said. Now that we started talking, I’ll phone you and we’ll meet for a chat or talk on the phone about it some other time.” “But it’s all over, right?” “You’re saying — wait, us two?” “Us, yes, That that’s it, we’re finished, done, ‘Good-bye, Howard, you big fool, you stupid chump, you haven’t a chance now and I won’t say it but I don’t give a shit what happens to you after this’?” “That’s not it, and I’m sorry, deeply, but I don’t know what else I can say.” “Honestly, Howard, we should stop this,” Lincoln says. “You want me to start putting on the act like you, Janine? To say it’s all OK, easy come, go, good luck and all that crap and just walk away whistling so you’ll feel better?” “No. And I truly do wish there was something I could do about it but I can’t.” “You can marry me. I want you to marry me and for you to have my babies. I always did. Do that, please.” “I can’t. I’m in fact actually marrying Lincoln, if you have to know.” “What are you, kidding? You know him two weeks and a short while before a few years ago or whenever and you’re getting married? Or maybe I did get it all wrong. That you were banging him for the two months I knew you. Saying ‘I love you deeply, Howard,’ and then turning around and saying ‘But I love you even more’ to him.” “No. No — Lincoln, really,” as if they have to go and he should lead the way, she can’t, she’s about to get sick or faint or start screaming at Howard or just start screaming and he takes her hand, puts his arm around her shoulder and they head downtown. “Where you going? You running away? Can’t take the fucking thing? It’ll last a week with him, a day. A year, let’s say. One great year, you rotten slut. Then who you going to act that you love next? What new putz?” Lincoln stops — that’s what he wanted, them to stop — and starts back. “Lincoln, no,” she says. “Now take it easy, Howard. I’m telling you, you’re going too far and you’re also being ridiculously unfair.” “You’re a witch,” he says over Lincoln’s shoulder. “I hate your guts, his guts, the fucking sidewalk you’re on and phony fake school you go to — I hate you all.” She’s crying. “Go on, cry,” moving around Lincoln to talk, who moves with him so he doesn’t get right up to her probably. “Cry your baloney-living life out. And forget chatting. Oh chats, oh chats! No chats, calls, nothing. I never want to hear your ugly voice again.” “You really don’t have to act like this,” Lincoln says. “Believe me, you’re going to regret it later, but seriously.” “You didn’t have to see her. You knew she was seeing me and how I felt about her. Don’t talk about natural forces either. You could have stayed away or waited till she dropped me if she did and then moved your big prick in.” “That’s not how it happened. Anyway, I’m sorry too as to the affect on you and I’ve said so and you simply have to believe me,” and puts his hand on Howard’s shoulders and for a few seconds rubs it. The director leaves the building with the famous actress and a few students, says “That the guy you told me to watch out for, Lincoln? What’s he, drunk? coked up? Emily said she saw it from the window and is up there looking at us now, so if you want me I’ll signal her to call the cops.” “No, he’ll be OK. He’s just a nice guy in a tough spot.” “Oh Jesus,” Howard shouts. “Everybody,” looking at Janine, “isn’t Lincoln beautiful? Isn’t he just wunderbar great? What a heart he’s got, what a soul. I think we should all applaud him — come on, everybody, applaud,” and claps. “I’d step away, Lincoln,” the director says, with a hand wave getting one of the students to put the actress in a cab. “One swing from him and hell spoil your gorgeous nose.” “No, I’m fine,” and puts his hands back on Howard’s shoulders and digs his fingers in and starts massaging them and Janine comes up and holds Howard’s hand and looks at him and smiles. “Fuck it, I give up on you,” and pulls away and runs downtown, could make a right at the side street and disappear but runs across Broadway so they’ll see him and down into a subway station. Gets drunk at a bar soon after and calls Lincoln’s apartment from it. She answers and he says “It’s me, don’t hang up, I can’t live without you, piesie, I can’t,” and starts crying. “I’m sorry, Howard, I’m really very sorry. I told you why. So please don’t call again. Then, if you still want, we can meet in about two weeks. Send a letter to my old address. I’m still collecting mail there or I have someone pick it up almost every day and I’ll phone you and we’ll meet and talk some more. Now I’m putting the receiver down, sweetie, and please, for both of us, do what I say,” and he slams the receiver down before she hangs up. Tells himself not to but calls several times later and line’s always busy. Gives up his modeling job at the League because he can’t pose for twenty-minute stretches without going crazy thinking of her. Can’t read or write or paint or draw or do any of the things he once liked to. Goes to movies, leaves after about fifteen minutes; museums, hoping he’ll bump into her and she’ll see how sad he is and one thing will lead to another and they’ll start up again. Every time the phone rings at home he thinks it might be her saying she wants to see him, at least speak to him to see how he’s doing, even that she loves him and didn